Although her life was now filled with an abundance of new experiences, new people, Esther hadn’t forgotten her friend Florrie. When she had first embarked on her teaching career, the two had decided to get their hair permed into the popular new short shag hairstyle. Not that Esther exactly needed a perm, but she wanted to share a special day with her friend, whose kindness and companionship had lifted her upon many occasions. Besides, it was Lincoln’s Birthday, and they had the entire day to themselves. After several hours in the New York City salon, and admiring their new looks in the mirror, Esther restrained herself from gasping when she looked at the bill. Nevertheless, she reasoned, a special day out with her friend was well worth it. The two then continued down Madison Avenue until they reached the French crêpe café they’d heard so much about, ordered crêpes suzette, chocolate-and-pistachio macaroons, and mugs of hot coffee and tea stirred with spiral canes of sugar. It was like the old days, although at times the conversation lagged, as her own interests had shifted from home and cooking to music and students and books.
The two continued to see each other on occasion, watching soap operas, working on recipes for the cookbook fundraiser at their synagogue, enjoying the new Star Wars movie, or even taking in a baseball game with Jacob. But, as sometimes such friendships go, these events began to grow farther apart, as had their interests, until except for the customary greeting as each brought in the mail, their meetings stretched to months. She would think of Florrie as she recovered from a cold one dreary day, hoping she would see her at the door, not bothering to knock, holding one of her tightly wrapped kugels straight out of the oven. But, like so many other memories, this, too, was not to be. Just as she knew the splashes of rain she heard outside would seep into the ground tomorrow, so it was with their friendship. Buried forever. She wrapped the woolen afghan tightly around her and tried to sleep.
Esther rose quickly in the ranks of the New York City educational system. It was now 1978, and Esther had reached forty-eight, considering herself solidly in middle age. After five years teaching in the elementary schools, she “graduated” to a junior high school in the same district. And while she missed five-year-old Mary Alexander’s spontaneous hugs each time Esther entered the classroom, music books, and third grader Simon Goldsmith’s voice, which always rose several octaves higher and louder than all the rest, she had to admit that the prepubescent young teens posed far more interesting challenges daily and regarded her class as a sort of playtime away from their studies. Others showed a serious passion for the melodies and, on the rare occasion, even talent. One of these was Andrew Becker. Normally reticent in the classroom, the tall young man with a mop of bushy brown hair that she was always tempted to take a brush to seemed more suited for the basketball court than math or even music, but when he walked into Mrs. Stein’s room, he fairly bounced into his seat, where he would open the music book, ready before the rest of the class had even arrived, for the day’s lesson. And although it was primarily a class in vocals, Andrew showed a refreshing curiosity in how the notes came together and transformed to a unique sound. Often, at the end of the day, she would find him lingering at her door, asking a question about something that had transpired in class, or requesting a special tune he had heard on the radio. So great was his interest, or maybe she saw something special in the boy even then, that when the next semester had begun, she invited him to join the after-school orchestral class she was forming. He quickly accepted, and when asked to name the instrument he would like to play, his response was immediate.
“The piano,” he said. “I’ve always loved the piano. It’s closest to the real meaning of music, don’t you think, Mrs. Stein?” Esther was delighted, and even though Andrew had never played before, hadn’t even laid a finger on a key, he took to the instrument. Although her class usually ended past dismissal time, Andrew found it hard to pry himself from the old spinet, working and reworking a tune until finally Esther had to dim the first ceiling light, and only then did he stand up, pick up his book bag, and, shoulders hunched, walk out of the room.
One chilly Wednesday afternoon at 3:00 p.m., Andrew appeared at the door of the music room, the first to arrive—nothing unusual about that—but this time he seemed somehow different.
“Andrew, is something wrong?” she asked, placing her books on the desk. The usual smile that greeted her and the light that frequently shone in his eyes looked somewhat dimmed. He didn’t respond, but stretched out his arm to give her a sheet of paper. Was his hand shaking? She perused the paper, a music sheet with hastily scrawled notes, cross-outs, the workings of an animated brain. It took her a couple of minutes to realize that it was a sonata, and on the top were the words “For Isabel.”