Penelope's Suitors

Chapter 09

Chapter 9

Spring, 2006

It was easier finding the city from a dot in New Jersey than it was finding the dot in the first place. Ted felt relieved to be back on familiar territory as he entered the Lincoln Tunnel, heading back into Manhattan. Feeling lucky, he decided to play a long shot and see if he could work in an afternoon appointment. In a blue blazer and chinos, he was dressed for it.

He vaguely remembered that New Springdale was somewhere in the West Seventies, in an old former mansion. He wove in and out of the streets for a few minutes before finding the building, muted grey stone sandwiched between a couple of private brownstones. It could have been a private residence still; only a discreet brass plaque noted it as the New Springdale School, founded 1964. At the end of the block, he even found a parking space, far enough from a hydrant to make it worth the risk.

He opened one of the heavy wood doors.

"Can I help you?" A low barrier separated the hallway from a reception area that must've once been part of a grand entranceway. A neatly dressed middle-aged woman smiled at him.

"I don't have an appointment, but I'm interested in speaking to someone about enrollment."

"Let me see if Mr. Jacobs is free. He's the director." She picked up the phone. "Mr. Jacobs, a prospective parent would like to speak with you…No….Yes…Very good." She hung up. Behind her, a hidden door opened in the wooden wall. Mr. Jacobs wore his tweeds well, and the premature grey at the temples no doubt helped him land the top job.

"Please come in; let me see how I can help." He ushered Ted into an elegant office. My God, thought Ted, I'm certainly seeing the range of office decoration today. "I'm Paul Jacobs, the school's director. Please have a seat."

"Ted Jellinek."

Jacobs showed him to padded Windsor chair. "I understand you are here about your child, Mr. Jellinek?"

"Not technically. My sister and brother-in-law have a son, he just turned 12. They live in Los Angles, and, well, he hasn't been fitting into school as well as my sister would like. When my brother-in-law was given the chance to head the New York office, they asked me to look into an appropriate school in Manhattan. They plan to move early this summer. I know New Springdale by reputation."

"What do you know about us?"

"That you use nontraditional methods to achieve results for nontraditional students." Jacobs laughed.

"Well-put! Can I use that in our brochure? We take children who can't work in the usual structure of schools today. They are bright children who, and forgive the metaphor, march to different drummers. Does that sound like your nephew?"

"To a tee."

"Well, I'd of course want to meet the family…"

"I'm sure they could make a trip East before the move. I was hoping to see if you had any literature meanwhile. I could save you the cost of a stamp; I'm visiting them next week." Jacobs reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a glossy booklet printed on heavy stock.

"Many thanks! Oh, one more thing I'd like to ask. Do you have a music program here? My nephew, Stevie, is very interested in music. He got a guitar for his last birthday."

"We're proud of our music program. It's an important part of our philosophy."

"If it isn't too much trouble, could I speak with a music teacher, and report back to my sister?"

"No problem." He picked up the phone. "Ms. Banks, what is Mr. Feldster's schedule...thank you." He hung up. "Mr. Feldster teaches guitar here, among other instruments. His current class lets out in 15 minutes. I can point you to his room, and meanwhile, you can look around the school."

They shook hands again, and Jacobs pointed him up a marble staircase. "Make a left on the landing. You can hardly miss the music room."

On the second floor, what had been an elegant suite of rooms had been chopped to form classrooms, no doubt increasing efficiency but destroying what had been a well-proportioned series of spaces. Ted knew what Jacobs meant when he heard tuneless pluckings coming out of a room. He looked through the window: boys and girls in jeans were seriously picking away at guitars balanced on their knees. The teacher, also in jeans, and a faded blue workshirt, was trying to give them instructions, but Ted couldn't hear him above the twangs.

After a few minutes Mr. Feldster looked at the clock and said something to the students. The music stopped, and they started putting away their guitars. He sat at his desk, and stared at the ceiling.

The students filed out, a few giving Ted a curious glance, and he slipped into the room. Mr. Feldster opened his eyes and looked at Ted.

"Are you here to arrest me?"

"Should I be?"

"For killing a student."

"Did you?"

"No, I suppose not, but I wanted to." Ted pulled a chair up to the desk.

"What if I had been a parent, Mr. Feldster."

"Terry. Just call me Terry, that's what everyone calls me. Anyway, you're far too relaxed to be a parent. You don't send your kid here unless you're already a nervous wreck."

"I'm here about my sister's child."

"Whatever." Ted looked at Terry's face. It was lined, and the hairline was receding.

"I'm interested in learning about the guitar program at New Springdale."

"I'm it."

"A friend of mine attended New Springdale some years ago. I don't know if you were here then, but I believe he really liked it."

"Been here more than 20 years." Ted's heart leaped.

"Maybe you knew him then. His name was William Zelnick." Terry opened his eyes, and looked at Ted.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Ted Jellinek. Call me Ted."

"You didn't go here, did you?"

"No, I went to Riverstone." Terry looked him up and down.

"Figures. Where did you know William from?"

"We worked together the summer after he graduated from here."

"The summer he died."

"Yes." Terry sighed.

"What a damned tragedy. We heard about that, of course. He was my student here for two years."

"Was he any good?"

"Good? Didn't you hear him play?"

"He sounded good to me, but I don't have a good ear." Terry eyed him and a big pussycat smile spread over his face.

"He was great—a rarity. He had talent, and he liked to practice. He just needed some discipline, a little growing up. I was going to give him another year and invite him to play with me in the summer. I only took this job to give me summers free to write and play. So he falls off a cliff in some jerkwater resort." He shook his head.

"What was he like?"

"What was he like? I was his teacher, not his best friend." He laughed. "Actually, maybe I was. Quiet kid. You know, he didn't come here until 10th grade. Most of the other little bastards showed up in junior high. He came here because he just didn't give a damn about anything except that guitar."

"It sounds like he didn't have a lot of friends here."

"Oh God, that was such a long time ago—let me think. I had just started here myself, I wasn't more than a few years older than he was back then. There were a group of boys who fancied themselves musicians. William was the only one with any real talent, but they hung together. The other boys thought they were cool, and the girls—well, like girls and musicians since Sinatra was a boy. In fact, I once had to bail him out with the headmaster, when he was caught in the backstairs making out with a girl. But I don't think William really cared about her, or any of them. He cared about his guitar."

"He sounds like a natural."

"Yes!" Terry slammed his hand on the desk. "That's right. It came easily to him. He was born to play the guitar. In a few years he would've been better than me." He waved his hands. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not bragging. I practiced for hours, I practiced until my fingers bled. But that boy had more raw talent than I ever had. It came easy for him. And that was a problem. It was dangerous."

"Dangerous?" asked Ted.

"Listen Ted, I've played with hundreds of musicians. When you meet a natural like that, the problem is that everything comes easily to them. Too easily. They take everything for granted. And you can't do that. You can't play with others like that, you can't grow. I'm probably sounding like his father—God, what an ass he was—but as a musician, or anything, you don't mature unless you have to work." He sat back in his chair, resting from his speech. "But I think he would've matured. Another couple of years. Oh well." He closed his eyes again, and when he opened them, seemed surprised to see Ted still there.

"You've certainly given me some insight into the guitar program. I think my nephew will like it here." Terry reverted back.

"I'm not going to ask you what you're doing here, Ted, because you'd probably lie to me anyway. But can you drop the nephew bit? It may have worked with Jacobs, but don't insult my intelligence."

Ted stood up, and extended his hand to Terry, who remained seated.

"I'm glad I met you, Terry. And I'm very glad William knew you." They shook hands, and Ted left, carefully closing the door behind him. He descended the marble stairs, but when he was halfway down, he turned around and quietly walked back upstairs. He looked in the window of the music room. Terry was still in his chair, and was intent on the guitar he was now quietly playing. Ted could just make out the tune. He couldn't remember the title, but it was one William used to play.



Summer, 1986

Ted sat in the Hall surrounded by a week’s worth of returned camping equipment: damp canvas tents, plastic coolers with spilled food, and dirty kerosene lanterns, portable gas stoves, axes, silverware, and folding shovels. All of it had to be checked, cleaned, and stored in the back for future campers. He sighed, and began inspecting the olive-green tents—army surplus according to Stanislaus. From their condition, Ted guessed the "army" had been Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders from the Spanish-American War.

He had no help—it was a busy morning: Vic was sending out guests on outboards and canoes, and even William was working, helping recent arrivals carry their luggage along the narrow paths to their cabins. In the machine shop, Matthew quietly swore at an engine as he poked at it with a variety of tools.

Ted heard someone enter the Hall from the back, and soon Ariadne was walking behind the counter to where Ted was working.

"Penelope is being weird," she said.

"How so?" asked Ted.

"Well, she's been coming home very late evenings. It was 11:30 before she wandered in last night."

"What does your father say?"

"He's been traveling, of course. All we have is Mrs. Bretton—she cleans up after dinner then goes to her room. Then Miss Perfect, Miss ‘I’m 18 and now a grown-up,’ is in charge. Anyway, Dad says we can stay out until midnight in the summer."

"Is she visiting someone off-property?"

"That's the weird part. I don't hear the car leave or come back. I think she's staying on the property."

"She could've come in quietly. Or maybe she's out with friends, who pick her up and drop her off by the road, so you don't hear her. Maybe she didn't want you or Mrs. Bretton to know who they were."

"Penelope doesn't have any friends."

"You never know." But he frowned. It was odd. "Listen, if you're going to hang out here you have to work. Help me with these lanterns."

Ariadne sat cross-legged on the floor, and picked up a storm lantern. She popped the glass out of the metal frame, ripped off some paper towels from the roll that sat between them, and wiped the brown kerosene residue from inside the glass.

"It's August already," continued Ted, "she's probably looking forward to college and can't sit still."

"Well I'm bored. When are you guys going to make another fire? I came down last night. Laurie and Vic had already gone into a cabin to have sex and you and Mary-Lou were on a moonlight canoe ride."

Ted looked at her, as she inspected a finished glass.

"How did you know about the canoe ride?" he asked.

"Oh, everyone knows. It's very big news here. The guests taking a walk on the beach before turning in see a Hall boy and a lifeguard going for a romantic canoe ride. Anyway, I came down, and no one was here. But I heard William playing guitar and singing in your cabin."

"You should've gone in. I think he likes an audience."

"Dad would kill me. If Penelope didn't kill me first. We're not supposed to go into the staff cabin. Dad says it's unwholesome. He says you guys live like animals."

Ted laughed. "He's right."

"But I still don't know where Penelope goes. I asked her, and she said, 'I think I'm entitled to a little privacy.'" Ariadne had Penelope's precise enunciation dead-on, and Ted had to smile despite himself.

Ariadne ripped off some more paper towels with unnecessary force.

"But the strangest part is that when she came into the house last night, she was singing."

"I don't think I've ever heard your sister sing. What song?"

"Oh, it was some oldies song—about a river."

“Moon River?” Ted guessed.

“Yes, that was it.”

Ted stopped working for a moment and looked at her thoughtfully. Ariadne was pleased she had got his attention.

"I think she's gone crazy now that you've found someone new. And I think you're only going with Mary-Lou to make Penelope jealous."

She watched him for a reaction, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He just pursed his lips, then opened one of the portable gas stoves and started wiping the crumbs and grease from the bottom and around the double burners. He spoke without looking at her.

“Can you imagine that I would be that cruel to Mary-Lou? Or that I would be a good enough actor to fool her? Or that your sister would even care?”

She said nothing, and just kept working.

Mary-Lou showed up to have lunch. They didn’t kiss, but they did smile and look at each other over the counter. Ariadne rolled her eyes.

“Those are the tents we rent?” Mary-Lou asked, as she helped herself to a soda. “Even my brothers had better tents when they camped out with their friends. Who rents them anyway? I mean, how many people want to paddle all the way to the East Shore Campgrounds? That must be four miles from here.”

Ted gave her a conspiratorial look. “I probably shouldn’t say this in front of the owner’s daughter.” Ariadne perked up. “But we have a longstanding, unofficial, after-hours water taxi service. If someone doesn’t want paddle a canoe, or rent a motorboat for a week, they slip us a few dollars and we take them in an outboard, towing the canoe, after we close up for the evening.”

"Are you making a run tonight? And can I come?" asked Ariadne. "I'd love to see the campgrounds by night. And then you can make a fire."

Ted met Mary-Lou’s eyes. “I’m afraid we have other plans,” he said. Ariadne looked back and forth at each of them.

“What?”

“Ted won’t tell me,” said Mary-Lou. She took another sip of soda, but didn’t break her look. “He just said I should come back after dinner and meet him down here.” He just smiled.

“Well what about Vic?” asked Ariadne.

“He’s doing something with Laurie tonight,” said Ted. “And anyway, they say it will rain later.” Ariadne pouted. “Ask William if he’ll open the Hall tonight and give a concert.”

“Oh, all right, maybe I will,” she said, and stalked off toward the beach.