The Alley (23 page)

"Yes?" said Mama.

"'Uh-uh,' he'd say to me when he would be standing—almost straight—his legs wobbling. 'Connie! Help, help! I'm falling!' he'd say. 'Just stand still,' I'd say to him. 'Be calm. That is the way to learn. Make yourself stand all the way up, now. Don't half crouch. That's the first thing. Don't half crouch.'

"'They, the people who run this place, won't like it,' he'd plead. 'Get me off of here. Mama! Help! There's a rule, Connie, not to get up on the fences.' 'That is just an excuse,' I told him, 'for you not to learn to walk the fence! Now, you are up. Now, take one step, just one step. See, Hugsy? (I'd hold my arms up to him as though to catch him.) I am right here, Hugsy. You are safe.'"

"Yes?" said Mama. "And did he learn? He is right, though, about rules and fences."

"Well," said Connie. "It is more important for Hugsy to get over being afraid to stand on the fence than what a rule like that is—that is an unimportant rule. Anyway, by the end of the day, Mama, he had learned to walk the fence. And by the end of this day, today, Winifred will have learned to play the piano—anyway, the C scale," Connie concluded, swinging around again on the piano stool. "She'll be here in a few minutes for lesson one."

Connie was getting a little anxious. She told herself this was natural. After all, this was the first piano lesson that she had ever given. Who wouldn't be a little anxious at such a time? On the dot of four—the church bells were ringing—Winifred appeared. She did not look at Connie's mother and she did not look at Connie. She looked into air. But she was here.

The two girls went into the dining room immediately, went right to the piano, seriously, not giggling the way Judy, and probably even Katy, would have. "Ahem..." Katy would probably have said. But Connie and Winifred were serious, as one should be about serious things. Laugh when something is funny; don't laugh when it isn't. That was a good rule to go by, and Connie tried to go by it. Of course, everybody has to laugh at the wrong time sometimes—in school, in church—that's life.

"Now," said Connie, plunging right into lesson one, not to lose any time. "You see these gold letters in the middle of the piano? They say, 'Ludlow.' Now, middle C is just a little bit to the left of the center of these gold letters. That is the way to find C, the most important note of the piano. If you have that, you have everything. Now, I will play the scale of C major."

Connie played the scale of C major. She decided that she might be a piano teacher when she grew up, because she enjoyed teaching so much. "Now," she said. "You must notice which fingers I use. You must learn to use the right fingers, or you are lost. If you use the wrong fingers, you will never become a great player, or even a just plain regular player. Now, every note must sound like a round thing. It must be strong and round and clear and firm. My mother taught me that—not my teacher, Miss Fannie Moore. Now, you play the great scale of C major."

After a few bad starts, Winifred played the C scale.

"Very good," said Connie. "They may be boring, scales; but if you don't know them, you can't play anything. Now, you got the fingers right. Very, very good. Now, play it once more ... loud and strong and deep. The piano does not bite. Then we will go on with the music. Scales are for music what being able to draw a perfect circle is to art," she said. "You heard about the great artist who drew just a circle, a perfect circle, for the pope when he was asked for a sample of his work?"

Winifred looked miserable. Connie could not blame her. "She
is
timid," thought Connie. She could see that Winifred had already lost track of where C was and how to begin. She was probably thinking, "Is C a little to the right or a little to the left of the gold letters?" Connie gave her a gentle reminder. "A little to the left of the middle of the gold Ludlow letters in the center of the piano, Winifred," she said.

Winifred played the scale again; and she did better, much better. "That's good, Winnie, very good," said Connie, and she meant it. "Now, look at that!" she said to herself. "If I can teach, why should I, a teacher, take lessons?"

So now, already, Winifred could play the C scale, and after she had gotten up it and down it three times, Connie said, "There, that will be enough of that. Now, for music." She got out her little book of first pieces. "I think," she said thoughtfully. "That I will start you on the very first piece in the book, 'On the Sand.' First, I'll play it. You must think of little grains of sand falling between your toes on the beach on a hot and sunny day. Now, wasn't that nice? Now ... you."

Winifred cautiously struck the first note. "Right!" exclaimed Connie. But from then on, the going was not smooth. Beads of perspiration bedewed Winifred's brow as she struggled with "On the Sand."

"Don't lose middle C!" Connie reminded Winifred. "If you keep that in mind, you will never get lost."

Winifred tried to smile. She wanted to stop, Connie could see, but Connie would not let her give up. "Are you thinking of sand in your toes?" she asked kindly. "It helps."

"It just gets me mixed up to be thinking of my toes when I am looking at my fingers," said Winifred.

"Well, you must try not to look at your fingers; look only at the music, once you get into position," said Connie. "Then it will be easier for you to think of sand in your toes and get expression into it—feeling. Otherwise, you are just playing notes—the way Ray Arp does—and not music. You must think what the music
means.
"

"I'll try," said Winifred with a sad sigh.

Connie knew what was in Winifred's head. Winifred had the idea that since she was not very good at gym, she probably was not going to be good at the piano either. "Winifred," said Connie, "you may not be good at basketball; but that does not mean that you will not be good at the piano. For all you know, you may be the best in the Alley at the piano. Now, again, find Middle C."

Connie had meant for the lesson to be only fifteen minutes. But it had ended up being twenty-five. A penny a minute, that was fair. By the end of these twenty-five minutes, Winifred could find all the notes of "On the Sand."

"You have done very well," said Connie. "And you may come in every afternoon at four to practice, since you don't have a piano."

A startled look swept over Winifred's face, but she said, "O. K." And the two of them stepped over Wags, asleep in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen—Winifred to go home and Connie to swing and rest and think. What a great deal to have accomplished! On a Saturday afternoon in June, she had given a piano lesson to a person who had never been given one before.

"Now," thought Connie. "Who else to have for piano pupils? You are not a real teacher if you have only one," she thought. "You can't call yourself an Alley Conservatory of Music for just Winifred." From her swing, she looked to see who was out—what likely pupils there might be, ready to be rounded up.

Some of the little ones were doing really hard things. Notesy was pulling a big wooden box that her brother had tied a rope to. It was heavy. Even so, she tried pulling it with Nicky in it. That was hard. "It's a sleigh," she said to Connie. Greggie Goode had put his express wagon on top of the back trailer attached to his odd-looking special sort of a three-wheeled bike. He was pulling all of that. Katy Starr was riding Brother Stuart's tiny three-wheeler. She was not sitting on the seat, she was sitting on the back axle between the wheels, where usually an extra person could stand. She looked like a frog. After all, she was eleven and large for that vehicle. Her sharp voice directed traffic and life in general, whenever it needed direction.

Connie jumped off the swing and stood at the gate to get a close view of life in the Alley. A baby doll, rubber and naked, lay in a puddle made by Bully Vardeer's hose. Sometimes, as he sat sunning, Bully Vardeer liked to water his Japanese garden. He had made a miniature little pool in his garden with a tiny fountain, too, cool-sounding on a hot and humid day.

"Some people can't wait for the little ones to get into bed to water," said Mrs. Carroll in annoyance, and loudly so the whole Alley could hear. The little doll lay there, wet and muddy but smiling. Her eyes were a startling blue, fixed on the sky. Along came Nicky Carroll, and he amiably stepped on her, and then he jumped on her.

"Why do you step on that baby doll, Nicky?" asked Connie.

"I always step on baby dolls," he affirmed matter-of-factly.

"Want to take piano lessons? From me? And stop stepping on dolls and cats, be nice?" asked Connie.

"Sure," said Nicky.

"Ask Bang-bang-your-daid Danny when you see him," said Connie. "You can come together."

"Su-ure," said Nicky.

They were awfully little, but it is never too early to begin.

Greggie Goode, tired out from his lugging, came back and asked to swing. Connie let him, and she got back on the swing, too. All the mothers had told their children not to let Greggie bite them because last week he was bitten by a rat in the churchyard, and he was being carefully watched for signs of rabies. The waiting time was nearly over. But Greggie was a gentle boy. He would never bite anyone, anyway—not like Anthony Bigelow, who often bit, no matter what, and despite the Katy law against it.

Anthony even tried to get Greggie to bite the little ones. Every time he saw Greggie, "He's mad, he's mad," he'd say and roll on the grass and writhe, predicting what might lie ahead for Greggie. Anthony came along now as Connie and Greggie were swinging, and he said, "He'll give you rabies, and you will writhe, like this." He writhed. Greggie's lower lip quivered. He muttered to himself about Anthony Bigelow and the rat.

"Go away, Anthony," said Connie. "That's not nice." And to Greggie she said, "Never mind him, Greggie. You won't get rabies. That was a nice rat, I'm sure, since it lived in a churchyard. Would you like to take piano lessons? I'll give them to you."

Greggie quickly said he would, so now there were two pupils. "Registration growing ... blooming," thought Connie happily. "Five cents for you," she said. She had decided Mama was right, at least for children under ten. For them, lessons would be five cents. Connie wondered where Billy was. Casing somewhere, probably. She knew he would not mind that she was not casing when he heard that she had earned twenty-five cents. And that she had Winifred, Greggie, and probably Nicky and Danny already as pupils for the conservatory. Sometimes Billy earned money—shoveling snow, sweeping sidewalks. Why shouldn't she, casing or not? That was fair. Wouldn't Billy be surprised at the size of her class! She would have them play in a recital in just about a week—if they did well. What an important day in the Alley that would be—the day of the recital.

Little Jane with the sweet high voice, so high she sounded like a little pipe organ, came to the gate. "Can I swing?" she asked.

"Not right now, but—would you like to take piano lessons?" asked Connie.

"O.K., when?" asked Jane.

"Tomorrow," said Connie.

"O.K.," said Jane.

"They're five cents," said Connie.

"O.K.," said Jane. Jane was pretty small for lessons, some might think. Connie would not agree. Jane carried a tune perfectly, though only three. "Do you think three too young for piano lessons?" Connie asked herself. "Not at all," she replied. "Mozart could compose music at the age of five." And so had she, Connie—"The Teddy Bear Song."

Well, let's see. Who else for pupils? Connie jumped out of the swing, got on her bike, and slowly rode up the Alley. Many Frankensteins were in the Alley now ... the four Carrolls with cardboard cartons on over their heads, walking jerkily and frighteningly (their mother had painted the terrifying mouths on the square heads, and the tiny ones hoped they would not dream about it all). Stephen Carroll was being the main Frankenstein ... Connie recognized him by the size.

"Frankensteins," Connie said politely—it gave her courage not to see their real faces—"how would you all like to take piano lessons from me?"

"Pianner, pianner," said Nicky in a Frankenstein mechanical voice. "I already said I'd tooken," and he stopped his stiff-legged trip up the Alley long enough to pretend to play a piano in a Frankenstein frightening way.

"Sure," said Stephen. "I'll come." Notesy and Star, from inside their box heads, gave splendid imitations of the headman Frankenstein man. "We'll come tomorrow," they said. They jerked their horrible heads to right and left.

"You can be on scholarships," said Connie. "No charge for you." She knew that schools give out scholarships. The Carrolls, certain to be talented, could be her scholarship people. "So," she said, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Just then, Bang-bang-you're-daid Danny came along, having at last found a suitable Frankenstein box for his head, too. Confusing for the moment the courtesy of the invitation with the fact that he was being Frankenstein, he asked if the piano lessons were only for Frankensteins and should he wear his head?

"No," Connie said. "Come as you usually are ... just you. You and Nicky can come together."

When news of Connie's music studio got around—the Alley Conservatory of Music—she had lots of eager applicants. One problem—it was for them to solve, not her—was how earn the nickel for the lesson? You can't have everybody on scholarships. The school would fall apart. She suggested that Bang-bang-you're-daid Danny might carry messages, be the messenger boy of the Alley. And she suggested that Danny, since his lesson was going to be at the same time as Nicky's, play the xylophone instead. Imagine a duet of xylophone and piano by children aged three! Their mothers would sink with pride. Happy? Connie was very happy with all her plans going along so nicely.