made me crazed with longing, as did the tiny music stand she could clip onto the clarinet. And also that yellow cleaning cloth, which was so soft I didn’t understand why everything wasn’t made of it. Mr. M. smacked Lindy for losing hers and later she smacked me.
In the fiefdom of Mr. M. there were many crimes. One could talk in class. One could fail to memorize a piece, forget new reeds, raise or lower one’s music stand too quickly or too slowly. M. himself could play every instrument with such grace he might well have been Paul McCartney and shucked the rest of the Beatles. He was eight feet tall, incredibly handsome, charismatic, and unyielding. During the basketball season the band assembled in the bleachers in a tight rectangle, and no game was complete without its flawless rendition of the Vikings fight song and the various works Mr. M. used to somehow make Indiana high school basketball
even more exciting than it already was,
which was nearly unbearable.
During the summer marching season, Mr. M. stood atop a wooden platform some fifteen feet in the air at the end of the practice field, wearing aviator sunglasses and white shorts and shirts so bright he seemed a rogue planet, or an eclipse that threatened blindness. He blasted his whistle three times for the band to begin and begin they did, on time, in step, so mathematically perfect the lines of each section could have been connected by invisible electric threads. If he saw something that didn’t satisfy him from the platform, he’d come down the scaffold twitching his conductor’s baton, very often at my sister, who was marching along in the punishing heat, not making a sound with her clarinet.
“Did he LEAVE?” Melinda shouted, coming inside, the screen door slamming behind her.
I was lying on the couch in the dim den, watching
The Beverly Hillbillies.
One of my favorite games was to try to anticipate the dialogue and change it very subtly, so if Miss Hathaway said of her boss, Mr. Drysdale, “I don’t know; he was here just a moment ago,” I’d second-guess her and say, “I don’t know; he was root beer just a moment ago.”
“Did who leave?” I asked, not looking at her.
“YOUR FATHER. Did he leave without me?”
“I guess. He was root beer just a moment ago.”
“I’m going to KILL HIM. He does this on purpose. Where’s Mom?”
I shrugged.
“Oh God oh God oh God,” Melinda said, pacing. “How am I gonna get there?”
“Where’s Wayne?”
Lindy stopped; let her hands drop to her sides. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I missed her boyfriend, Wayne Mullens, who had been around for a while. I missed him even though he called me Nuisance and sometimes Pesty. I wasn’t sure he even knew my actual name. While Melinda and Wayne were dating, Dad used to make me sit on the porch swing between them so they couldn’t hold hands. Dad also made me go on their dates. During the times I wasn’t being forced to accompany them, I accompanied them because I wanted to.
All I knew was that one day Melinda had Wayne’s class jacket and his gigantic ring and the next day items had been thrown, shouts shouted, and Wayne was gone to another city to do a temporary carpentry job. I didn’t know for sure, but it seemed the shouts had concerned another girl, or rumors of another girl. Only one thing was for certain, which was you didn’t want to get my sister that angry or else a class jacket would go airborne.
“I’m running down to Cheryl’s to see if she’ll take me,” Melinda said, grabbing her clarinet case and her purse and flying out the door.
On television Granny said, “I’ve made some possum stew,” which I frankly couldn’t improve. Beverly Hills, wherever that was, looked like the grimmest, most unhappy place in the universe. I would have rather been in
Land of the Lost.
Lindy ran to Cheryl’s but Cheryl was gone, so she headed for the bank to see if anyone was in the parking lot and no one was. Just about that
In the fiefdom of Mr. M. there were many crimes. One could talk in class. One could fail to memorize a piece, forget new reeds, raise or lower one’s music stand too quickly or too slowly. M. himself could play every instrument with such grace he might well have been Paul McCartney and shucked the rest of the Beatles. He was eight feet tall, incredibly handsome, charismatic, and unyielding. During the basketball season the band assembled in the bleachers in a tight rectangle, and no game was complete without its flawless rendition of the Vikings fight song and the various works Mr. M. used to somehow make Indiana high school basketball
even more exciting than it already was,
which was nearly unbearable.
During the summer marching season, Mr. M. stood atop a wooden platform some fifteen feet in the air at the end of the practice field, wearing aviator sunglasses and white shorts and shirts so bright he seemed a rogue planet, or an eclipse that threatened blindness. He blasted his whistle three times for the band to begin and begin they did, on time, in step, so mathematically perfect the lines of each section could have been connected by invisible electric threads. If he saw something that didn’t satisfy him from the platform, he’d come down the scaffold twitching his conductor’s baton, very often at my sister, who was marching along in the punishing heat, not making a sound with her clarinet.
“Did he LEAVE?” Melinda shouted, coming inside, the screen door slamming behind her.
I was lying on the couch in the dim den, watching
The Beverly Hillbillies.
One of my favorite games was to try to anticipate the dialogue and change it very subtly, so if Miss Hathaway said of her boss, Mr. Drysdale, “I don’t know; he was here just a moment ago,” I’d second-guess her and say, “I don’t know; he was root beer just a moment ago.”
“Did who leave?” I asked, not looking at her.
“YOUR FATHER. Did he leave without me?”
“I guess. He was root beer just a moment ago.”
“I’m going to KILL HIM. He does this on purpose. Where’s Mom?”
I shrugged.
“Oh God oh God oh God,” Melinda said, pacing. “How am I gonna get there?”
“Where’s Wayne?”
Lindy stopped; let her hands drop to her sides. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I missed her boyfriend, Wayne Mullens, who had been around for a while. I missed him even though he called me Nuisance and sometimes Pesty. I wasn’t sure he even knew my actual name. While Melinda and Wayne were dating, Dad used to make me sit on the porch swing between them so they couldn’t hold hands. Dad also made me go on their dates. During the times I wasn’t being forced to accompany them, I accompanied them because I wanted to.
All I knew was that one day Melinda had Wayne’s class jacket and his gigantic ring and the next day items had been thrown, shouts shouted, and Wayne was gone to another city to do a temporary carpentry job. I didn’t know for sure, but it seemed the shouts had concerned another girl, or rumors of another girl. Only one thing was for certain, which was you didn’t want to get my sister that angry or else a class jacket would go airborne.
“I’m running down to Cheryl’s to see if she’ll take me,” Melinda said, grabbing her clarinet case and her purse and flying out the door.
On television Granny said, “I’ve made some possum stew,” which I frankly couldn’t improve. Beverly Hills, wherever that was, looked like the grimmest, most unhappy place in the universe. I would have rather been in
Land of the Lost.
Lindy ran to Cheryl’s but Cheryl was gone, so she headed for the bank to see if anyone was in the parking lot and no one was. Just about that
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