Paul Schuler
After receiving little tangible information from either doctors or scientists, I turned to the two church members of the Mutant Children’s Foundation with the hope that they would be findable and helpful. First, I contacted the District Superintendent of the United Methodist Church to inquire about the Rev. Sandra McDonald. The superintendent informed me that she had long since moved to New Mexico. I asked for the address but, in respect for the pastor’s privacy and out of distrust of my motives, he would not tell me. I worked around that little roadblock by contacting the District Superintendent in New Mexico. Fortunately, the Rev. Sandra McDonald did supply work occasionally and her address was not considered confidential. When I contacted her, she expressed so much emotional distress over my intrusion that I almost felt like giving up history as a discipline for fear of hurting anybody ever again. However, my expressions of sympathy both for her pain and the injustice committed against the children finally won her over. In the end, she found that writing out her experiences at Malone Memorial Hospital proved more healing than hurtful for her.
I suspected that Sister Ita Mahoney of the Order of St. Columba of Iona no longer lived on this planet but seeing her name on the list of trustees renewed my determination to investigate this phantom religious order. I came to the conclusion that the best way to put them off their guard and obtain information was to pretend that I wanted to join their order. Janet Langston furnished me with a directory of religious orders and I dialed the number.
A woman answered my call promptly: "Order of St. Columba of Iona, Sister Mary speaking, how may I help you?"
"My name is Herbert Hennessy,” I began. “I’m getting the feeling—I think it is from God that—that I might have a calling to the religious life."
"That is very good," the sister purred.
"Uh—you know how hard it is to talk about these things. So many religious orders seem to be—well—too legalistic, if you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean very well,” the sister replied. “I assure you that the Order of Saint Columba of Iona is very much against the legalism so typical of the Western Church."
"I was wondering—you know—if your religious order might be the one for me."
"It is quite possible that our religious order is the one for you,” said the sister, sounding like a cat who had trapped a canary in its paws. “Would you like to send a resume and your reasons for seeking the religious life on the Celtic model to Father Columba Craghan? Perhaps he could arrange to hold an interview with you."
I wasted no time in sending a fake resume to Fr. Columba. Janet Langston helped me forge an identity as a law student who had become jaded with the profession even before entering it. Janet told me that a religious superior would probably like that because most lawyers who have been canonized by the Roman Catholic Church repented of their law practice before they became saints. A few days later, Fr. Columba himself called me and offered to fly to Chicago and meet me at O'Hare for an interview. I gladly accepted.
No stretch of the imagination could have prepared me for the interview that took place, not to mention what happened at the end of it. Having a Catholic background and a high school education from the St. Joseph sisters, Janet Langston coached me on how to handle the interview. She told me that most vocation directors these days assume you have no vocation until you prove otherwise, and you have to present your best spiritual and intelligent and talented self. It just didn't occur to her that there would was religious order left that goes for the hard sell.
I found the airport restaurant that Fr. Columba had designated for our meeting and, sure enough, a man dressed with a clerical collar was seated at a table by the window, reading his breviary. He stood up to greet me warmly and he ordered drinks for us. I was immediately struck with how tense the man was and I decided then and there that if I were serious about a religious vocation, I would not trust myself to that man as my general superior.
“Can you please tell me how you are experiencing a calling from God?” Fr. Columba asked me, once we had gotten past some initial small talk.
“Well, I don't know how to explain it. Part of it is that I feel empty every time I open a book at law school. There seems to be no room for God in law these days. It seems that the more I keep up with my studies, the less I can pray. When I slack off on my studies, I pray much better."
“Are you saying that being a lazybones helps your prayer life?" the superior asked me with a hard look in his eyes.
"I don't mean it in that way. The last time I stopped studying my law books, I volunteered for church youth activities, and that kept me quite busy. It was hectic, as time with kids can be hectic but I didn’t feel so empty the way I do when I get back to my law books."
"That sounds very promising. I take it that you like working with young people?"
"Yes, I like working with kids. You never know what's going to happen next and that makes life interesting. They keep me honest. Kids are the best spiritual directors in the world.”
"Ah, that is very true. We need more people like you who know how to learn from children. Have you ever tried your hand with handicapped children?"
Here was my the first indication that joining the order did indeed entail working with green children. Not that the superior could come right out and say that
"I can't say I have, but a friend of mine has a boy with Down's syndrome. Nicest child I met in my life."
"So, might you be interested in working with handicapped children?”
"Well, yes, that could be interesting. I'm sure handicapped children need love and affection that they often don't get because they're different."
"Children who are different are often neglected," Fr. Columba sighed.
The waitress gave us our luncheon plates and we started eating. I had little appetite, so I only picked at my sandwich. Fr. Columba ate as if he had been fasting for a week.
“In what way are the children your order ministers to handicapped?" I asked.
"Hmm, that is not easy to explain. You’ll have to see them to understand what is so special about them. Taking on this ministry is a leap of faith, a leap into the unknown. You will have the opportunity to take a plunge, trusting that God will sustain you no matter what you find."
"Uh—can you tell me if these children are mentally handicapped or physically handicapped?"
“You could say they are handicapped in both ways but not in any of the usual ways. They all have all four limbs, for example and they seem to be intelligent, but they don't express their intelligence in the—in the usual ways, if you know what I mean."
"Actually I don't."
"Well, I’m sure you understand the difficulty of explaining a situation with words that you really have to see for yourself. These children are really quite extraordinary."
"I'm sure they are."
This veiled conversation was going a long way in confirming my suspicions about the order and the fate of these children born with the mysterious defect of Pigmentum Virens.
"In fact, caring for these children is a rare opportunity to study the far reaches of human experience.” Father Columba continued. “There is a real possibility that these children will redefine humanity for all of us. Not only that, but it may be that these children will redefine the whole concept of definition. You know what I mean?"
"I'm afraid I don't."
"Good!" Fr. Columba took a long sip of his drink. "There's hope for you and for your vocation. If you were to approach these children with preconceptions of what humanity is and what God's plan is, you would surely fail. That would be most un-Celtic. The whole point of Celtic spirituality is to be open to all possibilities, especially to impossible possibilities. You have to be open to the existence of worlds other people never see. For, to tell the truth, we Celts know there are worlds, many worlds, that elude those people who lack eyes to see. Now, you will have the rare opportunity to see one of those worlds."
"Are you telling me that your order has a monastic house in a world located under a fairy mound in Ireland?"
Father Columba looked at me with teasing merry eyes that didn’t lack the sense of mischief one might see in a child about to pull off dangerous prank.
"Well, let us say that we have a monastic house whose location is enveloped in Celtic mist as much as a house under a fairy mound in Ireland. You see, science is now proving that we really are entering the twilight zone when it comes to defining space and time."
"Uh—I know of Irish stories about that sort of thing,” I said. “But what about the old Irish monks? Did they explore Fairyland?"
Father Columba seemed more invigorated than puzzled by a question that would have sent any sane religious superior back to his order without a new recruit.
"Uh, my friend, you should see the research of Seaumus Finn. He has restudied the monastic manuscripts that preserve the old Irish mythology. In his study, he offers convincing evidence that the monks were not just copying old texts. They were editing those texts. They edited those texts in terms of their Christian theology. Everybody knows that. But Seaumus Finn gives evidence that these monks edited those texts through their own experience of other worlds. Remember how Ferghil was condemned by the Roman Catholic for believing in other worlds? Why did Ferghil believe in other worlds? Was he simply defending old Irish myths preserved on parchment? No, Ferghil knew what Celtic monks know today. And I, like Ferghil, know that the Word of God has to be preached, not only to all nations, but to all worlds!"
By this time, my lust for information was being overcome by fright. The wild look in Fr. Columba's eyes would have convinced me that I was already in a madhouse if the announcements of flights and the paging of passengers did not continue to sound in the background. I stood up to leave.
"I thank you for your time, Fr. Columba. I think I have enough information for me to think about my vocation and pray about it."
Fr. Columba grabbed my arm with a much tighter grip than I thought possible for an elderly man and pulled me back down to my seat. My fears doubled.
"Ah, Mr. Hennessy, if you have received the information you need, then surely you can make your decision now. Surely you have decided what your name in religion will be."
"Well, actually—I haven’t worked that out."
"Then I'll make it easy for you. Illtyd. Br. Illtyd Hennessy. That will do nicely."
"But this is a pretty big decision to make on the spur of the moment," I spluttered.
"Not if you are really devoted to Celtic spirituality it isn’t,” said Fr. Columba, his grip getting so tight that I feared for my circulation. "You know that the first Celtic monks were devoted to a spirituality of exile. One renounced home and everything that went with it for the sake of Christ. Many Celtic monks would place themselves in a boat and let the wind take the boat wherever the wind blew it, for the Holy Spirit was in the wind. The Holy Spirit has guided us to a parallel world where the Word of God must be preached. And you are called to that world. Surely you have the faith—the trust in God—“
"I have faith but—“
"There are no 'buts' when it comes to faith!"
What could I say? What would happen if I struggled, or called out for help? Who would be judged to be the lunatic and carted off to the nearest asylum? But just when I thought I was lost, help came in a most unexpected way. A good-looking young woman in an airlines uniform and sporting a pageboy hairstyle approached the table. Just behind the attendant was a baggage cart with a teen-age boy at the wheel. Fr. Columba did not release his grip on my arm, but he tried to keep from showing the strain of holding me against my will.
"Are you Father Columba Craghan?" the attendant asked.
"Yes."
"Oh good. I have been sent to inform you that the time for your return flight has been changed. You will have to proceed to your gate immediately if you are going to catch your flight."
Thank you very much,” said the priest, “but I have no problem with rescheduling for a later flight. Time is not of the essence for me. All time is in God's hands."
"Ah, Sir," said the attendant, "you don't understand. We simply have to place you on your return flight without delay. The matter is urgent.”
"Why, I don't see why that should be the case. Can’t you let me take care of my own affairs?”
At this point, the driver of the cart stepped down and approached Father Columba. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him just then. He took such a polite, but firm, grip on Father Columba's arm that the priest had to let go of me.
"Father Columba, your flight is now going to leave about five minutes ago,” the young man informed the priest. “We simply cannot cancel your reservation due to other pressing matters in the universe that involve both free will and the providence of God. We have a baggage cart ready to take you to the gate."
"I—I don't see why you have to be so insistent," Fr. Columba stammered. "I am in the middle of an important conversation, and I need time to finish it. I don't care if I have to stay all night at the hotel here. You can reschedule me on another flight."
"I am afraid that is not possible in this case," said the young man. "Please come this way, and we will get you to your gate."
I don't know how they did it, but the two airline attendants dragged Father Columba over to the baggage cart and sat him down in it. He squirmed and tried to break free, but he couldn't break the young man's grip any more than I had been able to break Father Columba's. The young woman hopped in behind the wheel, then turned around to wave at me as one conspirator to another. Then she drove the cart off at such a terrific pace, that I still don't see how she failed to kill half the people in the airport. The young man also turned and waved to me with an inimitable smile so filled with mischief that he gave his identity away. He was none other than Rudy Fairfax, the boy who studied music composition under Darrell Stewart.
Linda Hoffman
Psychiatrists say that moving to a new place is a cause of stress. I agree. If I had moved into an apartment for something as innocuous as clearing the way for a remodeling job of my usual place, the stress would have been noticeable but not, I think, that difficult. Moving into a strange apartment out of fear of falling into the hands of evil men, where I had to live at close quarters with several people I did not know very well, was almost more than I could handle. I think I succeeded in putting up a good front as nobody showed signs of noticing how I really felt, but then everybody else had severe stress of their own to cope with, not least the children Lilly and Kevin. It is quite a shock suddenly to be cut off from all your possessions as we all were. I felt terribly self-conscious about wearing a dress that wasn’t bad but one I would never have picked out for myself. Seeing how uncomfortable Lilly and Kevin looked brought home my own plight in an even stronger way as it gave me an inkling of how I must have looked to others.
Listening to Tiger Nedrick and Brent Parker recount their experiences brought home the horror of what Dr. Kip Redford had wrought in a much deeper way than any number of computer print-outs could have done. Although Tiger and Brent hardly mentioned Dr. Redford—maybe they didn’t mention him at all—I just couldn’t get the doctor out of my mind the whole time Brent spoke. I had trusted that man and I had entrusted my own son to him. Yet he was a man capable of institutionalizing bigotry and human exploitation on an astronomical scale, all the while convincing himself that he was saving the world through his actions. I felt very deeply the horror that sessions with Dr. Redford must have been for Tommy, a horror beyond imagining. What made it worse was the fact that I still had no specific notion of exactly what the horror was. Clearly, Dr. Redford had done something horrible enough to drive my son into hiding where nobody could find him.
The brightest spot in all this having Mark Bellinger among us. His kind and gentle disposition seemed so natural that I was tempted to take it for granted, but when I thought about it, I realized that his heart had been forged through a lot of pain. When I considered how few people had ever been kind to him, it seemed a miracle that he was inclined to be so kind to others. That he could incline Kevin’s heart in the direction of forgiveness so quickly was quite amazing and it spoke volumes for the rapport those two had developed in such a short time. That incident at the breakfast table demonstrated to me how much of my part in the quest to save Tim Hawkins and find Rolland Fletcher was motivated by spite, not least spite against the irresponsible Nigel Sharperson. Mark had deftly turned the group motivation in a much more constructive direction. Lilly and Kevin were on fire with righteous indignation about Tim Hawkins and Rolland Fletcher, but I could see that they had been a pair of abstract causes until Mark personalized the pursuit. He was the one who had actually known Rolland Fletcher and Mark clearly loved Rolland, along with Cynthia and Matthew, very deeply.
Although I had studied and admired Darrell Stewart’s compositions, I had never had occasion to meet him. I was, therefore more than pleased with the excuse to drive over to Hyde Park where he lived, even though I was emotionally depleted by the time Brent Parker finished his story over brunch. It was gratifying, however, to see Brent looking so much more at peace with himself after getting so much off his chest. That one or another of Louise’s men continued to shadow me while I was driving to Hyde Park was worrisome, but it was a relief that none of our enemies seemed to have found us.
I found the apartment building and the apartment easily enough. I discovered that Darrell Stewart’s apartment was in a state of appalling chaos, even for a creative musician. I wondered how his wife could stand it. The living room was quite an obstacle course with books and music stacked in so many heaps you really had to look to see that there actually was a coffee table under it all. A grand piano took up so much space that there wasn’t much room for anybody to sit. I could tell from the look on Kevin’s face that he was gratified to learn that he was not the messiest person in the world after all.
Darrell Stewart greeted us politely, but he seemed to have his mind parked in some other universe. He was dressed in faded shabby clothes and he wore wire-rim glasses. Nelda Stewart greeted more formally, floor length gown and all, and then retired to her room and was never seen again, though we could hear her practice her viola off and on.
"What can I do for you?" Darrell asked in a wispy voice.
“My young friends here are involved in a rather interesting, but also pressing quest for a notorious musician named Rolland Fletcher,” I replied.
“Many people seem to be wondering where he is,” Darrell replied. “Or at least, people were wondering about him for a while until the media found somebody else to worry about.”
“We have heard rumors that you instructed Rolland Fletcher in composing music," I prompted Darrell.
"My! How the rumors do run make the rounds of the world,” Darrell replied. "I regret to inform you that, for all the efforts of your pilgrimage, I never did teach music composition to a young man named Rolland Fletcher."
Lilly and Kevin looked at each other and I could tell they had decided to play our trump card.
"Rolland Fletcher seems to have had other names in his life," said Kevin.
"How very interesting," said Darrell, as if that were not interesting at all.
“We heard by some grapevine that when this boy went to Marguerite Toland and asked for lessons, he said his name was Rudy Fairfax,” said Lilly.
Darrell Stewart sank back in his chair as if a conductor's podium had dropped on top of him.
"Rudy Fairfax seems to have acted a lot like Rolland Fletcher," added Kevin.
"I—must admit that the resemblance between the two was quite remarkable," Darrell Stewart spluttered.
“Don’t you remember meeting Mark Bellinger before?” asked Kevin.
Darrell looked at Mark and searched his memory. Suddenly his face lit up with recognition, although it was more in the sense of recognizing a ghost than a warm-blooded friend.
“Yes, I can see the twelve-year old boy in your face,” said Darrell. “You were truly outstanding and the memory of your singing is a treasure I carry with me always. What brings you here?”
“Our need to find Rolland Fletcher is urgent,” said Mark.
“Have you seen Paul Schuler lately?” asked Kevin.
“Paul—How would you know him?” asked a bewildered Darrell Stewart.
“His lawyer has been sending us his papers to help us find Rolland Fletcher,” Lilly explained.
“Well, the truth is that—well that Paul seems to have disappeared rather—rather mysteriously,” said Darrell Stewart, “so obviously something is afoot. It seems that I will do little or no harm by telling you about Rolland, and perhaps it will do some good.”
Darrell Stewart
For years I have lived the peaceful life of a symphonic composer who disturbs the peace of other people. Since modern symphonic works do not make their creators rich, I supplement my income by teaching music composition to young people who mostly put me to sleep with their lack of talent. Then one fine day I received a phone call from Marguerite Toland. She asked me if I was ready to take on the most challenging pupil I’d ever seen in my life. I like a challenge when it comes to music, and you just don't say “No” to Marguerite if you value your sanity. I said that her pupil was welcome to send me some of his manuscripts and I would look at them and speculate on what drugs inspire him to compose the way he does. Marguerite told me she had never seen her pupil under the influence of any drug other than root beer and that I should expect him to redefine my musical universe. Then she hung up.
A few days later, I was innocently walking back to my apartment after doing a bit of shopping when a child briskly walked up behind until he was even with me. He kept pace with me for a short while until I began to wonder if he was playing some sort of game with me.
“If you would rather carry some music manuscripts,” the boy said suddenly, “I will carry your shopping bags.”
Since my shopping bags were heavy enough to be onerous, this was a generous offer, provided this boy wasn’t attempting to rob me of three days’ worth of meals. I stopped to look at this young accoster and saw right away that indeed he had an armful of music manuscripts. It seemed quite possible that this was the juvenile composition student I had been warned about.
“I don’t think it is a fair deal weight-wise, but I will accept the terms,” I replied.
“Music has its own weight,” said the boy as he handed the manuscripts over to me and took a firm hold of my groceries.
“Well said, young man. Just because music is a blessing doesn’t mean that it’s always easy.”
“Life isn’t easy, either,” said the boy. “I guess that’s what makes it interesting.”
“I suppose it is. Is there any chance that you are the Rudy Fairfax who studies piano under Marguerite Toland?”
“That depends on what you mean by a name and whether a name really is a name or if a name is anything other than a convenience to get us through social situations,” said the boy.
“Let me put it this way,” I replied. “Should I indulge in the social convenience of calling you Rudy Fairfax at this present point in time?”
“That would be as good an indulgence as any,” Rudy answered.
This little exchange was enough to convince me that I had not been approached by an ordinary music composition student, and not just because he was half a dozen years younger than any of my other students. Being much too curious about this boy to reject his music sight unseen, I allowed him to carry my bags up to my apartment and I indicated the spot on the kitchen counter where he could put them down. I quickly put away the perishables, then cleared enough books and papers from my couch to give us room to sit down. When I began to leaf through some of the music, he cowered in the corner of the couch as if he expected me to roll up the paper and beat him over the head with it. As it happened, I could not suppress some grunts of approval over a couple of striking passages he had composed in the midst of some immature mannerisms that would need correcting.
“There’s a lot of good stuff here,” I began.
“And a lot of bad stuff?” he shot back, his body still bunched in a defensive posture.
“Let me put it this way,” I responded. “A musical composition works within a vibrant tension of unity and variety.”
“No!” Rudy scoffed.
It was apparent that his treble voice did not stop him from acting like a spoiled adolescent.
“I’m glad that you know that principle theoretically,” I explained. “The trick is to learn it in the actual practice of composing. Your musical fireworks need to form a broader pattern if you are ever going to succeed in composing larger, more integrated fireworks.”
Rudy was silent for a moment. Then he straightened himself out a bit and looked me in the eye.
“Sounds good,” he said.
And so I took Rudy on and guided him as best I could through his early struggles as a composer. He combined a high opinion of his work with a deep fear that it was a total failure, a trait that led him to take any criticism as a sign of my inability to understand his genius. I felt constrained to be honest when that charge was true. There were elements in his music that were unlike anything I had ever seen or heard before. I assumed that Rudy had a system of his own that he was juxtaposing with all the styles prevalent in our time. But when I asked Rudy what the guiding principles were that he was using in the passages in question, he said he had none. He then admitted that he was still trying to figure out the theory behind the music that he heard from a different world. If I discerned any underlying principles of it, he would be interested in my telling him. This problem notwithstanding, I was amazed with how deeply Rudy absorbed my feedback and how quickly he learned the tools of the trade, such as harmony and counterpoint. For someone as untutored as him, even the most elementary techniques were new toys and he took great pleasure in playing with them in new ways so that I, too, took great pleasure in the results.
I suppose it is an indication of how much my own life was absorbed in music, that I didn’t reflect on how little I knew about Rudy. He came and went like an elf and you would never know he had any life outside of composing and performing music. Did he have any friends? Had a girl thrilled his heart and then broken it? Did he fret when there was a riot in the north side of Chicago? Did anything affect his mood swings besides his struggles with music? Did he have anybody to talk to if anything troubled him? These questions did cross my mind and incite my curiosity, but when Rudy came to my apartment with a new manuscript, there was so much music to think about that we didn’t seem to have time for anything else. Even when I got in the habit of inviting him to stay on for supper after a lesson, we spent the extra time analyzing the works of Franz Schubert and Alfred Schnittke. If Rudy made a startling comment such as suggesting that those two composers sounded as if they were lost in the cosmos, I didn’t pick up on it and probe into the possibility that Rudy felt the same way.
Finally, one evening when I took him to the Tai restaurant around the corner for dinner, he did open his heart to some extent, but even then, it was all music.
"Do you think music can change the world?" Rudy suddenly asked me when he was half-way through a shrimp dish that had everything but the kitchen sink in it and enough spicing to send a human being into orbit.
"Why—everything changes the world," I replied, rather unhelpfully, I suppose.
“Well, yea. some scientists say that the way I lift my fork will determine the weather in China next week. I mean, does it really matter to anything, or to anybody, if I write a symphony that's really different."
"I'm sure it matters. But I don't know if that will change the political system or make people nicer than they are.”
"Mozart makes me want to be a nicer person.”
"I'm glad to hear that. I admit that I, too, want the world to be a better place when I listen to Mozart.”
"And your music shakes me up so much that I’m convinced the whole world is shaken up, and so I don't take all the screwy stuff people do for granted.”
“My music effects you that way? The usual effect is that people run out of Orchestra Hall."
"They don't want to be shaken up," said Rolland.
"I suppose they don't."
"When I first heard something by Webern on the radio years ago, I thought the whole universe had changed. That told me there was a lot more to music than old hymns and Beethoven. But hardly anybody else likes Webern, not even revolutionaries. And then, when I heard music from a different world, everything blew apart for me again. I can’t explain in words what philosophy of life is expressed in this music, but it has changed my whole outlook on life. But will other people listen to it and still see the world the way they did before?”
“I suppose you’ll be lucky if a small fraction of your listeners are re-oriented to reality by your music,” I suggested.
“Hmm. A lot of people seem to thing Schubert is safe—but he isn't. You think you’re getting cheerful Viennese music, and then the bottom drops out of it."
“It sure does.”
"The Trash Cans gross out everybody who is older than me, but their music is just like the rock music our parents played to gross out their parents and teachers."
"I admit that I don't listen to the Trash Cans."
"They're not as good as your symphonies, so don't bother. Hubert Lantern keeps singing songs about making a new world, but there's nothing new about the music itself."
"Are you suggesting that if Hubert Lantern sang songs as unusual as the music you are writing, than people would stop buying his records, and so he won’t change the world?” I asked.
"That is exactly what I'm suggesting."
“Sounds grim.”
“Yea. But nobody understood Jesus, either. Least of all his followers, so the world is in the same mess it was in when he came and got crucified.”
I raised my eyebrows over that. This was the first time I had heard Rolland express any interest in religion.
“Do you think that you understand Jesus while everybody else has missed the boat for two thousand years?”
That seemed to bring Rolland up short.
“That’s a good question.”
“There are hazards in thinking you’re the only person who understands anything, whether it’s Alban Berg, Jesus Christ, or the mystery of life,” I told him.
“Yea, I suppose one hazard is that everybody will hate me for being the only person who understands what they cannot or will not understand.”
I’m sure this dialogue gives you an idea of the intense way this boy wrestled with issues that normally don’t grip people as young as Rudy. As it happened, it was only a feel days after that conversation when Rudy surprised me, not only with a stunning revision of the work I critiqued the week before, but also by informing me that he had changed his name.
“And what, pray tell, should I call you now?”
“Rolland Fletcher, please.”
“I am pleased to know you,” I responded.
“Do you think you really know me now?” he asked, his eyes all cheerful mischief.
“Well, no. But I like having you as a pupil, and I don’t have occasion to say that very often.”
It was almost heartbreaking to see the smile on Rolland’s face when I said that. It made me afraid that encouraging words did not often enter into his life. And yet it was much later, and through Marguerite Toland that I learned about the parents he adopted and for whose sake he changed his name. I think now that the love and support of Rolland’s new family deepened his musical vision in a way that techniques taught by me could not have done. Each work burned with more power than the last one until Rolland brought a piano trio that demonstrated that his musical vision had reached a qualitatively new level of wholeness. Mind you, I knew a lot of listeners would think it hopelessly fragmentary—and they did—but I knew this trio held its fragments together with great expressive power. When I told Rolland how much I yearned to hear the work performed, Rolland snapped his fingers as if the gesture could summon a piano trio out of thin air.
“One piano trio coming up!” he announced.
And true to his word, for his next lesson, Rolland brought two young people who looked as if they could be blown away by a soft note on a piccolo. Rolland introduced them to me as Matthew Taylor and Cynthia Harwood. Then, without speaking a word, they sat down and played through the trio. I was floored. As if one musical genius was not enough, here were two more! One would think the two of them were born playing the music of Rolland Fletcher. After the performance, we had quite a discussion. Rolland and I did all the talking and I gradually understood that Matthew and Cynthia were both mute. But their faces were quite expressive, and I knew what they thought of every suggestion I made. They weren't shy about playing passages on their instruments to help make a point, as Cynthia did when Rolland and I were talking about two alternatives for the cello part at a transitional point in the trio. Cynthia played one of the alternates with a slight change and we knew instantly that it was right. Cynthia went on to play a scale, or something like a scale.
"That's it!" cried Rolland! "That's got to be the scale—or the pattern the cello part is based on!"
Cynthia curled her mouth into a slight smile, as if to say it was time that Rolland caught on.
During a break, Matthew, who had been dreamy and withdrawn the whole time, went up to me, looked me in the eye, then held up his hands with fingers spread out. After some hesitation, I thought maybe he wanted me to hold up my hands and spread out my fingers. So I did. Matthew smiled and touched my fingers with his.
From that time on, Rolland went from strength to strength as a composer and a performer. It seemed that each composition or partial composition showed yet another leap in his musical imagination. If I scrutinized the score enough, I usually found a small matter for Rolland to think about, but I was starting to feel rather useless as an instructor in music composition. When Rolland dropped a hint that he was wondering when the world premieres of his “acceptable compositions” should take place, I had a long phone consultation with Marguerite Toland. Her basic position was that a public life in music would be impossible for Rolland and for the public, but the lack of such a career would be equally impossible. Therefore, we had to do the impossible. We agreed to show some of Rolland’s scores to Kevin McIntyre. If he was ready to conduct Rolland’s music, then we had to be ready to release Rolland into the jungle of the music industry. I felt pretty exposed myself about doing that, even though the Maestro and I were good friends. I had to face the fact that I had become somewhat attached to Rolland. To this day, he is the closest thing I've ever had to a son and my emotional well-being was wrapped up with the well-being of my pupil’s work. I need not have worried. What Maestro berated me for was for taking so long to share such exciting scores with him. His approbation presented me with the task of feeling out Rolland’s readiness for moving towards a public career.
The next time Rolland came, armed with his riotously devotional “Biblical Outbursts,” –I don’t know how else to describe them—I had a talk with him and Matthew and Cynthia.
“You’ve read some of the reviews written about my music,” I reminded Rolland. “There is a real possibility that some of the same things will be said about yours. Do you think you’re ready for that?”
“Why should the servant not suffer what the Master suffers?” Rolland asked.
It took me a minute to absorb the Biblical allusion, since I am not a regular reader of scripture.
“I don’t want to get too pretentious about the kind of Master that I am,” I replied.
“I should try not to be too pretentious, myself,” Rolland agreed. “But do you feel better about vitriolic reviews when you’re forty than you did when you were twelve?”
“I don’t know. I guess I think of you as being of a tender age.”
“And aren’t thirty and forty tender ages?”
“I suppose they are.”
Well, it was clear that Rolland was set on trying to convert the world to his religious mystical vision of human charity. I wondered how Cynthia and Matthew would do as public figures, but I didn’t see how to broach that question and I could only trust Rolland’s sensitivity towards them.
A few weeks later, I received a note in the mail that "respectfully and urgently" invited me to a recital at Marguerite Toland's Conservatory in Racine. I had just seen Rolland the day before, and he hadn’t said anything about how imminent this event was about to be. Well, that’s Rolland Fletcher for you.
I was there, of course, as part of what had to be the most intimidating audience imaginable, if only Rolland knew who we all were. The three young musicians, dressed in costumes that made Marguerite blush, made their awkward entrance but fell into their element when Rolland played the opening chords of his trio and Matthew and Cynthia floated in with their entries. Before long, I was lost in some of the most powerful music I had heard from a modern composer. Everything I had tried to convey to Rudy—and more—had born fruit. I was more than proud of my pupil. Applause was vigorous. Kevin McIntyre whispered in my ear: "I can hardly wait until I get to conduct one his works on the same program with one of yours."
There was a reception afterwards with little treats that only Marguerite knew how to get her hands on. Rolland chatted away with anybody who would talk to him, but, unaccountably, he did not acknowledge my presence in any way. At one point I felt that he had talked to everybody in the room but me. Matthew and Cynthia stayed together and exchanged glances about everything going on around them. I was not bereft of conversation, however. A vibrant young woman named Lena Bauer approached me and drugged me with both her beauty and her knowledge of music. She seemed to know Rolland well, and yet for all the time I had worked with the budding composer, I had heard no mention of her.
Interspersed with erudite conversation about music were the comments of that incredibly obnoxious agent, Herbert Schoffenhauer. He bounced all was all over the room, talking up Rolland Fletcher and his group, the Orphic Trio. At one point I became so indignant about all his talk about the trappings of this trio’s act that I asked him if he were interested in promoting the music. He told me point-blank that not even the greatest music can catch anybody’s attention any more. Music can only be heard through the filter of extra musical factors. When I opened my mouth to protest further, he called me a telegraph pole-in-the-mud.
But before I could feel the ruffling of my feathers for more than a few seconds, Matthew sidled up to me and touched my hand with his fingers spread out. I spread my fingers and touched his. Matthew smiled at me and returned to his seat next to Cynthia. To my surprise, the room was almost empty and Lena Bauer had just maneuvered the agent out of the house. Now, at long last, the young composer himself came over and draped an arm over my shoulder. I almost dropped my brownie. Rolland thanked me for staying late so that he could talk to me. Rolland asked me what I thought of the trio now that he had worked on it some more. I told him it was excellent. Not satisfied, he pressed me for more comments until I divulged a few remarks about what could make it better, which comments were received most graciously. At one point, I noticed Cynthia giving an “I told you so” look to Matthew.
Rolland apologized for not having talked to me earlier that night, and he assured me that he loved me very much. Nobody had ever said that to me up to that point. Not until Nelda said words to that affect several years later would I hear anybody else say such a thing to me. Rolland went on to say that for reasons he could not explain, I would be safer if it wasn't known that we knew each other, but he promised to stay in close touch and keep me well involved in his life. I wished I knew what fears motivated his odd concerns for my safety, but I concluded that nobody was ever going to know Rolland Fletcher very well. As you know, the Lake Winnebago Contemporary Arts Festival was the beginning of a new chapter in the lives of Rolland Fletcher, Matthew Taylor and Cynthia Harwood and I must say that I took some satisfaction over the musical events I had helped to loose upon the world.