that David would have been so inspired. It was my fault. I should have scheduled that as a solo. It’s not your fault. None of my other students could have kept up with David. Not today!” She could not disguise her pride in David Palmer. “Besides, Ridley, you did very well with the ‘Prelude.’ Very well, indeed, Ridley.”
“Yes, Sister.”
After several more minutes of nearly unrestrained adulation, the group dissolved, leaving Palmer, Groendal, and Koesler wordless but high in emotion.
In a moment’s fury, Groendal swung out at Palmer, who easily stepped back and away from the wild blow. Before anything could develop, Koesler grabbed Ridley, pinning his arms from behind.
“Just let me put this down,” Palmer gestured with his violin, “then let him go. I can handle him.”
“Don’t be idiots!” Koesler said in a low tone. A few stragglers were glancing back. He did not want them to return. It would only spur the combatants on.
“Palmer,” Groendal said through clenched teeth, “you’ve ruined me! You’ve destroyed my life before I could live!”
“Don’t be an asshole, Rid,” Palmer replied. “This will teach you not to fool around like you did at rehearsal. You shouldn’t try something like that with your betters. Next time you’re supposed to play accompaniment, play it. Don’t try to embarrass me.”
“That’s why you did this to me? You ruined me, you ruined my musical career because of one joke? You did this! For that?”
Palmer grunted. “Your musical career! What musical career? You’re a hack piano player! You won’t ever be more than that! Hell, Ridley, I did you a favor. I let everybody see that you’re no musician. It saved the guys from Interlochen a lot of time. And hell, Rid, it saved you a lot of silly hope. You couldn’t have cut it at Interlochen—if that’s where you thought you were heading—and it’s better for you that you know it now. Hell, that’s right, I did you a favor, Rid!”
Palmer, by his own monologue, seemed to have convinced himself of what he claimed.
“Who are you to say I couldn’t have made it?” Groendal seemed again close to tears. “I was terrific with the Rachmaninoff. Sister even said so. And if you hadn’t tried to be Paganini—”
“You’re complaining about the tempo. It was too fast.”
“Of course. And you did it on purpose!”
“But don’t you see? If you were as good as you think, you could have kept up. Yeah, I stepped up the tempo. And I did it on purpose. I did it to teach you a lesson about fooling around with me. But it also taught you your place. And your place isn’t with me or where I’m going. I’m going to Interlochen and I’m going to the top. And you don’t belong in either place. Got it, stupid?”
“We’ll see about that.” Groendal was doing his best to choke back tears. He knew he could not succeed much longer. “But just remember, Palmer: I’ll get you for this! Somehow I’ll get you. If it takes the rest of my life. And it doesn’t matter what happens to you, the score will never be even as far as I’m concerned.”
He turned and ran, stumbling, to the stairs.
Palmer yelled after him. “When you try to get even, just remember what happened here today. I’m always going to have the last laugh. Do you hear that, Groendal? I’m always going to have the last laugh!”
Nearly two months later, it was announced that David Palmer had been awarded a scholarship to the National Music Camp at Interlochen. A school assembly was held in his honor and congratulations poured in from nearly everyone but Ridley Groendal.
From the recital until the end of the school year, not a word would pass between Groendal and Palmer. After that, as they entered high school, their paths would diverge until many years later, when Groendal would have become a professional critic and Palmer a professional musician.
Palmer attended Holy Redeemer for the first two years of high school. Then, as part of an augmented scholarship, he was able to become a full-time student at the Interlochen Arts Academy, whence he then graduated.
Groendal, mostly as a result of frustration over his scuttled musical ambition, decided to become a priest. So he, along with Robert Koesler, attended Sacred Heart, Detroit’s high school and college seminary.
One incident before the end of that fateful final year in primary school would have serious repercussions many years later.
It was a fire that threatened to burn down Redeemer auditorium. The fire department termed it arson. The culprit was never identified. It was started on the stage of the auditorium but destroyed only the grand piano and a relatively small portion of the hardwood flooring.
Shortly after the fire, David Palmer approached Robert Koesler. “I’ve got something to show you.” Palmer handed Koesler a photograph.
Koesler studied the indistinct picture, “Okay, I give up; what is it?”
Palmer ran his finger over the photo. “This is the stage of our auditorium . . . see, there’s the Redeemer shield on the back curtain. And there are the two chairs that we usually use when we need them for props.”
“Uh-huh,” Koesler agreed. The landmarks were clear only after identification.
“Okay. Then here is the grand piano. It’s on fire . . . that’s why it’s hard to see what’s on the picture: because of all the smoke.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And this,” in a tone of triumph, “is your pal, Ridley C. Groendal, starting a fire at the other end of the piano.”
“What? Wait a minute! You can’t tell that; there’s too much smoke. It’s somebody, but you can’t tell who.”
“Oh, no? Who else do you know who looks exactly like this?” He assisted Koesler’s inspection with a magnifying glass. “The baggy pants with a hole in the knee. But now, look! See on the tennis shoes: ‘R.C. Groendal.’ Oh, it’s Ridley, all right. He set the fire!” Again the triumphant tone.
“He didn’t see you take the picture?”
“I didn’t care whether he did or not. But he didn’t. He was behind the worst of the smoke. See: You can barely make out his head. It’s all covered with smoke.”
“He doesn’t know you’ve got this?”
“Nope. You’re the only one who knows.”
“So . . . why are you showing it to me?”
“’Cause you’re the only one I can trust to keep the secret. And I wanted somebody besides me to know.”
“Well . . . what of it? They put out the fire before it did any really serious damage. And Ridley probably was doing nothing but taking out revenge on the piano he thinks failed him. What are you going to do with this?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing . . . for now.”
“What do you mean, ‘for now’?”
“I’m going to save it.”
“Save the picture? What in heaven’s name for?”
“For someday.”
“Someday? What do you mean someday?”
“I don’t even know when that’ll be. I sure as hell don’t need it now. I’ve got the poor bastard where I want him right now. I don’t need to drop this on him. I’m just going to hold onto it. Maybe someday I’ll need it. Maybe someday I’ll have to settle the score with him once and for all. Then I’ll use it. Maybe someday it’ll drive him nuts for everybody to know he’s nothing but a sneaky firebug.”
Koesler said no more. His mind was swimming in these revelations. He had never before known an arsonist. He was devastated that one of his friends was a firebug. But he could not deny Palmer’s proof.
Koesler was even more disconcerted that another of his friends could be so mean-spirited. He would not have thought David Palmer capable of blackmail.
Koesler’s premonition that a horrendous evil would evolve from an otherwise innocent music recital had proven accurate.
