“We’re here to see Thomas McKindry.”
The receptionist looked up over her half-glasses at them. Mrs. Ford was dressed in a business suit. She was somewhat past middle age but had a bearing that suggested a certain gravitas which had to be taken into account when anyone was dealing with her. The boy with her was a nobody. He wore a soiled T-shirt and jeans that had a ripped knee, and he had something wrong with one hand. He also looked like he’d been in a fight. The receptionist did no more than glance at him, dismiss him completely, and turned back to Mrs. Ford. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but it’s in his best interests to see us without delay. His very best interests. It would be a mistake if we weren’t able to speak to him right now.”
The receptionist was good at evaluating people. That was a big part of her job. That Mrs. Ford was a person of substance and standing was obvious. She wasn’t a bit nervous, and her words were spoken with sincerity. “Your name?”
Mrs. Ford gave it, and the receptionist picked up her phone; she spoke softly into it, listened, then put it down. “He’ll see you now, Mrs. Ford. Let me escort you to his office.”
Mr. McKindry’s had a large corner office. It was a corner office with plush carpeting. He came out from behind his desk to meet them. After shaking hands and inquiring if either would like something to drink, he had them sit in chairs in front of his desk and retreated to his own behind it.
“How can I help you?” he asked. He was a large man, a couple of inches over six feet tall and well beyond 200 pounds. He was wearing an expensive suit, and his hair appeared to have been fashionably cut by a pricey barber. Sitting behind his expansive desk, he appeared to be very comfortable in his own element.
Mrs. Ford spoke. James sat in his chair feeling very much a little kid out of place. “McKindry, we are here because of your son, Giff. I’m hoping we can come to a meeting of the minds. The facts are, Giff has been bullying James. What you see on James’ face is the result of what Giff did today. There were other injuries and damages as well. And today, unfortunately, was only one of many times Giff has bullied James.”
She stopped, a pregnant pause to let Mr. McKindry speak. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and remained silent.
Mrs. Ford nodded as though something had been confirmed and continued. “This isn’t the first time Giff’s behavior has been noted. James has reported Giff to their school’s principal; nothing has come from that. My thought is that it’s quite possible you’ve intervened, either prior or after; there’s no other reasonable conclusion to draw from the principal’s inaction. I think if this is taken further, should an investigation be initiated, should that be necessary, the facts will be uncovered. I would hope that won’t be necessary. I don’t think it will be. I think you’ll see what has to be done to fix this situation. Hopefully, you will do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do, but whether that’s the reason or if you do it to save your own ass, either way, this will get fixed.”
When she stopped after saying this, Mr. McKindry’s face quickly cycled through several expressions. Finally, he turned what had been a speech into a discussion. “Mrs. Ford, I don’t wish to be confrontational here, but it sounds like we’re looking at a childhood squabble without much substance. I can talk to Giff if that’s what you’d like. But much more than that? I don’t think there’d be much merit in pursuing this. Don’t you agree?”
He smiled at her. She didn’t find it a very genuine smile. It didn’t seem to move from his lips to his eyes.
She shook her head. “Mr. McKindry, I’m afraid the two of us talking like this won’t bring satisfactory closure. This matter is much more serious than that. I spoke of other damages. Specifically, Giff destroyed a valuable musical instrument worth several thousand dollars. It wasn’t an insignificant crime. As he did so maliciously, it becomes a more egregious legal matter. As he attacked James, it’s also a matter of criminal assault. If you want it brought to the attention of the police, if that’s the path you wish to follow, we can do that. I came here today hoping you’d want to prevent that, prevent Giff being labeled as a felon at his young age, prevent the notoriety that would come from the newspaper coverage this would get. Just think, a school board member has a son who’s been a bully in school and hurt several children, one who intervened with the principal to stop any actions from being taken that might be expected to prevent recurrences.”
Mr. McKindry sat up straighter, and his expression changed. “That’s ridiculous. Giff wouldn’t do anything like that. Do you have more than this boy’s word? I’d say you’d better or the word ‘slander’ comes to mind here.”
“As a matter of fact, we do. There were two witnesses. I have their names, and if you wish to move forward with this as a criminal matter, I’ll get sworn statements from them. There’s also the ruined instrument that they saw Giff destroy, and these witnesses heard the comments he made when he did so. There’ll have to be written statements, and when they appear in the newspaper, asterisks will be needed for some of the words Giff used.”
She stopped to give Mr. McKindry a chance to comment, but when he didn’t immediately respond, she continued. “What Giff did was push James off his bicycle, hit him in the face with his fist and knock him to the ground, thus injuring him. Then he took the French horn from its case and against James’ cry that the horn was expensive, threw it onto the sidewalk and stomped on it till it was a flattened piece of scrap metal. That’ll probably be Exhibit A at his trial. Then Giff rather scornfully said it wasn’t valuable any longer. That is what happened. That is what the witnesses saw and heard said. Witnesses, not witness.
“What we’re looking for is some sort of relief for James’ suffering, some repayment for the horn, and some acknowledgement and resolution for past problems Giff has caused James and other students.
“I’ll tell you precisely what we’re asking.” She paused to let the situation percolate in Mr. McKindry’s head, to realize that this was nothing like he’d been asserting it was. “You’ll replace the school’s horn. That will make the school whole. For what Giff has put James through, you’ll purchase a second instrument, a much finer instrument. I’ll get into the details of that when you agree with my proposal. The other thing you’ll do is just as important: you’ll see that your son stays away from James. Completely and entirely away from him. No contact at all. I’d suggest enrolling him at another school, but that might not be possible; I doubt another school would want him. But if he remains where he is, there must be no contact, physical or through the internet or in any other way, such as calling out to him or getting his cronies to do something or through intimidation with eye contact. The consequences of his failing at that will be swift and sure and are the reason you’ll be willing to hear my proposal.”
“And just what are these consequences you’re referring to? What proposal?” Mr. McKindry’s question was posed in a skeptical but somewhat less aggressive voice than he’d had earlier.
Mrs. Ford smiled, a smile as devoid of humor and friendliness as Mr. McKindry’s had been. “I believe you know DeLano Cooleridge. He handles all Youth Court trials in this city. When your son goes on trial for willful destruction of school property valued at over $2,500, the dividing line between a misdemeanor and a felony, and for felonious assault on a teenager by someone who is legally an adult—Giff is two years older than James—Judge Cooleridge will be on the bench. The court’s definition of Youth Court is anyone up to 21, yet in this state, age 17 is legal adulthood. Judge Cooleridge won’t have to recuse himself because of his connection with Justice Reginald Lockery—the Massachusetts Supreme Court justice—who happens to be my husband, because James here isn’t my son. Those two giants of the profession enjoy an evening now and then discussing this and that and the merits of Macallan single-malt scotch. When my husband files an amicus brief with Judge Cooleridge, there will be no hint of judicial malpractice.
“Then there is that troubling thing I mentioned earlier, just why the school principal didn’t act when James brought up your son’s bullying. Under oath, I think he’ll say that you had something to do with that. Some influence. Now, as you’re certainly aware, August Sandifer, the editor of The Chronicle, is also a member of the school board. I think this would be a human-interest story his paper would love to print, a story about how a student like James has had to deal with a bully like Giff and how Giff’s parent was a strong factor in allowing bullying to flourish in the school, how he prevented abatement when it started, and how it ended up with an expensive instrument belonging to the school being destroyed and a boy younger and smaller than Giff being attacked and injured. How Giff’s parent was a member of the school board and used that position unfairly.
“Those are the consequences I was thinking of, consequences that would quite probably put Giff in a detention facility for who knows how long and seriously compromise his future. And I can only imagine how such a trial—and such evidence—could have a deleterious effect on your standing in this city and on your career.”
She stopped. Mr. McKindry was no longer looking so complacent.
She gave him a moment to think about those consequences, then spoke again, her voice just as strong and acerbic as it had been. “You will replace the horn the school lost with one of equal value. Then, as reparation for the physical pain and mental anguish James has been subjected to by your son, you will purchase him a French horn of my choosing. And you’ll do this immediately.
“You’ll be getting away cheap. Your total monetary outlay will be in the neighborhood of $18,000, and your son will stay out of the legal system, unless he can’t help himself and has some further contact with James. To avoid that, I’d suggest you take a hard look and do as I suggested—remove him from his current school and put him in another. I’ll leave that up to you. But when I said immediately, what I meant was, I’m here now, and I’m sure your checkbook is, too. I’d like a check now, for, well, let’s make it $18,500 as there’ll be taxes to be paid on the purchases. Or I’ll be happy to call the police and Judge Cooleridge and Mr. Sandifer.”
She sat back in her chair. James fidgeted in his. He wasn’t used to anything like this. This was an acrimonious confrontation between adults.
“I need an answer now, Mr. McKindry. And a check. If legal proceedings are to be commenced, then I need to document the injuries that James is showing right away and get affidavits from the witnesses who saw Giff attack James and stomp on his horn. We’ll ask for pain-and-suffering enhancements, too, of course. But you’ve had enough time to think about this. With what I’m offering you, you’re getting off lightly. Much more lightly than you or Giff deserve. So, what say you?”
Mr. McKindry stared at her for a moment, glanced at James, who couldn’t meet his eyes, then opened his top desk drawer and took out his checkbook.
When they left the office and were on their way back to Mrs. Ford’s house, James looked at her and asked, “Witnesses?”
She smiled. “You probably don’t ever want to play poker with me,” she said.
James frowned and shook his head. Sometimes adults made no sense at all.
> > >
Four o’clock.
And Freddie was late. Again. Mrs. Ford gritted her teeth. She was an outgoing, friendly woman. At least that was her preferred disposition. She could be a lot of things, but pleasant was her default position. She wasn’t often angry; it wasn’t part of her makeup. But she was human, and certain things did make her angry—or frost her cake, the expression she liked to use. One of the things that she found to be particularly irksome was tardiness.
This was true on all levels. If she made a restaurant reservation for 7:30, she felt her table should be ready for her at 7:30; she made that point to the person accepting her reservation. Not having to wait for a table while the people sitting at it finished their coffee was important to her sense of self-worth. While waiting when that did happen, she didn’t make a fuss; she simply told the maître d' she’d not be returning, and she didn’t. If she had a dental appointment for two o’clock, she expected the dentist to be smiling at her as she sat down on the chair in his work area at the appointed time. She didn’t expect to be told that the dentist would be with her shortly and they had plenty of magazines to read. Mrs. Ford found this unacceptable. Unless there was an emergency, the dentist should be as respectful of her time as she was of his. If he wasn’t, she would speak to him, and if the situation occurred a second time there would be no third time with that dentist.
She didn’t like lateness in maître d's securing her table, or in professional care providers, or in anyone she’d made an appointment with. She thought it would be rude of her if she wasn’t on time, just as she felt it rude when people who’d made appointments to see her were late. It was disrespectful. She’d worked hard to achieve her position in life, and disrespect was something she had little tolerance for.
Which was why now she was gritting her teeth. Freddie wasn’t a professional, but she was, and she hoped his aim, someday, would be to become one, too. But if chronic lateness was part of his personality, that would never happen. There was no doubt at all about that. Professional musicians needed to be prompt. Being on time for a professional musician, a concert musician, didn’t mean showing up in time to sit down at a rehearsal just before the initial downbeat. Instead, it meant being at the practice venue at least thirty minutes early. The competition was fierce for chairs in any paying orchestra, big or small, and conductors didn’t tolerate players who hadn’t learned the music in advance any more than they put up with lateness. Rehearsals weren’t for learning the music; they were for putting the various parts together into an ensemble structure. Likewise, conductors didn’t care if traffic was bad or if there’d been a phone call that was important or the washer repairman had been held up and she’d had to wait for him. Conductors not only didn’t care, they simply replaced the sad soul who tried one of those or any other excuses. They wanted players they could count on being there with the music learned when they were supposed to be there.
And today, Freddie was late for his lesson. Again.
When Freddie hadn’t shown, she’d left her studio in frustration and was in another part of the house, emptying her dishwasher in fact, when the doorbell rang. She grimaced, thinking it would have been better if he hadn’t come at all rather than coming late. She closed the dishwasher door, put away the clean bowls she’d just removed and left the kitchen, striding at her normal brisk pace, headed to the side door that led directly to her studio.
“Freddie,” she said, a frown on her face, then stepped aside—well aside. She knew horn students well; almost all of them had a bad habit of bumping their cases against doorsills, furniture, teachers, small children, expensive vases, the dog—most anything. Admittedly, the French horn in its case was an awkward shape with its bell protruding well outboard of the rest of the instrument, and in its case it was just heavy enough to be somewhat of a struggle for younger students. She had been teaching French horn to kids long enough to know what to expect, so stepping aside was for her an almost unconscious defense.
Freddie looked up at her tentatively, then walked through the short hallway into her studio, managing in the process to only bump his case into the wall on both sides and then the frame of the door to the studio, muttering, “Oops,” and “Uh-oh,” and “Oh, sorry,” almost to himself with each incident. He sounded very much like someone who was quite accustomed to saying these things.
As he was getting his horn out of its case, Mrs. Ford sat down next to him. “Freddie,” she said, her impatience apparent in her voice, “what have I said about being late? What have I told you? Time and again!”
Freddie didn’t raise his eyes to meet hers. Still looking down into his case, he said, “Musicians can’t be late.”
“Right! And why?”
Freddie’s voice was still directed at his case rather than her. “Because there are only a few gigs and there are lots of horn players, and if you’re late, you won’t get the gigs, and if you already have them, you’ll lose them.”
“And . . . ?” Mrs. Ford’s voice hadn’t lost its severity. It was if anything frostier now than when he’d first come in.
“And you’ll get a bad reputation and contractors won’t call you.”
“Right! And how many times have I explained this?”
“A lot?” Freddie’s head was coming up at last, and his voice was a bit stronger, and there was even a hint of humor in it which she couldn’t tell whether or not he regretted. He should have; he knew she didn’t find this a bit funny. And it certainly had been many times, because Freddie was frequently late.
Mrs. Ford did hear the humor. She didn’t jump on it, nor did she ask Freddie why he was late this time. She’d asked before, and Freddie’s reaction had been to give entirely unsatisfactory reasons. Kid’s weren’t adults, and what was inexcusable for an adult wasn’t necessarily so for a kid. A kid had much less control over his life than an adult did. If a kid’s ride didn’t show up, if a teacher demanded he stay behind, if the band room where he stored his horn during the school day was locked—there were many reasons why lateness in a student wasn’t his fault. Freddie, however, tended not to give excuses of that nature. He’d say he forgot it was lesson day till it was too late to arrive on time, or that he’d been almost there when he realized he’d forgotten his music and had to go back for it. Reasons like that. Silly, immature, unprofessional excuses. Excuses that made her think he didn’t take either her lessons or the horn itself very seriously. Just like the humor in his answer now. It was totally out of line. It was also pure, unadulterated Freddie.
But she loved Freddie. How could she not? The fact was, Freddie was irrepressible, incorrigible and had a delightful, charming personality. Also, there was the fact that he was a precocious talent on the horn. This made him a challenge to work with because he was so laid back and didn’t seem to take much of anything seriously. This so annoyed her that sometimes she would get mad enough to consider kicking him out for good, to stop wasting her time on him. But he had so much untapped talent! Yet he treated it as just another birthday gift to be opened and set aside with hardly a glance while reaching for the next one. He didn’t seem to value his innate talent at all; he treated it as if it were nothing to get excited over. He didn’t work hard at what she taught him and so didn’t make the progress he most certainly could have. Good horn players worked hard at their task. They had to. The horn made demands on those who chose to play it, more demands than most musical instruments. That Freddie chose not to work hard frustrated the bejesus out of Mrs. Ford, but that was Freddie, and getting him to change his behavior hadn’t been something Mrs. Ford had been able to yet manage.
Freddie was what he was, still a young teenager at 15, and as much as her job was to teach him how to play the horn as well as his capability allowed, it was also her task to mold him. Mold, not scold if scolding wasn’t effective, and in his case, it wasn’t. She could let him know she was unhappy with him, but that was as far as she could go. Freddie was a happy, perhaps even a happy-go-lucky kid. Scolding him wouldn’t make the slightest difference. His self-confidence ruled, and he only accepted the criticism he felt was merited. Accordingly, his reason to focus on the horn would have to come from inside himself, not because of her prodding.
Even without working hard at it, Freddie was a very accomplished horn player, even being as young as he was. Her studio was populated by serious horn students of all ages, from professionals who earned their living being paid for playing, and then down to a few beginners who showed great promise. She had several college students—music majors with a concentration in performance—taking lessons from her who didn’t play as well as Freddie did and probably never would. Furthermore, she really liked the boy for his spirit. She tended to form attachments to all her students, at least the ones who’d been taking lessons from her for several months or more. Some, though, worked their way further into her heart than others. It was usually the quieter ones, the ones it wasn’t so easy to get to talk about themselves, the ones who it took forever to get to relax with her, the ones who were polite but reticent, who practiced each week and did what she asked them to do but only very slowly opened up to her. Freddie wasn’t that sort at all, and it surprised her that she liked him as well as she did, because he was certainly the most frustrating student she had. But he was difficult to dislike; impossible, really. He had an effervescent personality even while joking about things she wished he’d take seriously. But he did listen to her. And when he played—when he played—he could be magnificent.
He’d been taking lessons from her for just over a year and had made great progress in that time. He’d started with her with a few bad habits that needed breaking. His embouchure had been placed too high on the mouthpiece and his breath support had been from the throat rather than the diaphragm, two problems typical with new students and two problems that frequently were very difficult to fix because they demanded real acceptance and work. Freddie had corrected both within three weeks. She’d found this remarkable and told him so. He’d blushed but then made a joke about it. That was how many of his lessons went. He paid close attention to her even while not appearing to, and the following week would come in doing much of what she’d asked for. Such diligence in her students almost never happened! Changes took many weeks or even months, especially with young students. They had so much going on in their lives, and practicing, especially practicing the things that were difficult to accomplish, wasn’t their forte. Many students came in the following week not having even opened their case since their last lesson. Their parents were throwing their money away, something she didn’t hide from them. She hated wasting her time with those students who perpetually performed in that manner, and if it continued, she’d drop them. She taught because she loved working with kids and seeing them progress—and with the older students because she liked to make a difference in their playing and maybe their careers.
Freddie was a challenge. He cared about the horn and his playing, but not enough. And he had all the qualities she looked for in a student. If he wanted to and continued to work as hard as he sometimes did, he could go on to become a professional horn player; he might even have the talent to become a soloist. A good teacher saw very few young kids who showed enough talent to suggest that possibility. Such a student was a treasure. And Freddie could be among the best of them. If only he’d dedicate himself to being the best he could be. If only he’d be willing to work harder than he already was!
“Did you work on the Glière?” she asked, after having sighed, showing her disappointment but not belaboring it, simply moving on. Asking about the Glière was a signal to show him they were past the comments on his late arrival and ready to begin the lesson. It was a rhetorical question. She knew he’d worked on it. And she was pretty sure he’d made all the corrections she’d asked for, and it would be performance-ready. He’d had it for two weeks. That was more than enough time—for Freddie. He’d play it and play it well. But not as well as he could have. What he would do and do so very well was play it musically. Freddie wasn’t the most advanced player she had in a technical sense, not even the most advanced technical player his age she ever met, but he played with an innate musicality she’d never encountered before in a student fifteen years of age. Teenagers as a rule didn’t feel the music, didn’t understand the nuances and emotions it contained, didn’t know which passages should be played softer or with rubato. Freddie did. He played with a beautiful adult sound and made the music resonate with the beauty the composer had envisioned when he was creating it. It was a joy listening to him. He didn’t just mimic the chart sitting on the stand in front of him showing him the notes and bars of the piece: he transformed it into music.
She sat down at the piano—not her best instrument but one she was modestly capable of playing—and began the slow, soft intro to the Glière Nocturne. When Freddie entered soon after, she couldn’t help but smile at his beautiful sound and control. He made the music his own. Yes, this was the Freddie she was so fond of.