When “Unfinished Symphony” was first posted in 2012, I was asked by several readers to write a sequel, telling what happened to Richard. I tried at the time but failed to complete a satisfactory sequel. The following story is a new attempt, and I hope it is more successful. If you have not read “Unfinished Symphony,” I strongly suggest that you read it before this story.
Grandma was our savior. When Mom died, it was Grandma who rescued the three of us, gave us a home, and nurtured us. At the time, I was only nine, Tim was twelve, and Joey was two.
She gathered us from western Massachusetts and took us to her small apartment on Cape Cod. She worked as a housecleaner, and with her income from that job she managed to feed and clothe us as well as cover the expenses of the apartment.
Grandma was not a large woman. At first I thought she was frail, but she proved to be exceptionally strong. She could be tough when she needed to be, but we soon learned that she loved us unconditionally.
Tim, the oldest of us, had a mouth which often spoke without being engaged with his brain. Perhaps that’s typical of teens, although I never had that problem. He and Grandma occasionally crossed swords, but Grandma always seemed to win. He graduated from high school and took some training as an auto mechanic. He landed a job working in a garage which was only a couple of miles from our apartment and which he could reach by bicycle.
When I was 15, I fell deeply in love with a boy, Mark Russell. We loved each other for a little over a year before he died of leukemia. In his last months I helped to care for him — not only keeping him company but dealing with his urine and shit. Oh yes, and giving him sexplorations — blowjobs and even fucking him twice at his request. When he died, I was with him, kissing him and feeling his last three breaths. I was crushed. I felt as though my life was over. I was angry about the unfairness of it all, and I was even angry at Mark for leaving me. But Grandma provided me with the strength to go on.
Joey, who was seven years younger than me, also loved Mark, but as a brother. He had taken swimming lessons from Mark, and he was now on a competitive swimming team on the Cape.
Somehow, I managed to endure my sophomore year in high school. In the early fall, when Mark was dying, my grades slumped and I was teased by classmates as being an airhead. I wasn’t. It’s just that my mind was totally on Mark. Later that year I was able to right my ship somewhat and get back to my studies.
Unlike many of my classmates, as well as my brother Tim, I quite enjoyed school. Sure, there was the occasional class which I found boring, but on the whole learning was fun for me. Even by then I knew that I would never go on to college. There was no way we could afford it, but I made the most of the time I had left in school.
I particularly liked history. I found it fascinating to explore how we as a country and as human beings had arrived at our present state of being. In my sophomore year, our study was American History. I know people think about history as dates and famous people, wars and politics, but it was the daily life in America that interested me most. Of course, to understand that one had to know about the Constitution and the expansion of the nation. I did especially well in that class and on the last day of the school year, the teacher, Mr. Wallingford, asked to speak with me after class. I agreed, although I would miss my bus home.
When we were seated in his classroom, Mr. Wallingford said, “Richard, I just want you to know that I find you to be an exceptional student. I have never had an occasion to say that to any student before you. Your grasp of the material, your voracious appetite for information, and your writing throughout the year have all been outstanding. What do you plan to do after high school?”
“I don’t really know,” I replied. “I know I won’t go on to college. We just can’t afford it, and if I did and majored in history, what would I do with that? So I guess I’ll probably get a job somewhere, but I hope to keep learning the history of America. It fascinates me.”
“I was afraid you were going to say something like that,” Mr. Wallingford said. “If you don’t go on with your studies, it will be a great loss.”
I told him I really appreciated his support and concern, and I said I would think about the question some more. But in my heart I knew going to college just wouldn’t happen.
For over a year I had worked for a couple of men who needed help with their lawn and garden care. Sometimes I thought about going on with that job. The two men, Peter Bradley and Christian Walker, had a large home in a nearby town. It was so big that in one of the smaller rooms they had two grand pianos. Sometimes as I worked in their gardens I could hear them playing together.
In the early spring before my sophomore year, I worked for them all day Saturday and Sunday afternoons, cleaning up the remains of last fall’s leaves and sticks, fertilizing the grass, and preparing the flower beds. It was actually due to my job with them that I met Mark Russell, because his house was next to theirs. The Russells had a swimming pool, and Mark invited me to swim when I finished work. From there our relationship had grown.
The men knew Mark and his parents well and were supportive of me when Mark died. Mark’s parents had also been supportive and his mother, particularly, insisted that I visit her, which I did when I had the time.
Mark had taught Joey to swim and got him involved in competitive swimming, so very occasionally, Joey also visited.
On the wall beside my bed I had a picture of Mark, grinning his sly smile. Next to it I hung his state championship medal, which he gave me just before he died.
Mark left me a note on his computer telling me that I had to move on, to find someone else I could love. He assured me that he wanted me to do that, and he promised he wouldn’t be jealous. It was his last gift to me, and I thought about that from time to time, but there was nobody I was the least interested in, and I had accepted that I would be alone and celibate for the rest of my life.
Oh, of course I was still horny and I still jerked off, daydreaming always of Mark, but the thought of moving on to someone else held no interest for me.
That spring, Peter and Christian said that they wanted to take me to a concert in Boston. I wasn’t sure why, but I thought it might be interesting, so I accepted.
I had to take a Friday off from school, but since I hadn’t missed many days that year, taking the day off wasn’t a big deal.
On the drive north to the city, I had a strong sense of déjà vu. Mark, his father, and I had driven to Boston once to see a Red Sox game and explore some of the city. It was the only time I had been to Boston.
The concert was in Symphony Hall. When we arrived we ate a buffet lunch in the Symphony Café, where the men had reserved a table.
We finished lunch, stood in a short line to use the rest room, and then went to our seats which were in the front row center of the balcony. I read the program and saw that one of the pieces to be played was Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.
When the concert began, it was announced that there would be an addition to the program, Barber’s Adagio for Strings, to be played in memory of a beloved orchestra cellist who had recently died.
I had never heard the Barber before, but I nearly fell out of the balcony by the time it ended. I was spellbound, enraptured. It was haunting and gorgeous. I turned to say something to Christian, but I saw that he, like me, had tears in his eyes.
The Adagio was followed by the Schubert symphony, and by intermission I was emotionally drained. I had cried all through the symphony, thinking of Mark. The three of us chatted during the break, Peter saying that the Adagio always affected him and drove him to tears.
After intermission the orchestra played Beethoven’s Piano Concerto Number 5, The Emperor Concerto. I don’t remember the name of the pianist, but she was excellent, and when I said so, both Peter and Christian agreed.
After the concert, the men took me to a restaurant where we had a fine early dinner before battling rush hour traffic to get back to the Cape.
“Did you enjoy the concert?” Christian asked as we rode slowly down the Southeast Expressway.
“Oh yes. You know, I’ve never actually heard an orchestra live before. The sound was glorious.”
“You’re right,” Peter said. “The acoustics in Symphony Hall are amazing.”
When they delivered me to the apartment, Peter said, “Richard, you should sleep late tomorrow. Why don’t you take the morning off and come to us in the afternoon?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but there’s no way I can sleep in when my two brothers are awake and making noise. It will really be more restful for me to be in your garden.”
They laughed and we said our goodnights. I went in and found Grandma still up. I told her all about the concert and how wonderful it was. I was still rather geared up when I went to bed, thinking especially about the Adagio and Mark.
The next morning, I arrived at the men’s house at my usual time. It was the first warm day of spring. I gave the lawn its first mowing of the summer. By the time I finished I was sweating, so I sat on the patio for a few minutes before tending to the flowers.
Peter came out with some lemonade, handed me a glass, and sat with me.
When Christian joined us, he had a paper bag which he handed to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Take a look,” he replied.
I reached in and pulled out three CDs. One was a collection of Barber’s compositions, including the Adagio. Another was the Unfinished Symphony. The third was the Beethoven concerto we had heard the day before.
I jumped up and hugged them both, thanking them for the concert and the CDs of the pieces which would live in my memory for ever.