The Tricky Part: One Boy's Fall from Trespass into Grace (23 page)

I was confused and frightened of much that was in me, including the love I felt for them, but I never had to hide who I was. Not what was essential. And a day would arrive when they’d come to know Henry. Come to know my story. And I would come to know their children. A day would arrive when Mike would tell me,
Man, you’re one of the bravest people I know
. And I would look at him and the others and remember there was a time I thought bravery for me impossible. Living, unthinkable. That I wasn’t man enough for it. How would I ever begin to tell them that so much of the courage that grew in me came from what I saw reflected in their eyes.

Lucky.

Not long after that first musical was over, the irrepressible drama lady, Nancy, cornered me in the hall one day and asked if I was planning on taking part in the next project. The spring production of
Oliver!
“You have a shot at a good part.” I walked away calculating that if I were to get into the show, then I’d have to postpone killing myself for several weeks. If I started, I couldn’t possibly miss rehearsals. Let everyone down. I’d have to wait until summer.

I got into
Oliver!
and, when it was over, the summer came and I had to postpone my plans again because I was cast in the all-city production of
West Side Story
.

And so it went, death deferred because I could hold a melody. Because I got the part, got to sing. Suicide on hold for rehearsal, for a hike with friends. I began to figure that, maybe, if I could quell the demons until the next ovation, the next peak, then I’d never take more pills or use the .22 rifle again. After all, the first principle you learn in this line of work is:
The show must go on
.

O
NE EVENING AFTER
a performance of
Forum
, I was at my dressing table mirror in the cafeteria—the area that, by night, magically transformed into backstage. I sat scraping pancake from my face when a redheaded woman in a long pink gown and fur coat entered the room. I watched as she threw open her arms, smiled broadly, and hugged a few students she knew. “Congratulations, sweetheart!” I heard her say. She looked as though she’d arrived not at the lunchroom of a high school, but at the opening night of the Metropolitan Opera. Maroon-colored jewels dangled from her ears, sparkled over the fluffy collar of her coat. Her grin, which she bestowed generously on all who cared to take notice, was blue-eyed and blinding. I turned back to my mirror, figuring she must be someone’s glamorous mom or a kooky official from the school board. A few minutes later I heard her say my name, and I turned to see her moving in my direction, her hands extended as if to embrace.

“You are simply terrific,” she said. “I’m Winnifred Magoun.”

“Thanks,” I said, picking up a Kleenex to wipe the cold cream from my hands.

“Have you ever studied voice?”

“Oh . . . no.”

“You should. You have an
instrument
.”

The word struck me as odd. Did she mean my throat was like a cello?

“I’m just doing this for fun,” I said.

“Of course you are. Doesn’t mean you can’t study. I’m a voice teacher. Why don’t you take some lessons with me?”

“It’s great of you to ask but I really couldn’t. Schedule and, you know . . . money and all.”

“Of course. Well, thank you for a wonderful performance.” She leaned into me. “You should just see the
color
of your aura.” I stared at her. I’d heard of such things, but only vaguely from flower children who’d appeared on the news. She laughed, reading my face, my thoughts, I felt sure, and whispered, “I’m not kidding—a shimmering blue-green light spreading right out to the last row.
Gorgeous
. Congratulations on a great performance. Goodnight.”

“Thanks, goodnight,” I said as she turned away.

She waved to a few more kids she seemed to know and then glided out of the cafeteria, leaving in her wake the distinct aroma of an exotic perfume.

“Who was that?” I asked Barb, one of the girls I’d seen speaking with her.

“Winnie. She’s an opera singer—Brico Symphony.”

“She’s a little eccentric.”

Barb shrugged. “Yeah, she is.”

“She said I should study voice with her.”

“Well, that’s cool. She’s got all the best students.”

“Really?” I felt flattered but, knowing that ultimately this whole theater thing was a lark and knowing that, if I lived, I was planning to be a lawyer, I forgot all about her.

Several months later, on the closing night of
Oliver!
she was standing at the cafeteria exit as I left to go to the cast party. She had on a different gown, just as bright, just as glamorous.

“Hello again,” she said.

“Hi, Mrs. Magoun.”

“Call me Winnie. I have something to tell you.” She laughed. “First of all, you were wonderful tonight. And second of all, I don’t care about schedule conflicts or money or any of that. I am
supposed to be
your teacher. You call me. I’m in the book.”

We shook on it, my one hand enfolded by both of hers, and she bid me goodnight.

I stood in the mist of her exotic perfume, wondering what in the world she meant by
supposed to be
.

I was instructed to enter her front door without ringing, take a seat on the blue couch in the living room, and wait to be summoned. I arrived a bit early and did as I was told. Among the books on her shelves, wherever there was a bit of space, little plaster and porcelain figurines of elves and knickered gnomes balanced on teeny tree trunks and dangled from bells. There were little white fairies and winged angels. I sat eyeing the knickknacks thinking,
Oh dear
.

The loud vibrato of a tenor wafted through the room. His voice emanated from somewhere deep in the house. I recognized the word
Amore
floating on a series of very high notes. Italian . . .
love
. I listened as love competed with the drone of a lawnmower somewhere down the block. I kept thinking of getting up and leaving. I felt vaguely embarrassed to be there, to be taking her, and singing, seriously. Soon, the cheery, chunky tenor walked through the living room and gave a wave as he moved briskly out the front door. I heard her call my name. I nodded at all the little tchotchkes, stepped around the corner past a hallway and into a large den.

Her flaming red hair—beauty-parlored to perfection—and laser-blue eyes beamed at me from behind the keys of a black baby grand. “Welcome to the studio,” she said. I glanced around at the walls. There were several photos of students, I figured, past and present, smiling in eight by ten or costumed and singing in various theatrical productions. There was a large mirror positioned behind the piano so you could watch yourself sing. Next to it was a chart of vowels and a colorful poster on the physiology of the throat.

“Come on in, stand there.”

She pointed to a music stand. A box of Kleenex sat on the end of the piano next to some vocal books—Vaccai, Marchesi. There was a stack of sheet music weighted with a rock on which was etched:
On some other plane it already happened, and it was perfect
. She took a sip of coffee, her pink lipstick marking the rim of the cup. She set the cup back down somewhere near the base keys. “That will be your bible,” she said, pointing to the book on the music stand:
Twenty-four Italian Songs and Arias
. “We’ll start with ‘Oh Love of My Heart,’ page 35. Do you read music?”

“No.”

“No matter. Put your hand on your breast.”

“OK.”

“Everything starts with the breath. Everything. Do you feel your heart?”

“Yes.”

“Rhythm, meter, is born with the beat of our hearts. Inhale through the nose, out through the mouth. Another.” She smiled. Her eyes looked as though they might burst blue all over the room. “Good to breathe, yes? Good to just stand and be, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Everything is vibration, dear. Light, sound. Your chords vibrate and the waves of energy coming from you affect, rearrange, the energy of the universe. That’s what I saw you doing in that theater—changing the energy. You have such
full-being
. Such
joy
.”

I dropped my head and laughed.

“You think I’m jesting?”

“Well . . . I’m not . . . I don’t know.”

“Well, I do. Sing an ‘Ah’ for me on this arpeggio.”

I sang up and down the scale, making as big a sound as I could.

“Now, easy jaw. Give me an E on each note of this chord.” Her fingers moved across the keys, her eyes fixed upon my face. “Relax your forehead, darling. Good. Again.” She stopped playing. “You have a beautiful sound, you know. And the world is in need of beauty.” She leaned back, her swivel chair squeaking loudly. She fiddled with the top button of her fluffy white blouse. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

This delighted her to no end. We both laughed.

The half hour passed quickly. She stood and crossed around the piano. Her sensible black shoes and polyester pants suddenly made me see her as the housewife, the mother of four sons, that she was. She put out her hand. “Come again next Thursday at four o’clock. Does that work for you?” I nodded, taking in the scent of her.

I stepped out with my vocal book, with my instructions to learn “Caro Mio Ben.” She’d given me a cassette on which she’d recorded the Italian pronunciation and the melody. A young woman was sitting on the couch near the knickknacks, waiting her turn. I drove off thinking how unfortunate that this woman Winnie didn’t live in the
real
world, how I’d return next week and thank her and explain that this just wasn’t for me. I turned onto Colorado Boulevard aware, suddenly, that the lovely smell of her was preserved in the folds of my shirt. I drove north, humming the whole way home.

The following week I arrived and sat on the blue couch. This time there was a soprano in there and it wasn’t Italian but French. Something about a white moon, about tranquillity. Glancing up at all the little elves and fairies, I prepared to tell her how I just didn’t have the time for these lessons.

The soprano departed, I entered, and when I saw Winnie sitting behind the piano grinning at me, what I’d planned to say vanished. I was aware of a swell in my chest, wondering if it might be related to the word she so often repeated—
joy
.

“You’ve been raised Catholic, haven’t you?” she asked after we’d sung a few scales.

“Yes.”

“Me, too.” She got up from the piano and took a huge paperback book off one of the shelves. “We Catholics—lapsed or not—are steeped in the mystical. Don’t you think? We’re primed.”

“Primed for what?”

She sat back down and studied the big green book in her hand as if deciding which chapter she meant to look at. Then she stood and held the book across the piano. “Here,” she said, “I got this for you. Keep it. Read it. I have a feeling you’ll find it fascinating.”

The Nature of Personal Reality
, it said.
A Seth Book
.

“Who’s Seth?” I asked.

Winnie laughed. “Oh, darling . . . well, I’ll just tell you. Seth’s an
entity
from beyond this physical plane. A wonderful woman named Jane Roberts channels him.”

“Channels?”

“Yes.” She was smiling at me. “I wish you could see the look on your face. Listen, I’m not sure why I’m giving this to you. It’s just that I’m
supposed to
.”

“Supposed to?”

“I can’t really explain it. An intuition, an instinct. In any case, it’s good to read new things, isn’t it? Get another perspective.”

I nodded, flipping through the big book. “Thanks.”

“You read some and let me know what you think. Like most things, some of it may speak to you and some not. We’ll talk about it.”

“Does it have to do with singing?”

“Yes . . . in that it has to do with everything . . . with how you perceive this life. Your life. You are a very old soul, you know.”

“Seventeen.”

“I’m talking about other dimensions. Your body may cease to be, Marty, but you will not. You’ve had and will have many lives.”

“Are you talking about reincarnation?”

“Yes.” She sat back down and took a sip of coffee. I felt a certain thrill and fear at discussing what struck me as vaguely blasphemous, crazy. In my head I saw cows in a field in India. I saw dark-skinned Hindus with turbans. I saw a wacky suburban voice teacher. But, at the same moment, I realized everything she was saying struck a chord in me. Every word—and the way she spoke them—seemed to loosen a knot within, to land in my gut with the comfort of truth. “Read a sentence or two,” she said.

I glanced through the first few pages.

The great creativity of consciousness is your heritage . . . each living being possesses it. . . . What exists physically exists first in thought. . . . The spirit becomes flesh . . . each individual’s soul, then, is intimately connected with what we will call the world’s soul, or the soul of the earth
.

I looked up.

“Food for thought,” she said. “Look, put it aside for now. Just check it out if and when you want. How’s ‘Caro Mio Ben’ coming?”

We worked on the song awhile and then, just before our time was up, she stood and said, “Marty, there’s no place within you that isn’t creative. You are a part of
all that is
. You can accomplish whatever you set your mind to.” She came around the piano and embraced me. I let my head rest against her shoulder. “You know,” she said, “all I’m doing is reminding you of things you already know.”

So it went for months. Music and metaphysics. My lessons grew from a half hour to an hour. “We need more time,” she’d said, “to talk.” Walking into her studio, sometimes, I felt as though I was stepping through some invisible door into an alternate, neighboring reality. A wild new terrain with a redheaded guide. A guide who suggested:
Look at it another way. Listen to your intuition. It’s guided you beautifully so far, hasn’t it?

We’d be in the midst of working on a song, me belting . . .
Maria, Maria, say it loud and there’s music playing . . .
she’d lift her fingers from the keys and start speaking, our eyes locked, her crows’-feet radiating from bright pools of blue. “We are completely free of space and time, Marty . . . breathe. Breathe. You’re holding onto those notes as if for dear life. Notes are not for holding. They are to be lived and let go of. A note lives even as it dies . . . like us.”