Rex

by Cathleen Lewis

  “Not only is it unprofessional,” I said, struggling to keep my voice level, “but you’re not qualified to understand Rex’s development.” The idea of my son being reduced to a science project was repugnant and abhorrent, and it left me cold. So, like a musical crescendo, what had begun as a whisper of unease began to resonate louder and louder until it was booming in my heart as a resounding internal conflict. Conflict between my duty to help develop this precious gift God had given my son, and my duty to protect him in the process. It was a conflict ready to explode.

  So when Richard came to the door for his lesson with Rex, looking like the cat who’d swallowed the mouse, I immediately wondered what else was in the works. I didn’t have long to wait. “I’ve been contacted by a producer from 60 Minutes who heard about my work with Rex,” he said, trying to act nonchalant, but his excitement was nonetheless bubbling out at the seams. “So I sent off the videos I had filmed.”

  “You did that without asking me?” I said, annoyance trumping any amazement that Richard had been able to spread word of Rex’s existence so far and so fast.

  A flush swept up his face from his warp-speed networking jaw to his balding half moon. “Well it all happened so fast,” he said, in lame excuse. “This is all going too fast for me,” he added, like he’d set some automatic process in motion over which he now had no control. Like he was the victim and not the perpetrator. “I didn’t think, didn’t want . . .” He was stammering under my steely gaze. “But you know people are going to want—”

  “What?” I cut in. “What are people going to want?”

  Not answering my question, he shrugged his bearlike shoulders and tried a helpless grin. “Well, you know it’s imminent. It was going to happen sooner or later.” Like he’d been swept innocently into the destiny of it all! “Rex is just so . . . interesting.” He was smiling sheepishly.

  “Of course, he’s interesting,” I said, softening just a touch at the thought of my extraordinary boy. Then I threw out a warning. “But he’s also a beautiful child, and not a science project.”

  In appeal, he said, “The world should know about Rex.” He paused, clearly trying to sell me, and said, “A lot of incredible things could come out of it for him. It’s sort of mind-boggling, when you think about it.” A coy grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  Of course I wanted good things for my son. I paused briefly, but in a way that must have told him I was backing down, and so he let everything out. “The producer is already planning on calling Susan Rancer and Dr. Treffert after she speaks with me again,” he said, referring to the perfect pitch expert he’d been consulting with and the world-renowned savant expert, Dr. Darold Treffert, who had first described a savant as having “an island of genius in a sea of disability.”

  Furious now, I snapped. “No! Did you hear what I just said?” I challenged. But then seeing my son out of the corner of my eye, I caught myself . . . and Richard. Practically pushing this man into another room, I said, “Rex, honey, I have to talk to Richard for just a second. I’ll be right back.” I had one tone for my son, quite another for this man, and the second we were out of Rex’s earshot, my honey tone turned back to carefully measured ice. “I’m going to say it again. Rex is a child . . . not an experiment. And I won’t allow a bunch of scientists who don’t even know him to gather around some media table to discuss him. Do you think I want the world to view my son as an oddity?”

  My eyes were boring through him now, and his pink flush turned deep crimson as he began stammering anew. “Well it probably won’t . . . I mean it wasn’t sure . . . She might not want . . . It was really about my techniques . . .”

  I cut him short, too angry to listen anymore. “We’re going to skip our lesson today. You’d better go now. I don’t want Rex getting as upset as I am. Rex’s music is for him, and I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”

  The door shut, and I took a deep breath, knowing I would cancel Rex’s piano lessons for a week or two, or maybe a month, I wasn’t sure. We just needed a break from the storm I felt brewing.

  A couple of weeks later, lacking a babysitter, I took Rex with me to a committee meeting for a fund-raiser for the Blind Children’s Center. Wanting to give back to the school that had given Rex his start in life, I had joined the planning committee for the annual Tom Sullivan Blind Children’s Center Celebrity Golf Classic. Several committee members were seated around a large table chitchatting, while we waited for the tournament host, Tom Sullivan, to arrive. I took Rex to the piano in the corner of the room so he could play for a few minutes before the meeting began. Well, it didn’t take long. A little Mozart, a touch of Bach with a Beethoven swirl, and the room had fallen silent. The man we were waiting for walked into the room, but no one interrupted, and Tom himself stopped still to listen. Since Tom was also blind, he didn’t immediately know who was playing. But being a musician himself, he was captivated by the sound. The director of the Center got up and whispered in Tom’s ear. I watched as a grin instantly spread the expanse of his face.

  “Rex! My man! That was great!” He was still smiling as the director guided him in our direction. “And I have an idea, Rex. So I’m just going to talk to your mom for a minute here.” I loved the way this man spoke to my son, not around him or about him right in front of his face as if he were deaf instead of blind. Tom knew what being blind was, and he knew what respecting a blind child meant. “Cathleen, I don’t know what you and your son feel about this idea, but we would be honored if Rex would consider playing some piano for the tournament. If he would . . . I think it would make the day really special.”

  It was a decision for my son, not me. When asked if he wanted to perform, he remembered the applause he’d gotten at the talent show and said, “Everybody will clap so loudly!” That was his answer. Yes, he would do it.

  After a couple of weeks’ break in his lessons, Richard began coming back to our home to work with Rex on a set for the event. He would be performing four songs—three vocals his teacher had arranged and one instrumental. The door had just closed on a lesson when our phone rang. It was a woman. “Hello. My name is Shari Finkelstein, and I’m a producer for 60 Minutes .” I was a bit defensive, not knowing exactly what Richard Morton had said, or not said, with regard to my son, but I found myself warmed by the tone of this woman, who turned out to be a new mother herself. “I watched a video of your son, and I have to tell you, I had to show it to my husband, which I normally never do. But this was so amazing and cute I even found myself telling him, ‘Oh you have to see this part,’ or ‘Wait till you see what he’s going to do now.’ ”

  All of a sudden, speaking mother to mother with the producer, the proposed 60 Minutes project seemed more a human interest story about an extraordinary child than a freaky science study, and we set up an exploratory conference call with an associate producer to speak more in depth. During that call, it was in speaking about the stuff of Rex’s life, the astounding extremes that had become our norms, that I found myself living our lives through external eyes. “That’s incredible” and “fascinating” were the reactions that drew me back into the intrigue of my son’s being. Shari asked if Rex ever performed. In a small, somewhat-hesitant voice, I said, “Actually, he will be performing for a Blind Children’s Center fund-raiser in a couple of weeks.” At that, she said she might like to film the event. But that would be contingent on her first getting a go-ahead on the piece from her boss, correspondent Lesley Stahl.

  I wondered how the famous correspondent would respond to Rex. Would she be as captivated by my son as Shari seemed to be? The response came a couple of days later, when Shari called to tell me Lesley had answered her project proposal with an e-mail, which contained only three words—“I Love Rex!” Those three words confirmed my own decision to allow the project to move forward. I trusted these two women to get it right.

  THE DAY of the tournament arrived. And I panicked, wondering what I’d allowed Rex to get us into, since he had all but refused to practic
e the songs for the evening’s event in the week leading up to this day. He had never had to work on a song repeatedly, to polish it so that it was performance ready, let alone four songs. The downside of his genius was a reluctance to play a song over and over, craving new input for his brain, preferring to play something he’d just heard. So, when he’d played the songs as a rehearsal, it had been half-hearted and lackadaisical, causing his fingers to fumble and make mistakes. Okay, so there we were! I didn’t have any idea what his hands would produce that evening. Then, too, he had been clearing his throat constantly lately, leading me to believe he had some undiagnosed allergies. And that might signal death to his vocals. So, with both piano and voice as unknowns, things didn’t bode well for the evening’s musical presentation as I arrived at the tournament in the morning to help set up Rex’s piano. What we had left was the child himself, the glowing smile, that hearty laugh. It took just one screeching feedback sound from a microphone we were setting up for Rex’s piano to realize how much at risk that was too. Maybe my son’s whole being was too fragile for any of this. Right now, I felt I was too.

  The golfers were arriving, checking in and hurrying out to the putting greens and driving range for some last-minute practice. I walked out to watch a couple of putts and air my brain for a minute. The event host, Tom Sullivan, was there lining up a twelve-foot putt, aided by his coach who would serve as his eyes. Tom would be playing this whole eighteen-hole course blind. This amazing man, who exuded confidence and optimism, liked to quip, “Golf is easier when you’ve never seen a water hazard or a sand trap.” Maybe that’s what I needed to do, close my eyes and trust. Tom tapped the ball. It was veering to the left but slowed down just as it approached the hole, which allowed the slant of the green to nudge it ever so slightly to the right. And clink! Tom smiled as he heard it drop into the cup.

  “Great putt, Tom!” I exclaimed.

  “Cathleen!” He recognized my voice instantly. “How’s my boy doing?”

  “He’s at school for a couple of hours, but he’s looking forward to tonight,” I said, lacking conviction in my voice.

  Tom picked up on it immediately. “Just let Rex enjoy the evening,” he encouraged. “That’s the important thing. There’s no pressure.”

  No pressure? Three hundred guests, golfers, and wives sitting in an elegantly set banquet room, with all eyes on my son? Just close your eyes and trust. Trust! I can do it, I thought, heading back to the dining room.

  That trust lasted all of five minutes, until the van carrying the 60 Minutes television cameras arrived. They would be poised that evening to catch Rex’s every move, every sound, bringing my child’s performance into the homes of people across the country. The rest of the morning was a blur. I met Shari, the producer for the 60 Minutes piece, who had flown across the country for the event. The soundman and cameraman were both setting up equipment—cameras, lights—while Rex’s piano teacher, Richard, was supervising piano positioning. We argued about it. He thought more of the audience should see Rex’s hands; I thought more should see his face. Mechanics versus the child—old issues I didn’t want to mar the day. Everything will be okay, I told myself as I walked back outside to get a break from the tension. The golfers were heading down to their golf carts. Only Tom Sullivan would not use a cart. He would walk the course himself, with his golf coach. That way he could get the feel of the course, its slopes, its angles. As host, Tom would kick off the tournament with his first drive. And so as the last of the majestically sung tenor notes of the National Anthem floated over the line of golf carts, I watched Tom’s coach line him up for the shot. I heard the sharp crack and saw the ball flying straight down the fairway. And Tom was off with his athletic stride to track the ball. Close your eyes and trust.

  THE SILENT auction hall had come alive—golfers were coming in off the course as their guests were already busy drinking cocktails and socializing, while marking down names and figures on the bidding sheets attached to auction items. Soon the party would shift into the dining room. Rex had arrived that afternoon dressed in a white dress shirt and off-white pants. He didn’t have a dress jacket, and even if he did, given his sensitivities, it would have been too confining for his arms, inhibiting the arm movements he needed to play the piano. Unfortunately, the cameras and lights didn’t like white. Shari explained to me that white would cause Rex’s face to be washed out. So now he was sporting a red sweater that matched the casual golfing attire of the players. And I did notice the healthy color in his face when he said, “I want to see Grandpa.”

  My eyes scanned the room, looking for my dad and the other members of our party. “He’ll be here soon, sweetie. And who else is coming to hear you play?”

  “Aunt Roz . . . and Daddy!” Rex said beaming.

  “That’s right, Rex, your daddy will come to hear your beautiful music. So, your daddy and my daddy will both be here.”

  “And Jenny and Raffaella too,” Rex added, knowing his full list of personal attendees.

  “That’s right. We have a lot of people coming, don’t we? And, of course, Richard will be here.”

  “They’re coming to see me!” he said proudly.

  “They sure are, along with a lot of other people,” I said surveying the room. I caught sight of my father and Aunt Roz skirting their way toward us through the throng. My father was handsome in a dark blue sports coat and my aunt Roz looked her usual elegant self, as they grinned their way to us. I hugged them each in turn, as did Rex, and I felt the warmth of knowing that my son and I would have an entourage tonight—the support of those closest to us.

  “So Rex, are you ready for your big night?” my father asked.

  “I’m ready, Grandpa!” Rex said it with a certainty in his voice I didn’t feel.

  The other members of our party arrived, and after greetings and hugs, I left them to browse the auction tables while I took Rex in to check on his piano and do a sound check. We needed to make sure the sound level was right not only for the room but for the future television audience.

  The banquet room had been transformed—the tables all impeccably primped and preened. The stage was adorned with colorful, decorative awards baskets and live-auction items. And there in the center, sitting aglow in a pool of light, stood Rex’s piano. The CBS cameras now flanked it on all sides—his every move, every gesture would be captured. Nothing could be dissimulated, hidden. The soundman would place a microphone on Rex. Then nothing he said, no note he sang or sound he made would be left unheard either. The moment of truth was upon us. Would Rex play half-heartedly as he’d done for the past week, not wanting to put in the work it took to polish his pieces? He’d been the epitome of a seven-year-old who’d set his eyes on the prize of audience applause without consideration for the work he needed to put into getting there. Or would the audience change that, giving him that good energy, the adrenaline his body needed, to execute his piano pieces cleanly?

  The room began filling with people, and the evening’s festivities were set to shift into high gear. I was vaguely aware of smiles in our direction as I focused my attention on my son. Rex needed to be comfortable, not overwhelmed by external stimuli, in order to optimize his potential for success. I had brought some tapes with our noise-reduction headphones just in case. Richard was trying hard to maintain a calm exterior, but the beads of sweat on his forehead betrayed his anxiety. Shari was smiling at me, encouraging, and I appreciated it. Once again, I wondered what we’d gotten ourselves into. More than that, I wondered if this was the right thing for my son. Sure, he thought he wanted to do it, but he hadn’t appreciated the process one bit. Nor had I. It had been a lot of work . . . and worry. If this was right, shouldn’t I be swept over by a wave of peace by now?

  All the diners were seated, and Tom Sullivan took the podium. That was my signal to begin my move with Rex to the stage. “We have a very special musician here with us tonight who’s going to make you forget all those bunkers you visited today,” Tom ribbed. “In fact, this young man, Re
x, might even make you forget a hole in one.”

  I guided my son lightly as he walked sure-footed up the steps of the stage. “I’m going to share with my friends, Mommy,” Rex said as I helped him onto the piano bench. Share! What a wonderful way of thinking of it.

  “You sure are, sweetheart. There are a lot of people here to see you play,” I said softly, feeling more than seeing the hundreds of curious, expectant eyes trained on our every move. There was a sudden hush in the room—all dinner chatter aborted as the crowd wondered what they were in store for. I sat down next to Rex, knowing his performance was out of my hands, like so much of his life. All I could do was support him to the best of my ability; the rest was up to him—as always. I looked up to see Tom smiling at us from the podium on the other end of the stage. I could still hear the resolute crack of his opening drive down the fairway, and see its graceful arc as it took off. Now it was Rex’s turn.

  “So Rex, what would you like to play for your friends?” I asked him into the microphone.

  “ ‘When I’m 64,’” he said, announcing the Beatles song Richard had worked into a jazzy number for him. The one he hadn’t played for his talent show.

  He played and sang the first verse with the audience hanging on each note. He was holding his own. I took a breath, and that’s when I heard the beginning of an agonizingly drawn-out, throaty sound, amplified unmercifully for all to hear—Rex clearing his throat. He’d been doing it so much lately; I’d had nightmares of him battling the insurgent phlegm all the way through his performance. I cringed but knew there was nothing I could do. Miraculously, his fingers didn’t miss a beat as the unforgiving microphone caught the particularly slow and guttural sound at the end of the verse. That sparked a wave of laughter in the audience, perhaps because of the reminder that Rex was just a child, with seven-year-old habits in spite of the sophistication of his music.