A Castle in Brooklyn(51)

Only when she heard the sweep of the custodian’s broom against the hall floors and, looking up, realized that an edge of darkness had begun to dim the gray sky outdoors, did Esther get up, gather her attaché case and purse, and shut the door behind her. And when she did, she came to yet another decision.

“Jacob, I have a favor to ask of you.” The two had been watching the latest episode of Charlie’s Angels, a favorite. Esther had once even considered having her hair styled like Jacob’s professed crush, Farrah Fawcett.

Jacob, ever in the leather recliner, leaned forward, slightly annoyed at the interruption.

“What is it, Esther? Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not. Nothing’s wrong. I just had this idea, and I wanted to ask something of you.”

She paused, traced the matching blue satin sofa pillow with the tip of her finger. “Well, Jacob, there is a student. Maybe you have heard me speak of him? His name is Andrew Becker, and he’s in my special program after school. Well, he is—how shall I say this? The most extraordinary. Before this year, he’d never even put his finger on a piano key. He showed such an interest that I worked with him, some elementary tunes at first, but now, after only a year and a half, Jacob, he can play as well as I! But that’s not all—he writes music. How he writes! He has written a sonata which has a tone like—I don’t know—the voices of angels. ‘For Isabel.’”

Jacob scratched the side of his nose and sighed, exasperated. “Esther, this is all very nice, but what does this have to do with us?”

“Not with us exactly. With me. The boy is quick, near genius, and I was wondering if maybe I could work with him, see what new masterpiece springs forth from his mind. It would be a couple of days after school, and I’d still make sure to have time for my schoolwork, have dinners ready by the time you would get home, never meet him on our weekends. And the best part is this could bring in a little extra money. So what do you say?”

Jacob shrugged in the same way he did whenever Esther approached him with a new idea.

“Esther, why should I stop you from tutoring? You are a modern woman, after all, the Betty Friedman of Brooklyn!” He returned his gaze to the TV just as the angels had begun to chase a criminal across a bridge.

Friedan, Esther thought as she sat back against the soft pillow, a contented smile appearing on her face. Her name is Betty Friedan.

Getting his father’s permission for the weekly lesson proved easy, and within the month Andrew was seated, his knobby-kneed giraffe legs bent under him, on the piano bench of the glossy baby grand in Esther’s living room.

Although she was reluctant at first to request a fee for her services, since she was not quite certain of the family’s financial situation, and knowing that if pressed, she would gladly have provided the lessons without a dime in recompense, she worried about what Jacob, who was always concerned about the dollar, would have to say about her generosity. So she asked for fifteen dollars for the hour, and to her relief, Andrew appeared at the door, a ten and a five in hand, no questions asked.

At first, they had practiced the standards: Sonatina in G Anhang 5 by Beethoven and Schumann’s Wild Rider Opus 68, no. 8. And beneath fleet fingers, the old piano seemed to take on a new life under the boy’s affections. Listening to him play, she knew now that her mother was wrong about Esther’s skills as a child. At Sally’s suggestion that one of her children take up piano, which she considered a sign of culture and breeding, Esther had begun lessons when she was only eight. She took to the instrument easily and had an affinity for it, soon playing the classics. Her mother, especially, had delighted in this, learned the meaning of the word prodigy, and often used it when speaking of her daughter. But as she listened to the notes ascend now, saw the boy’s fingers fly adeptly over the keyboard, Esther knew that she had never been a prodigy. Andrew was. He was more than that. He was a genius.

After only the second lesson, though, she could tell that he was ready, having mastered most of what she had to teach, and so she asked him to show her the song. He glanced at her apprehensively, then brought out the paper from the pocket of his coat. Esther listened to the notes; then she played the tune, questioning him on some technical points, offering a few minor suggestions. As he removed his hands, finally, from the keyboard and placed them at his side, Esther, now sitting next to her protégé, took a deep breath. She did not know how to begin.

“Andrew, do you know how good this is? How good you are?”

She watched as a deep crimson blush crept up his cheeks. She could tell that he was thinking about how to respond to the compliment, averting his eyes, looking down into the blue shag carpet. She continued, “Look, I have been playing since I was a little girl, much younger than you, and I couldn’t even think how, where, to begin writing a piece like this. The song takes one away, how shall I say it, to a place of perfect peace, but at the same time, there is a deep sorrow that flows through it all. And when I hear it, when you play it, it gives me such a calm, happy feeling inside, and yet I am brought to tears.”

She waited until, finally, his eyes met hers. He was brilliant, yes, but he was just a boy.

“It wasn’t hard to write. I mean I was just fooling around down in the basement. I was playing Pong, and I was bored is all. And I wrote it.” He shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

Andrew glanced at his watch, in a hurry to move on. She looked at his hands, reddened, trembling, and found his humility endearing. There were only a few minutes left before his father would drive up, honking the horn of his Pontiac Firebird.