A Farewell to Yarns

times over the years had she sat here waiting for Mike’s turn, wondering how it must feel to be the parent of one of those beautiful young adults at the back—and now she was one. And she’d discovered that these kids were as neat as they looked. She knew the band kids were often considered the nerds—Mike and his friend had rented a copy of Revenge of the Nerds one night and laughed hysterically at the last scene when the main character asks everybody at the high school assembly to bravely step forward if they’re a nerd and the entire band comes forward in a group.
    Still, they were good kids. She’d come to believe that if somebody took a national survey of the incidence of teenage crime in general and compared it to the incidence of teenage crime among those who were in musical groups, there would be a clear difference. Maybe certain kids got into such things because they are basically law abiding, but she preferred to believe they became that way because of the nature of the group effort. Even more than in team sports, a favorable performance resulted only from each one doing his assigned part as well as possible without anyone trying to hog the spotlight. If only boys like the late and not-very-lamented Bobby Bryant could be in school bands, they might turn out very different.
    The grade schoolers got their just applause, and the junior high groups began. The contrast was impressive. This truly sounded like music—not good music all the way through, but it had its moments. They did a credible “Jingle Bells,“ which brought smiles to everyone.
    Finally it was the turn of the high schoolers. Jane didn’t recognize the first two numbers. They were the sort of thing teachers like better than audiences—pieces that were technically challenging to the students and made the director look good in the eyes of his peers, but nothing to hum along with. The third number was a light classical piece that Jane recognized but couldn’t have named. Chopin, she would have guessed. When they finished, there were a significant pause. What could the last piece be that Mike thought she’d like so well?
    The violin section raised their bows, staring as if hypnotized at the director for a long moment and at his signal began the initial slow strains of the “1812 Overture.“ Her favorite piece of music in the world! Jane looked at Mike, who was gazing back at her from behind his tuba with a wide grin. Dear God, if she were not feeling sappy enough already, this would finish her off before it was over.
    She listened, mesmerized by their expertise. A musical expert would undoubtedly have found plenty of flaws in the performance; Jane found none. It was magnificent. The cannons were done on the big drum by a boy who had practiced playing as Scottish marching drummers did, with a string from the drumstick around the wrist to allow for fancy, dramatic twirling between beats. By the time the bells started—a very small girl bent over the xylophone—Jane was openly weeping, and so were many other mothers in the audience. Even the parents who had no high schoolers were stunned by the performance.
    When the last low note faded, there was a long, electric silence before the entire audience surged to its feet, applauding wildly. Mothers pulled Kleenexes out of purses and wiped their eyes; fathers clapped for all they were worth; little brothers hooted and cheered approval. A few parents spilled onto the floor and looked like they could hardly resist the impulse to run and hug their kids, who would shrivel and die of embarrassment if they did.
    Jim Spelling put his arm around Jane and hugged her close. “God, I’m proud of him,“ he said, his gruff voice sounding a bit choked.
    Jane wondered how a day that started out with a funeral could possibly have finished so wonderfully. How could ugly, mean things like murder happen in the very same world where high school orchestras played the “1812 Overture“?
     

Twenty-two
     
    Jane got out of bed humming. It was only eight o’clock, but she felt refreshed and wide awake, still in the afterglow of the band concert. She fixed a cup of coffee, fed the pets, and padded in slippered feet to the living room to have a quiet half hour of working on the afghan before she got the kids up for Sunday school. She became so engrossed in working on the last few rows that she lost track of the time. She wove the last loose thread into her creation, then spread it on the floor to admire it.