Honor Thy Father (40 page)

Catherine had felt abandoned when she was forced to remain in the convent in upstate New York while her parents spent the winters with Bill in Arizona, and it was during this time that she regularly wrote her father letters that he had saved to this day. Catherine’s girlhood in the convent was not unlike Rosalie’s, except that Rosalie submitted to it and was comforted by it, while Catherine had rebelled, and she was never to lose her spirit of individuality and independence. The fact that she did not marry the man to whom she was to become engaged was not due to her mother’s objection, but rather to her own disappointment with him in not having stood up to her mother during the weeks that her father was away. Catherine could never have married a man who could be intimidated by her mother, and so she broke the engagement of her own will, and when her father returned she did not even mention the conflict. Since that time Mrs. Bonanno respected Catherine’s independence and never again challenged it. She often visited her daughter in Atherton, as she had after the bombings, but both women took great care to avoid another confrontation.

Catherine returned with the coffee; and after she and Bill discussed at length the possibility of her parents’ moving to Atherton, Bill was pleased and not surprised to learn that Catherine favored the move, and she suggested that they live with her until they found a home of their own in Atherton or in a nearby community. As for the adverse publicity or the potential loss of her friends in the town, Catherine was unconcerned, saying that if her friends dropped her because she opened her home to her parents, then good riddance to the friends.

Bill and Catherine talked for a while longer, then he stood to leave. He had called Rosalie from the airport more than an hour ago, and she was expecting him for dinner. He walked into the den to say good-bye to his nephews, and Catherine told them to get up and turn off the television set, and to get washed and ready for dinner. One of her boys protested, saying, “But I want to see the FBI!”

“Turn it off,” she insisted, “you’ll be seeing the FBI soon enough.”

O
N THE
T
UESDAY MORNING AFTER
B
ILL’S RETURN, ROS
alie reminded him that they were expected to take the two older boys to a music school that afternoon where several local youths were to receive an aptitude test in guitar playing. Bill had been vaguely aware of Rosalie’s driving Charles and Joseph to the school several times during the past month, having been invited to do so by a woman who had come to the door and announced that the school, anxious to promote music appreciation among young Californians, was willing to loan them guitars for a few dollars and to give them free lessons in the hope of discovering and encouraging musical talent. Now, Rosalie explained, their two sons were among a group to be examined by instructors, and all parents had been requested to observe the test and to witness the awarding of trophies to those students who made a passing grade.

While Bill was not particularly anxious to spend the afternoon in the company of a noisy pack of guitar-strumming pupils, he had nothing better to do, and he also felt obligated to attend because he had been away from the children so often this month and because on the following Thursday he would again be leaving home to visit his father in Tucson. Bill also sensed how excited his sons had seemed today about the test, and as soon as they returned home from their regular school they proceeded to drill one another on the material from which the examination would be drawn. Bill thought it odd that the instructors would give the students the answers in advance, but when he was assured by Charles and Joseph that they were not reading from a stolen test and that all the students had been issued the same preexamination sheets, he said nothing more.

Now in the car, driving toward the school, Bill could detect increased anticipation in the back seat, where Charles and Joseph were jumping up and down as they recited their answers to the questions, arguing, singing, and chanting.

“OK, OK,” Bill called back to them, after Tory and Felippa began to join in, “calm down. I’m trying to drive.”

They remained quiet for a few moments as Bill continued slowly through a crowded business district that was congested with the first waves of homeward-bound commuter traffic. Rosalie sat next to him, her head bent forward as she read from a textbook in preparation for her computer class later this evening. The children soon began to bounce on the seats again, whistling, pushing, and then Charles and Joseph burst into a song that they had obviously rehearsed together.

“Stop it, will you please!” Bill shouted, as Rosalie also turned, frowning at the children.

“It’s one of the songs we play in class,” Charles said. “I don’t care,” Bill replied. “I’m trying to drive, and you’re giving me a headache. I don’t want any more noise back there or I’m turning around and we’re going home.”

The boys maintained their silence for the few remaining miles until they had arrived at the place where they were to be tested. The building was actually a large music store, with wide display windows in the front showing photographs of Glen Campbell, Elvis Presley, and other television personalities, in addition to a number of glittering and colorful electric guitars. As Bill entered the store, following Rosalie and the children, who knew the way to the audition rooms in the rear, he saw many long-haired teen-agers standing around, and from the ceiling dangling from thin strands of wire were electric guitars and instruments of every variety.

At the end of a corridor, seated along a row of folding chairs against the wall were a dozen children with their parents, and in one corner behind a desk a middle-aged blonde was writing down the names and addresses of the people as they arrived. Above her head was a sign
THE RICHEST CHILD IS POOR WITHOUT MUSIC
and to her right was a large bulletin board on which were at least fifty individual photographs of smiling young people holding guitars or displaying their trophies. There was also a sign on the bulletin board
LESSONS MUST BE PAID FOR IN ADVANCE
.

As Rosalie and the children sat waiting and Bill wandered through the store looking at the instruments, the doors of the audition rooms in the rear were opening and closing, while pupils came and went with their parents and the instructors waved good-bye or said hello to the participants in this musical crash course. None of the children who had completed their test seemed unhappy; on the contrary, they left the room smiling, receiving a pat on the head from the instructor, and their parents followed carrying guitar cases and amplification boxes.

Within ten minutes, the woman behind the desk called out: “Will Mr. and Mrs. Bonanno come in, please, with Joseph.” Charles waited outside with Felippa and Tory, as Joseph and his parents entered one of the small rooms, where they were greeted effusively by a short man of about forty-five who had a southern accent and wore his reddish hair in a crew cut on top but long and slicked back on the sides. The man shook hands with Bill and Rosalie, waved them into the chairs next to his desk, and then, turning to Joseph, said, “Young man, its been a pleasure having you here these past weeks, and I’d like mother and dad to know that you’re one of our best students, and we think you have what its takes to go on with your music. Music is a rare and good quality to develop among young folks like yourself, and if we had more music among our youths today there would not be so much rioting, not be so much anger, there would be more respect for one another in the streets and campuses. It is through music that many young men have gone on to bigger and better things, to television and to movies, and they all began, Joseph, as you have, by taking lessons. Elvis Presley had to take lessons at one time just as you did this month, and now, Joseph, I’m going to give you a little oral test to see how well you can reply to the basic questions.”

Joseph stood in front of the man’s desk, his hands at his side, not looking at his parents as the man asked, “Now, Joseph, which finger picks the first string?”

“The second finger or middle finger,” Joseph replied.

“Good,” the man said, and continued, “which finger picks the second string?”

“First finger or index finger.”

“Fine, and which do you use on the three, four, five, and sixth strings?”

“The thumb,” Joseph said.

“Good, and what is the rule for tuning your guitar?”

“Playing the taps.”

“Good, and how do we stop the rattle of the strings?”

“By putting the fingers down on the strings behind the bar.”

“Bright boy,” the man said, turning to the Bonannos and shaking his head in a look of mild amazement. “And when the thumb is pushed across the strings, it’s called what?”

“A strum,” Joseph said.

“Yes, and where is the proper place to pick or strum the guitar?”

“Around the sound hole.”

“
Yes
, ” the man said quickly, his blue eyes flashing, “and what do we call this sign?”

“A treble cleffsign.”

“
Yes
, Joseph, very good, Joseph,” the man said, turning to the Bonannos for confirmation. Rosalie seemed to be blushing with pleasure, while Bill sat watching his eight-year-old son standing in front of the instructor’s desk, appearing to be enjoying this moment. There had been no wheezing or coughing from Joseph, and this pleased Bill most of all.

The instructor asked Joseph to be seated next to Rosalie while Charles was brought in. Charles tried without success to keep Tory from entering, too, and after an exchange of pushing and shoving at the door, the instructor invited both Tory and Felippa to come in and be seated, asking only that they sit quietly. Then the instructor smiled at Charles and delivered the same introductory speech that Joseph had heard, and soon Charles was being asked the same questions. While Charles’s replies were not as precisely accurate as Joseph’s had been, the instructor seemed no less ecstatic, and at the conclusion of the questioning he turned to Bill and Rosalie and said, “In all sincerity, Mr. and Mrs. Bonanno, I think your boys here are truly gifted, truly gifted. Does either of you have a musical background?”

“I played the piano,” Bill said.

“Ah,
yes
, ” the man said, nodding, “that’s it,
that
’s where it must come from.”

The man then stood up, reaching into the drawer of his desk, and held up two small gold-colored plastic trophies.

“Boys,” he said, almost solemnly, “I now want to formally present a token of congratulations to you both. You have demonstrated not only an ability with rhythm in your previous instruction, but now you have shown an understanding of the fundamentals, and I’d like to give you these trophies which mean that you’ve both made 100 in your examination, the highest mark.” The boys, smiling, accepted the trophies and stood silently.

“And now, Mr. and Mrs. Bonanno,” the instructor said, “the next step is up to you. We have determined that your sons have what it takes to go on with their music, and we wonder if you can see your way clear to allow them to continue.”

“What can we do?” Bill asked, sensing the sales pitch coming, the whole reason for today’s production.

“We will give your boys advanced lessons in guitar once a week for three years, including the sheet music free, with the purchase of an electric guitar for each boy. They are now ready to expand their talents with an electric guitar, which we will provide for a special low price of $495, and the boys will also be allowed to join our junior band. Our first band meeting is tonight at seven o’clock, and so you’re just in time to start. With a down payment, we’ll extend the credit to pay for the guitars and amplifiers. All you have to do is look over this application form here and list the banks and stores where you keep an account, and we’ll get your boys started without delay.”

The man handed Bill the application blank. Bill took it but did not look at it, and he certainly had no intention of signing it. And yet, while he recognized this whole program as a gimmick to sell guitars, he did not necessarily think that an investment of $495 for each boy’s instrument, plus three years of weekly lessons, was unreasonable. Bill assumed that his father had spent at least that much money on his piano lessons, and Bill had often wished, while listening in nightclubs to skilled musicians, that he had mastered an instrument. Although Bill did not now have the thousand dollars to spare on two electric guitars, this did not mean that he could not somehow raise the money. He hated to find himself in a position where a shortage of money prevented him from following his instincts, which at this moment urged him to enroll both sons in the guitar class, but he knew that he needed more time to figure out where the money might come from. He looked at Charles, skeptically, and asked, “Are you sure you’ll practice every day if I decide to buy these guitars?”

“Yes,” Charles said. Joseph also nodded. Bill then turned to Rosalie, who was busily buttoning Felippa’s coat and adjusting Tory’s hat, avoiding his glance. Bill looked at his watch, and then said quickly to the man, “Look, my wife has to get to computer class right now, and I have to drive her. Let me get her there, and I’ll bring the boys back at seven o’clock and we can handle this then.” Bill knew he would not return at seven, for he had a meeting with a few men, and the older boys were going to Cub Scouts while Rosalie went to computer class; but he wanted to get out of the music store as quickly as possible, finding the situation suddenly awkward and embarrassing.

“Fine,” the man said, smiling. Bill turned to leave with the children; but before he was halfway to the door, he heard the man calling after him, “One moment, sir, take these with you.” The man was carrying two silver cases containing new electric guitars, and also the amplifiers. Bill hesitated, but the man insisted that he take them, explaining, “Let the boys see how they like them. They can practice at least a half hour before you come back, and they’ll be better prepared for the band.”

Charles and Joseph exclaimed their approval, and Bill accepted the instruments with thanks; he carried them but to the car and carefully placed them in the trunk.

“Bill,” Rosalie said softly, urgently, “we can’t afford to do this.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said, sharply, not wanting to discuss it in front of the children. As Bill got into the car, he waved at the man who stood watching from the store window, and headed for home.

The children talked excitedly, and Rosalie sat quietly next to Bill, feeling frustration and guilt. She wished that she had found out ahead of time the main reason why both parents had been invited; if she had, she might have protected Bill from that which made him most vulnerable, his ego. Rosalie did not doubt that if Bill had had a thousand dollars in his pocket five minutes ago, he would have handed it to the man in the music store, and at this moment he would be as happy as the children seemed to be, riding home with two electric guitars that soon would be vibrating noisily through the house and the neighborhood.

Bill pulled into the driveway and, after carrying the amplifiers and guitars into the living room, he inserted the plugs into the electric sockets and flicked his fingers over the strings, hearing the twang and piercing echo. He strummed the strings a number of times, turning the knobs and admiring the sleek design of the red and silver instrument. Then he handed the guitars to the boys, who had been waiting impatiently, and walked into the kitchen, where Rosalie was preparing the children’s dinner. It was after 6:00
P.M.
and the baby-sitter would be arriving soon.