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Schroeder was baffled by sixth grade. All of the sudden, he was at the bottom of the social hierarchy— spacey, overly musical, not athletic enough. And all of his friends were different now too.
Linus hung out with the smart kids, and Charlie had found his crowd of passively depressed souls. Even Lucy had changed. While she had been Queen Mean in elementary school, her teasing, it turned out, was just playground teasing. It was never insidious or poisonous; never trying to demolish, just to reprimand. Now, Lucy was known for being surly. She wasn’t popular— far from it.
Schroeder supposed her visits were the only things that hadn’t changed. She still walked everyday to his house at precisely four o’ clock pm, opened the door that his aunt never seemed to lock, and sit down on his piano spewing nonsense about their eventual marriage.
He had hated it when he was younger, but now… he needed them. Schroeder was not proud to admit it, but seeing Lucy was the highlight of his day. He often forgot, in the middle of the lonely school day, that people wanted to spend time with him. He became grateful for the company, became indebted to the girl who provided it so regularly.
It was after a particularly rough day that Schroeder felt not just grateful for Lucy’s company, but amazed by the girl herself. He’d known long ago that she was his muse, but never before had he been so… inspired.
He rushed to his room and fetched the pad of paper with the staffs written on it. He paused for a moment, remembering when Lucy gave it to him.
“Do you know something, Schroeder?” she’d asked. “It’s always been my dream to marry a composer.” Schroeder grinned. “I thought it was your dream to marry a piano player. Are you finally moving on?” She shoved his shoulder playfully. “Never. I just wanted to give you this.” She’d handed him the present, and after unwrapping it, Schroeder had been so excited he’d actually brushed his lips against her ivory fingers.
It sickened him now, but that sickening feeling was just fuel, another phrase to repeat. And how repetitive it was, his first sonata! The first movement alternated between something sweet, something jarring, and something full of anger— it set your heart racing, put your nerves on edge.
The musician was no better off. The keys changed so drastically— back and forth, back and forth; one phrase may be in C, lyrical and smooth, but the next was in B, filled with sharps and flats.
The second movement was loud, but it was steady— something akin to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Every now and then, the slow-moving melody would hit something off-key, and send you back to irritation.
Such was the piece, drifting back and forth between sweetness and irritation without mercy for pianist, conductor, or listener; lilting verses drew one in, formed a drugged haze that not even the jarring notes could penetrate.
With a start, Schroeder looked at the door where Aunt Morana stood, tall and sharp and intimidating. “That’s good,” she said crisply. “Professional level work.”
“Thank you, Aunt Morana,” Schroeder said meekly, “but you know as well as anyone that I won’t be a professional for some time yet.” Aunt Morana’s expression darkened. “Hmmm. Well, I came down to give you some news. Your father will be home from Germany tonight.”
Schroeder’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. “I can show him the sonata!” Aunt Morana nodded, and began her routine inspection of her nephew’s hands. She was a physician, and made it a point to ensure that Schroeder’s fingers were without inflammation.
What happened next was inevitable: his dad came home; his aunt petitioned for him to play professionally; his father shut her down, citing Schroeder’s late mother’s wishes. Schroeder played the piece for his father, and his father applauded loudly and kissed him on the forehead. Even though Schroeder was in middle school, he found himself leaning into the touch, starved for such blatant parental affection.
The next afternoon, Schroeder was in the middle of playing a piece when he heard the sure sound of saddle shoes on damask carpet. Normally, he tried to play it cool when Lucy visited, but today he jumped off the piano bench, brandishing sheet music and exclaiming, “I wrote a sonata!”
Lucy matched his excitement with equal, if not greater, fervor. “You wrote a sonata!” The pair clasped hands and jumped up and down, before quickly realizing that such actions were simply not acceptable by sixth grade standards, and separating abruptly.
“Can I hear it?” Lucy asked eagerly. Schroeder nodded and went to the piano. The whole thing was about ten minutes long, but Lucy stayed silent through the whole thing.
“You know, Schroeder,” she said, “Someday, after we’re married, you’ll record this sonata, and classical music fans will line up around the block to get the album.”
“That sounds nice,” Schroeder said dreamily. “Not the us getting married thing,” he added quickly, “but the rest. It sounds lovely, actually.”
“Of course it does. I know you, silly.” Lucy said the words with her usual arrogance, but Schroeder couldn’t help but notice that she was right.
——— ——— ———
“It’s not working!” Elise exclaimed, angrily pounding the piano keys. “Well,” Schroeder said, “I don’t think abusing it is going to help much.” Elise sent him the stern blue-eyed glare she’d inherited from her mother.
“Dad, you’ve written over seventy sonatas. How come I can’t write this one song?” Schroeder ran his hand through his hair, trying to find a way to answer his oldest daughter. “I think the first thing is to stop seeing the piano as your enemy, and beginning to treat it as a friend. That means no more punching it.”
“I started out seeing the piano as a friend, but it’s just not saying what I need it to say,” Elise said petulantly. “Then you need to tap into a vein of emotion. Stop thinking of a nuanced idea that the piano needs to convey, just a broad and strong feeling. Like, my best-known work is what I wrote the day you were born. I was so happy, but I was also terrified.”
“Well, I don’t have kids, or a spouse, or even an ex-boyfriend I can say wronged me.” Schroeder looked at his daughter. “Or a current one, right?” Elise laughed, bright and high and full. “Or a current one, gosh, Dad.” Schroeder held up his hands defensively. “Hey, no judgement either way. Just keep me in the loop, ok, kiddo?”
“Fine, Dad,” Elise responded with an overly teenagery voice. “Back to my songwriting crisis?”
“Well, you can have totally platonic feelings towards someone and write a song about them anyway. Like your brothers or sister? Any of them give you strong emotions?” Elise rolled her eyes. “Only ones of annoyance. No one wants to hear a song that makes them feel annoyed.” Schroeder looked affronted. “Hey, lots of people like my songs about being annoyed.”
“Classical music people. Classical music people never listen to stuff that pleases them, just stuff that’s artsy and complicated.” Schroeder looked at Elise skeptically. “Sure,” he said, “because no non-Classical music fans allow slow or sad or weird songs to be praised for being different.”
“Sarcasm is inconducive to our goal today, Dad.” Elise gave her father that classic glare, and he tried to restrain a chuckle. “Well, think about it! What’s your favorite Halloween song?”
“‘Red Right Hand’ by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.” Elise tried to avoid eye contact with her dad. “Yes, definitely not weird or different at all.” Elise rolled her eyes. “You know, my earlier comment on sarcasm still holds.”
“Ok, so what you need to do is—“
“Daddy!” Katie bounded towards her father, blond curls bouncing up and down. “Hi Katie-Cat,” he said, lifting his seven year old daughter onto his lap. “How was dance?”
“I’m going to need to get tap shoes soon. Ms. Frieda says I’m doing very good.” Katie said every word brightly, the perfect reincarnation of Shirley Temple. Her warm brown eyes were cheerful, and Elise extended a burgundy nail-polished hand to ruffle her sister’s cheery curls.
“Are mom and the boys home yet?” Elise asked. Katie nodded earnestly. “They’re just putting away the groceries.” There was a loud sound of sneakers on hardwood, and Frederic and Sebastian ran in and scampered around the piano.
“Do you have a song yet, Ellie?” Frederic asked. Elise sighed. “No answer, huh. Ellie can’t write a song! Ellie can’t write a song!” Sebastian danced around the piano, singing his degrading song with fervor.
“Shove it, peabrain. At least I try to write a song instead of playing some idiotic brass instrument. There is no nuance to brass.”
“Hey, kids, play nice,” the kids’ mother said, appearing in the doorway. Elise smiled. “Hi, Mama.”
“Hi, Ellie. How’s the songwriting going?” Sebastian smiled, blue eyes brightening. “Didn’t you hear? Ellie can’t write a song!” The woman turned to her daughter, smiling at her sympathetically.
“I’m sure you’ll get it. You’ve got your father’s talent, after all.” Schroeder put out his hand for his wife to grasp. “Elise, you have your own sort of talent. Right, Lucy?”
Lucy nodded at her husband’s words. “All of you do. I’m so lucky to have such a talented husband and kids.”
“Yeah, you are!” Frederic did finger guns and a little jump. He was quite the comedian, and the family laughed together.
It dawned on Schroeder how lucky he was to be there, with his own family. He still had moments during the day when Frederic sighed and he was shocked, because that was his sigh. He was shocked that there were four little people in the world who had random traits of his, who walked and talked like him and Lucy. And they needed him. They needed him like he needed his parents. The only difference is, Elise and Sebastian and Frederic and Katie didn’t need to lean into each and every parental touch, because they knew another one would come soon. They were all so, so, happy, and their lives were full to the brim with music, family, and love.