The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

| 5

The rhythm is all wrong. It's hard for me to believe that I'm such a failure as a teacher that my students can't distinguish eighth, quarter, and half notes. I know I explained the difference between them. Yet here young Jamie is, elongating each note as if she's tuning. She pauses after the first line of the piece and tucks her instrument under her tiny arm.

I smile and nod encouragingly. "Go on."

"That's as far as I got," she replies.

I should've guessed that. My eyes graze the first four bars of "Long, Long Ago" as I determine what to tackle first.

"Well, you have a great start on it," I begin. "There's just a few things with the rhythm to go over." Jamie gives a slight, jolting nod. "Let's start with the first measure. The notes go long, short-short, long, short-short."

The child sticks her viola-stringed violin under her neck. She plays a few skidding, squealing notes, like a train grinding to a halt.

"Try to use a little more finger weight," I say. "Make sure you press the string down to the fingerboard."

"But it hurts," Jamie says with a sniff.

"Here, let me help." I stand from my embarrassingly dirty chair in the living room and shift Jamie's hand so it hovers over the string more. Her bent wrist straightens from the adjustment, and I gently press her first finger down.

"Does that hurt?" I ask, stepping back. Jamie shakes her head. "Good. If your fingers hurt, look in the mirror. Your hand should be in alignment like it is right now. Why don't you try the piece from the top?"

Jamie nods and sets her bow on the string. Now her hand is too tight, gripping the instrument's neck tighter than a train holding onto its track. Her bow flails across the string at an uneven pace, providing more scraping sound effects.

"Your wrist alignment looks much better, but now I think your fingers may be a bit too tight. The hand should feel light and flexible, not tense."

"Then how do I apply pressure?" Jamie asks.

Kid, I'm still trying to figure that out for myself.

"It's a very delicate balance," I say. "Kind of like a bridge. It can't be too heavy or else it will fall. But it must be strong enough to hold up, say, a train if it should pass over it."

Jamie's blank, blue eyes blink at me. Despite it, I inhale a breath and forge on.

"Let's start again. Don't worry about your fingers this time. Focus on treating your bow like a motor. Long, short-short long, short-short long, short-short long. It's an engine keeping tempo throughout the piece. Think of a train chugging along." I nod to her with a far too optimistic smile. Jamie plays it exactly the same as before.

This is a train wreck.

I'm almost grateful when the doorbell rings, and I glance at the clock on my wall. Jamie's half-hour lesson is up.

I open the door for Jamie's mother. Shiny, windswept brown hair frames her full-face of makeup. She strides past me, several inches taller due to her red stilettos that match her business suit.

"Hi, Jamie," she says in a voice sweet and smooth as buttercream. "How did your lesson go?"

"Good," the girl says. She clunks her instrument down in her case. I wince at the resulting high-pitched vibrations of the strings. Jamie's mother turns to me, her smile fading.

"How did she do?"

"I can tell she's been practicing," I say. It's a safe way of circumventing the question. "I gave her a few tips to make sure her hands are in alignment. I don't want her to develop any injuries."