(Conclusion) by K. Nitsua. Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.
I can't postpone getting up any longer. I haul my body out of bed--for a guy in his mid-forties I'm holding up okay--and get ready for the first class day. It's business as usual this year--three master classes, each with four children and their parents, and two larger groups. No teacher course this year, thank goodness.
I go through the motions of teaching, cajoling, exhorting the students to improve, using lots of positive reinforcement. By the middle of the first day I find that I'm having fun in spite of myself. Stevens Point has that effect on almost everyone.
There's a boy in my final afternoon class named Jared Morgan, five years old. His mother is dark-haired, pretty and very attentive to my instruction. She and the home teacher have taught her son well. We work on polishing his song as the week flies by.
"You're playing so well," I praise him one day.
"My Mommy plays the violin even better than I do," he replies. Mrs. Morgan laughs and shakes her head.
"So you play?" I ask her.
"Yes," she says. After class that day she lingers in the room until the other parents and children have left.
"Mr. Hewitt," she says, smiling and offering her hand. "I really should have introduced myself to you before this. Molly Morgan."
I shake her hand, thinking she looks vaguely familiar. She seems to realize that more needs to be said.
"My name wasn't Morgan, of course, when I was your student."
"You were my student?"
"Yes," she says, "Here at Stevens Point, a long time ago. You worked me hard on that Vivaldi Concerto, I learned a lot. My name was Molly Wagner back then."
It all suddenly falls into place. Of course. She'd be in her twenties by now. She has a kid of her own and is having him take violin lessons, as so many former Suzuki children do.
"I remember," I say. "I'm glad you still play."
"Well," Molly laughs. "My son is being kind. I don't play much these days. I did get a music degree before I got married and had Jared, though."
"You came here with your father." I'm trying to work up the nerve to ask the question.
"That's right. We came here for several years in a row after my mother died. Those were wonderful times. Funny thing is, after that summer I had you as a teacher, Dad kind of changed. Started saying stuff about we should do other things, maybe go to other institutes. I cried, I loved coming here, but he was an incredibly stubborn man when he'd made up his mind."
Was? "How is he now?" I ask, dreading the answer.
Molly laughs again. The good humor I remembered in her as a little girl is unchanged. "Oh, just fine. Sixty-two years old, retired and running marathons. He lives in St. Paul now with his friend. He'll be coming to see Jared play on the final concert Friday night, actually. I'm sure he'd love to see you."
I'm not so sure, but I say, "I'd like to see him too."
"Mommy, can we go?" Jared asks. He's been sitting in a chair all this time holding his instrument, waiting with remarkable patience for a five-year old.
"In a minute, honey." Molly turns to him, then says over her shoulder, "Look for us in the gym Friday night, Mr. Hewitt."
The final violin concert at Stevens Point is a huge, noisy, festive affair, quite unlike the usual staid classical music concert. Some teachers elect not to play but I always do. Everyone who studies Suzuki violin plays the same songs, and one of the cornerstones of the method is knowing all of the old ones. So all the violin kids, from the oldest to the youngest, stand on the stage and also a large portion of the floor. The gym is the only place on campus they can pack them all into one space and also have room for the audience of doting parents, relatives and friends. The students who are most advanced play first. Then the concert works its way backward through the literature. The further back they go, of course, the more students know the songs. The grand finale is always the Twinkle, Little Star variations, the first song in the first book. By that time everyone who can hold a violin in that place is standing up and playing their heart out. It's a sight and sound to behold, and many mothers cry. I'm not ashamed to admit I still get choked up too.
As we release the last note of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," the entire audience stands, applauding, whooping, and shouting "Bravo." A galaxy of flashbulbs goes off as the group bows again and again, violins and bows bobbing in unison, cued by chords banged out by the brave pianist who has accompanied the concert with the aid of a P.A. system.
Finally it's over and the audience begins to break up in cheerful chaos. I put my fiddle in my case and walk into the crowd, aware of how difficult it will be to find anyone in this milling mass of people. I've agreed to meet Molly and her family, but haven't said anything about where. I suddenly realize that I very much want to see Mike Wagner.
I start to search faces in the crowd without much hope, first going to the main entrance at the back of the gymnasium, then walking around the building, looking at the lines of people pouring from the other doors. No luck. I run into some other parents and students that I've worked with this week, further distracting me from my quest. When I finally extricate myself from the last conversation, there's almost no one around. Depression settles over me. I'm turning to go back to my dorm room when I hear someone call my name.
Molly's walking toward me, waving. Behind her follows Jared, clutching his small violin case in one hand. Holding his other hand is a tall man with curly silver hair, dressed in denim shirt and jeans. He's clean-shaven, but even in the dim summer twilight I recognize Mike Wagner at once.
Molly reaches me and speaks breathlessly. "I'm sorry, it was so stupid of me not to say where we would be after the concert. I'm glad we found you. Dad, you remember Mr. Hewitt?"
We shake hands. Molly's father has a conventional smile on his face, but his eyes hold another expression that I can't read.
"Sure I do," he says. "How are you, Alan?"
"Good to see you, Mike," I say just as mechanically. To my surprise, there's a lump in my throat and it's difficult to talk. "It's been a long time."
We're saved from having to make more conversation at that moment by Jared. "Mommy, when are we going to get the ice cream?" he says, tugging at the waistband of his mother's jeans.
Molly looks at me and rolls her eyes. "I promised him ice cream if he remembered all his Twinkles for the concert. Of course he says he did."
I look at Jared and smile. "I believe it."
Molly says, "Would you care to join us?"
I look at the three of them together, not directly at Mike. "I'd like that, if it's okay with everyone."
Jared jumps in the air. "Goody!"
Mike says, "Great."
We walk in the cool evening air to a Dairy Queen on the main drag, just across from campus. Unfortunately, we're the last of many people from the Institute to have the same idea. The place is packed and noisy with parents and children. We're hard put to get served or even find a place to sit. Mike suggests he stand in line while we find seats. There are none inside, and Molly, Jared and I end up outdoors, perched on concrete barriers at the edge of the parking lot.
Jared's grandfather finally appears, carrying chocolate-dipped cones for the boy and his mother, Diet Cokes for himself and me. By this time Jared is tired and fretful, his violin lying forgotten in a nearby patch of grass. He doesn't even finish his ice cream before he begins to nod off in Molly's lap.
Molly looks at him, then at Mike and me. "I'd better put him to bed. He's had a long day, and so have I."
We all stand up. "It's okay, we all don't have to go," she says. "Why don't you guys stay and talk? I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow morning, right, Dad?"
Mike nods. "Meet you at the Burger Chef at eight."
She turns to me and offers her hand. "If I don't see you, Mr. Hewitt, thanks for a wonderful week. You really helped Jared. And brought back some nice memories for me."
I shake it, saying, "The pleasure's all mine, Molly." She's leaving me alone with her father. I don't know whether I'm glad or sorry.
She hugs and kisses Mike on the cheek, then tries to deal with her sleepy son and his violin--Jared doesn't want to carry it. Molly gently tries to persuade him, without success.
Mike says, "Leave that with me, Molly. I'll give it to you in the morning. Jared isn't going to be practicing tonight anyway."
Molly nods, says good night one more time and walks off, cranky son in tow. Mike and I watch them go. Some distance away on the sidewalk they stop. I hear her clear voice in the evening air. "Okay, I'll carry you across the street, but you'll have to walk once we get to the other side, okay? You're too heavy for me to carry you the whole way back."
"She's a good mother," I say to Mike.
Mike chuckles. "She's a perfectionist. Must be that Suzuki training. You should have heard her grousing because Steve--Jared's dad--couldn't be here this week. He travels a lot on business."
Silence falls between us, gradually becoming strained. I pick up my paper cup and finish my now diluted drink.
Mike says, "It's a nice night. Want to walk awhile?"
I nod and we move down the sidewalk away from campus. Mike clutches the small violin case in his hand. He smiles when he catches me looking at it.
"This brings back so many memories. I did this for Molly when she was little. Then her teacher told me she was supposed to carry her own."
I stay silent, concentrating on the view down the main street. It's past ten now, completely dark, and the stores are closed and silent. The traffic lights are blinking yellow.
"Molly says you've been terrific with Jared. I figured you would be."
