The Most Important Thing Page 6

  “Things like what?” I demanded, certain Dad was referring to my not fighting.

  Dad gave me a cold glance, but only said, “Father Mark, the church minister, has agreed to cooperate. He doesn’t have much choice. I told him the church had to bear some responsibility for what happened. Potential legal consequences. These dances have to have better security. At my suggestion, one of the things he agreed to do is hold boxing lessons for boys. Apparently, there’s a small gym in the church rectory basement. Perfect place.”

  “Boxing lessons?” I said incredulously.

  “Right. Twice a week. Seven thirty. Till nine. You start next week. I’ve arranged for a good young teacher.”

  “But I don’t want to. I — I don’t like fighting.”

  “Charlie, my boy, you don’t have a choice.”

  “Don’t you care how I feel?”

  “Frankly, no. Charlie, the meeting is going to happen and you’re going to be there — like it or not. And you’ll be taking those classes. I will not have a son who won’t fight back. If you’re going to get through life, you need to learn how.”

  I bolted from the table, went into my room, and slammed the door shut.

  For the millionth time, I went over what happened that night and the next day. How my dad had reacted. How I felt. I thought about the calls that had come. They hadn’t criticized me. But over and over again, I heard Dad’s words, They want to know how you avoided a fight.

  “I’m not a coward,” I said aloud. “I’m not.”

  Then, like an echo in my head, I heard the words: Prove it.

  It took time, but I decided what I’d do.

  The meeting Dad arranged was held in the rectory building next to St. George. It was a long, rectangular room, the walls painted blue, with portraits of ministers in colorful robes hanging in a row. Some twenty parents were in attendance, along with their sons. Everybody sat in folding chairs.

  When I came into the room with Dad and Mom, I glanced around to see who was there. To my horror, I saw kids I knew. Briefly, they stared at me, and then averted their gaze. I was already edgy, but seeing them made things worse. I focused on the floor, and reminded myself what I was going to do.

  Dad, Mom, and I sat in the front row.

  Father Mark stood up. The idle chatter hushed.

  “Good evening,” he began in his mellow voice, hands folded before him. “May God’s grace touch you all. My name is Father Mark, and I welcome you all to St. George. I only regret that it took an unfortunate incident to bring some of you here.”

  I clenched my teeth, and murmured, “Do it,” under my breath.

  “However,” continued the minister, “at St. George we have a great desire — a commitment — to be part of the neighborhood. Anything we can do to contribute to the peace and well-being of the neighborhood and its young people has our wholehearted support.

  “Now, I would like to call upon Mr. Biderbik — who was kind enough to organize this gathering — to speak.”

  Dad went forward. I stayed with Mom. I was sure I could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on my back. I clasped my fingers tightly, all the while glancing at Dad, my anger building. Do it.

  Looking confidant and comfortable, Dad looked around the room. He smiled. “Good evening. My name is Theodore Biderbik, a parent. I have an apartment on Willow Street. That’s my wife, Molly, and my son, Charlie, in the front row. This is our church.

  “I want to thank Father Mark for welcoming us here. And you for coming. This meeting has been called to protect our children. After the last dance at the church, there was an unfortunate incident in which my son was set upon by a gang. He had been at the dance. When walking home, some fifteen, twenty young men assaulted him. Though my boy put up a heroic resistance, there were too many of them to —”

  Heart beating wildly, I stood up. All faces turned toward me.

  Dad, looking puzzled, said, “Charlie, I am talking.”

  “That’s — that’s not what happened,” I said, struggling to get out the words.

  “Charlie!” Dad barked.

  Mom pulled at me. “Charlie!” she whispered. I stepped away from her grasp.

  “What happened,” I continued, my voice growing stronger, my eyes fixed on Dad, “is that these . . . twelve guys surrounded me. Twelve.”

  “Sit down!” Dad cried.

  “They told me I had to fight one of them. Any one. Even the smallest. But I was too scared. See, I was . . . very frightened. So when one of them hit me, I just lay there . . . hoping they would go away. And they did. Then I ran home.”

  The room had become absolutely still.

  I turned to face the crowd. “But — but my dad . . . he thinks I was a coward. He thinks I should have fought. It doesn’t matter to him that I was scared. That I could . . . have been hurt. Badly. Killed, maybe. That’s why my dad called this meeting. It’s not to protect the neighborhood. It’s because my dad is ashamed of me, his son. This meeting is for him. He’s afraid people will think badly of him. Because of me. But I think he’s just interested in himself. So I think he’s . . . the coward.”

  I shifted back toward Dad. He was staring at me as if I were a stranger. And though he opened his mouth, no words came out.

  As always, Gramps was waiting for Marco to come out of school. “How you doing?” he called as Marco, heavy book bag on his back, ambled out of the school doors into the cold January air. A boy was with him.

  “Hi, Gramps,” Marco said. “This is Nicky, my new friend.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Gramps. He held out his hand. Surprised, Nicky shook it.

  Marco said, “He just got shifted into my class.” Marco was in sixth grade.

  Without asking, only saying, “Hey, let me have that,” Gramps eased the heavy book bag off Marco’s back and slung it over his own shoulders.

  “Somebody meeting you?” Gramps asked Nicky.

  “I walk home by myself,” said Nicky.

  Marco eyed Gramps to see how he would receive that information.

  All Gramps said was, “Well, Marco’s mom or dad drives him to school every morning, and I pick him up from school and walk him home. Since Marco’s parents work late a lot, Marco and I often have dinner, just the two of us. We’re sort of like Batman and Robin.”

  “Oh,” said Nicky.

  “What do your parents do?” asked Gramps.

  “My dad is a programmer. My mother is a musician.”

  “No kidding? What does she play?”

  “She gives recorder lessons and plays the saxophone in a brass band.”

  “Saxophone,” said Gramps. “It was invented by a Belgian, Adolphe Sax. The 1840s, I think. Isn’t that great? Someone inventing a musical instrument, and they named it after him.”

  Marco turned to Nicky. “Gramps knows everything.”

  “Pretty much,” Gramps said good-naturedly.

  Nicky eyed Gramps.

  “He was in the Korean War,” Marco explained. “Then a sailor, and went around the world a few times. Then a cowboy and a teacher. When my grandmother died, he moved in with us. My parents made our garage into an apartment. It’s full of books, and he reads all the time.”

  “And I share everything I learn with Marco,” added Gramps. “My only grandchild. You have grandparents?”

  “They live far away.”

  “Too bad,” said Gramps. “Well, learn anything interesting today?” he asked Marco. To Nicky, he said, “Marco and I play this game walking home from school. He quizzes me about something he learned in class to see if I know it.” To Marco, he said, “Come on, let’s show him. Ask me something.” Even as he asked his question, he took Marco’s hand in his.

  Marco thought for a moment. As he did, he pretended to have an itch on his ear and freed his hand from Gramps’s hold. Then he said, “What mineral is there more of than anything else in the world?”

  “Carbon. Am I right?”

  “Yup.”

  “See what I mean?” G
ramps said to Nicky. To Marco he said, “Go on; ask me another.”

  Marco glanced at Nicky and then said, “Do you know how Thomas Jefferson became president?”

  “Easy. Back in 1800, the early days of the United States, there was a tied presidential vote between guys named Aaron Burr and Thomas Jefferson. The vote went to the House of Representatives. It took thirty-six votes before Jefferson became president. Burr became vice president.”

  Gramps laughed. “See? He never stumps me.”

  Nicky said, “Must be hard knowing so much.”

  “Hey, like Marco said, I’ve been around. And there’s no substitute for experience. Marco’s lucky I can share it with him. It’ll give him a head start.”

  Nicky stopped at the corner. “I go this way.”

  Marco said, “See ya!”

  Gramps said, “Nice meeting you.”

  As Marco watched Nicky walk off, Gramps said, “I feel sorry for your new friend. Every kid needs a grandparent like me to hang around. Got another question?”

  Marco shook his head. For the rest of the way home, Gramps chatted about what he had read that day.

  As they stepped into their home, Marco said, “Can Nicky come over after school tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Give him a call. But I’ll need to speak to his mother. Let me tell you something,” said Gramps. “Music is perhaps the highest form of art. It’s universal. But I have to admit,” he went on, “though I’ve done a lot of things, I’ve never learned to play an instrument.”

  “I thought you could,” Marco said, taking his backpack and heading for his room.

  “Oh, guitar a bit, but not much,” Gramps called after him. “Something I picked up in the sixties. Like everyone.”

  Marco reappeared, basketball in his hands. “You could do it,” he said. “If you wanted to.”

  Gramps laughed. “You’re probably right,” he allowed. “I have to admit, I’m always good at what I do. How about you? Would you like to play music?”

  “Drums.”

  “Not real music. Just beats. Oh. Your mother called. It’ll be just you and me for dinner.”

  “Okay.” Marco said. “I’m going next door.”

  “Basketball with Carter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dress warm. And just so you know: Wilt Chamberlain holds the record for most points in an NBA game. One hundred. That was way back in 1962.”

  “Nice,” said Marco as he went out the door.

  “Dinner at five thirty!” Gramps shouted after him. “Chicken Marengo. The recipe was invented by Napoleon’s Italian chef on the Marengo battlefield.”

  Marco had already gone.

  Gramps and Marco had dinner in the kitchen. The chicken was served with noodles. While they ate, Mr. Amalfi shared a cookbook with pictures of all different kinds of pasta.

  Marco, remembering Nicky’s question, turned from gazing at the mosaic of noodles on the page to Gramps. “Is it hard knowing so much?”

  “You kidding? I love it. And I love sharing what I know with you.”

  “How come you quit being a teacher?”

  “Had to. Turned sixty-five.”

  Marco said nothing.

  “Want to know why sixty-five?”

  “Okay,” Marco said automatically.

  “The idea of retirement was first developed during the nineteenth century in Germany under Chancellor Bismarck. He chose the age. Probably because in those days not many people lived to be that old. The age — sixty-five — sort of got stuck. Doesn’t mean anything. Look at me. I could go on forever.”

  “Probably,” Marco agreed.

  It was after dinner when Gramps said, “Hey, go call that Nicky about coming over tomorrow. If he says yes, let me speak to his mother. What’s Nicky’s last name?”

  “Pelescue.”

  “Sounds Romanian. Got its name because it used to be a Roman province during the days of the Roman Empire.”

  Marco called Nicky, and the boys agreed to get together after school the next day. Then Gramps got on the line and worked out the details with Nicky’s mother. But he spent most of the time talking to her about music and the lessons she gave.

  When he got off the phone, he said to Marco, “It’s all set. Nicky can come here after school. I’ll drive him home.”

  “Thanks.” Marco was doing his math homework.

  “Nicky’s mother is very interesting,” said Gramps. “Like your friend said, she plays lots of instruments and gives lessons. Mostly the recorder, to kids. But to grown-ups, too.”

  “I think it’d be more fun to be a drummer.”

  “You should learn real music first.”

  Marco continued to work on his math.

  “Hey, Marco,” said Gramps after a while. “Here’s an idea: if you took recorder lessons first, you know, learn to read music, play a real instrument, then I’d get you drumming lessons.”

  “You would?”

  “Mean it. What do you think? Hey, I’d take lessons, too. We could practice together. When we played, we could call ourselves the Amalfi Duo. How’s that sound?”

  “You’d be much better than me.”

  “Well, sure,” said Gramps. “But you could try.”

  Marco did another math question, then looked up. “If I took lessons and just did okay, could I still do drums?”

  “You know me. I keep my word.”

  Marco considered. “I’ll do it,” he said. “As long as you don’t mind that I won’t be as good as you.”

  When Marco’s dad got home, Marco was in bed reading. His dad looked in and asked him how his day was. Marco told him about Nicky, his new friend. Then he said, “Dad, how come Gramps is always telling me things?”

  Marco’s dad laughed. “I know; he’s like those people who keep leaving flyers at our door. You keep telling them you don’t want any more, but they keep coming. It’s just the way he is. Always has been.”

  “Wish he’d stop.”

  “Good luck. I’ve tried.”

  His dad kissed him on the top of his head and said, “Don’t stay up too late reading.” He headed for the door.

  “Dad,” Marco called. “Could I walk home from school by myself?”

  “What about Gramps?”

  “I’m older than Nicky is, but he walks home alone.”

  “I’ll talk it over with your mom when she gets home, okay? Sleep well!”

  The next day after school, Nicky came over to Marco’s house. For the most part, they stayed in Marco’s room, playing video games.

  Now and again, Gramps would look in. Once he said, “You guys have any idea when television was invented?”

  Nicky said nothing. Marco said, “When?”

  “Nineteen twenty-seven. That’s even older than me.”

  Ten minutes later Gramps was back. “What about the first video game. Know when that was?”

  The boys, intent on their game, said nothing.

  “Nineteen fifty-eight,” said Gramps. “Tennis for Two. Invented by a guy named Higinbotham. First game I remember was called Pong.” He retreated.

  Nicky, while playing, said, “Does your grandfather ever stop telling you things?”

  Marco shook his head.

  “Would drive me nuts.”

  “He does,” said Marco.

  “Can’t you get him to stop?”

  Marco focused on the video game.

  When Gramps drove Nicky home, he made arrangements with Nicky’s mother for recorder lessons for himself and Marco. The first was scheduled for the following Thursday at four o’clock.

  “Here comes the Amalfi Duo!” Gramps proclaimed as he drove back home. “Duo. Italian word for two. Sounds lovely. Duo.”

  That evening Marco asked his mother about walking home from school alone. “We talked it over, Dad, me, and Gramps. Gramps thinks you should be a little older.”

  “Aren’t you and Dad in charge?”

  His mom smiled. “Well, walking home with you means a lot to Gramps. Hey, I l
ove the idea that you’re going to take recorder lessons with him. Whose idea was that?”

  “Gramps.”

  “Is that something you really want to do?”

  “He said if I learned to read music, he’d get me drumming lessons.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” said his mom.

  On the following Thursday Gramps and Marco presented themselves to Mrs. Pelescue with plastic alto recorders and Steckheart’s First Recorder Book in hand.

  Mrs. Pelescue was a slight woman with a dark complexion and large, brown eyes. Her thick black hair was arranged in a single long braid down her back. She greeted Marco warmly. Nicky was there, too, and he waved to Marco. Marco grinned.

  “Marco!” said Mrs. Pelescue. “Welcome. Nicky has told me all about you. And Mr. Amalfi. You are most welcome, too. Do come in.”

  “Call me Gramps, the way everyone does.”

  Mrs. Pelescue smiled. “Doesn’t seem respectful,” she said, and led them to her living room, a room whose walls were covered with framed drawings, paintings, and photographs. Directly off this area was a large alcove. On the walls of the alcove hung a great variety of instruments. There were recorders of all shapes and sizes, as well as a saxophone. In the center of this relatively small area were three straight-backed chairs with music stands.

  “Here’s where we work,” Mrs. Pelescue told them cheerfully as she urged her new students to sit side by side. She turned to Nicky, who was looking on. “Lesson time,” she said.

  “See ya,” Nicky called, and retreated.

  “Now then,” said Mrs. Pelescue, “Marco and Mr. Amalfi, we’d best begin.”

  “We’re the Amalfi Duo,” said Gramps.

  Mrs. Pelescue laughed. “Wonderful!” Then she briskly informed Marco and Gramps of her expectations: she took music seriously, and wanted as much from them — which meant at least a half hour of practice every day. “But beyond all else,” she said, “music should be a lovely experience, one that brings joy, not just to those who play but to those who hear it. Music is for sharing. Now, listen.”

  She put a large wooden recorder to her lips and poured out a woody cascade of lilting music that was, by turns, passionate, soulful, and frolicsome. “That’s from Bach’s Suite in A Minor,” she explained when she was done. “Did you like it?”