The Keeper of Secrets (3 page)

Chapter 3

Illinois

July 2008

D
id you know there’s a mathematical property named after Sosa, McGwire, and Maris?” asked Daniel as he rolled over onto his back and squinted at the cloudless blue sky. He and three other boys lay in the long grass beside a deep swimming hole. The relentless sun had dried the cooling water on their backs and now their skin felt prickly. A fly droned somewhere close by and the air was heavy with the rich smells of summer, sunbaked grass and tree-ripened fruit.

“A mathematical what?” Tony was obviously as bewildered as the other two.

“Just Dan being a nerd,” said Billy as he, too, rolled over onto his back. “What do they teach you at that fancy school, anyway?”

Daniel flicked a piece of grass off his face and reached for the water bottle by his side. He was used to their gibes about his school; it was part of the ribbing you got when you did something different.

“A mathematical property—two numbers form the Maris-McGwire-Sosa pair if they are consecutive numbers such that when you add each number’s digits to the digits of its prime factorization, they’re equal! Sixty-one and sixty-two have it, and Sosa and McGwire both hit at least sixty-two home runs. And the record of Maris—”

Billy scrambled to his feet. “Who cares? Last one in carries the towels home.” They all jumped up, followed him to the edge, and splashed into the water. Daniel was the last to surface. Tony and Billy were already wrestling, pushing each other under. Aaron was the closest to him.

“Who’d scored sixty-one,” Daniel said. Aaron was treading water, his head bobbing up and down.

“What the hell you going on about now, math nerd?”

“Maris’s record was sixty-one, and the other two scored sixty-two before hitting even more home runs in 1998.”

Aaron launched himself at Daniel, spraying water in his face. Tony, Billy, and Aaron were Daniel’s three best friends. They called themselves “the Cubs,” as both official fans of the Chicago Cubs and also a group of kids bound by the fierce friendships of childhood, and this was their den. They spent long summer hours doing the things that really mattered: playing baseball, swimming, biking, fishing in the river that fed the swimming hole, playing computer games, strengthening the bonds after months apart.

During the holidays Daniel returned to his parents’ home in Newbrick, Illinois, halfway between Peoria and Chicago. His father, David, owned a hardware store and they lived on a flat two-acre block on the outskirts of town. The house was cedar, the color of burnt umber, long and low-slung, with a porch and wide bay windows. The property backed onto a patch of thick forest that led to the river and swimming hole and was surrounded by other pieces of farmland that had been cut up into residential blocks.

The Horowitzes were part of a thriving Jewish community. They observed the basic food rules but didn’t keep a strict kosher house, went to shul most Saturday mornings in the small local synagogue, and celebrated Shabbat, but not in the Orthodox style. As an only child himself, David understood how important it was for Daniel to have close friendships. David had grown up in New York and then Vermont, the son of a German Holocaust survivor and an American-born mother. His father had tried hard to become “American” and adopt the passions of his new homeland, but it always seemed to David as if he was trying to block something out, to replace horror with light. As a young boy he heard the nightmares and arguments through the thin walls of the apartment and grew to dread the times when his father became withdrawn and silent. Years of starvation during the war had left his father with digestive problems that led to frequent hospitalization.

David had come to understand that his mother’s strong personality held the family together and that both his parents found comfort in the strict observance of their faith. His father was forever lecturing him on not taking things for granted and appreciating life’s simple luxuries, like clean sheets and food on the table. No matter how full he was, he was never allowed to leave any part of a meal unfinished.

Music was their common bond. His father had put a small violin in his hands when he was very young and then told him solemnly that this same moment had happened to generations of his family before him. There were times when David caught a brief shadow of indescribable sadness on his deeply lined face as his father watched him practice. Something evil had extinguished the performance flame in the man, something dark that they didn’t mention. Together they listened to LPs of famous violinists and talked about technique. When David reached high school, sports, girls, and good times became more important than the violin. His father cried, but said nothing, when he put the instrument away forever.

David had gone to work in a lumberyard and through hard work and luck he’d eventually gained the American dream: his own business, a beautiful wife, and a son. Although they’d tried for years, there were no more children. David, who looked more like his uncle Levi than his father, was tall and remarkably strong for his slender build, a good-looking man, with a quiet and thoughtful disposition. His son and his friends knew that he had a wicked sense of humor and wasn’t above some gentle ribbing at his wife’s expense.

Cindy, by contrast, was best described as vocal. She came from a large family and she knew that you needed to make yourself heard. Life taught her other lessons with surprising speed. She might have opinions and goals, but what people saw first was her physical appearance: thick, glossy blond hair, baby blue eyes that knew how to flash, and a body blessed with feminine curves. When she walked into a room, heads swiveled. Everything fell into place without her even trying. She was her parents’ pet and, at school, a cheerleader and homecoming queen; she married her handsome childhood sweetheart, had a beautiful son—and then discovered the boy had a world-class talent. At last it was about something other than the way she looked, the way people expected her to act. At last she had an outlet for all those frustrated dreams of achievement.

Chapter 4

M
r. Dalley sat very straight in his chair playing his violin in time with Daniel. His room was plain, with just a piano, a stand for the music, a stereo player for recording his pupils’ work, a small table with sheet music piled high, and the wheelchair. Apart from the wider-than-normal doorways, the lower light switches, and the ramp to the entrance of the house, it was a home just like Daniel’s own. Daniel loved coming here, both for his lesson and Mrs. Dalley’s homemade scones and lemonade. As an only child he was used to being adored and didn’t really think about how much he meant to other people. He’d never asked why Mr. Dalley was in a wheelchair and, with the acceptance of youth, never bothered to pity him.

Daniel played an 1825 Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume French violin on loan from the Hamilton Bruce Institute. It had a beautiful, rich tone and he was particularly proud of the inlaid decorations on the back and ribs and the intricately carved scroll. The piece Daniel was playing was complicated, and he stopped twice, once as a reaction to pain in his finger. Finally he came to the end and lowered his instrument. Mr. Dalley lowered his and nodded.

“Much better. You still need to watch the timing of that last section. Mendelssohn intended you to feel the movement through the pace of the notes. Your fingering for the first part is almost perfect now, but don’t forget that left thumb position; it can still be too high and that pulls your fingers down. Do you want to play the Bach again or something lighter to finish with? How’s your finger feeling?”

H
alf an hour later there was a knock on the open front door.

“Hello? Just me,” David called from the hall. Daniel and both Dalleys sat in the cool living room sharing their special postlesson treat: coffee, lemonade, and scones. David winked at Daniel as he sat down on the sofa.

“Hello, David, would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Am I going to turn down the best coffee in town, Mrs. D.? Everything okay today, Mr. D.?”

Mr. Dalley nodded. “Very good; Mendelssohn much improved and the Bach was excellent. We can put that one to rest for a while, I think, and move on to another. Daniel has chosen a rather lovely Corelli sonata, one of my personal favorites.”

“How’s Cindy?” asked Mrs. Dalley, her plump fingers fluttering around the coffeepot.

“Forever in the garden terrifying weeds; she really does enjoy being at home.” David accepted the cup gratefully and said, “Thank you.”

Mrs. Dalley turned to Daniel.

“Gary didn’t collect the eggs at lunchtime. Remember how you used to love to do that? Would you be a dear and do it for me?”

Daniel sprang to his feet. “Is the bowl still in the second cupboard down?”

“No, it should be on the bench all ready for you. Rooster has been very noisy too, wakes the whole neighborhood, I shouldn’t wonder, so you’ll need to give him one of your good lectures. Let’s go and see.” Daniel grinned and followed her into the kitchen.

T
hirty seconds later the men heard the door to the yard open and close.

“That should keep him quiet for a few moments. Hens have been particularly productive.”

“Nice for him to do the things he remembers. So will he be ready for the symposium?”

“Oh, heavens yes. He could play tomorrow. He has several pieces at performance level now, but what I really wanted to talk to you about was his finger.”

David looked up at him sharply. “What about it?”

“He has a nasty bruise on his left middle finger and although he tried to ignore it, I could see it was hurting.”

“He’s been out with the boys all summer—”

“Oh, I know. He told us all about the fish he and Aaron caught, but this came from baseball.”

David gave him a sheepish grin. “More than likely.”

“David, I know he’s only fourteen and he likes his sports, but I think you should be seriously considering his future. Baseball could injure his fingers,
has
injured his fingers. If he broke one, it might set crookedly and that’d change his whole fingering pattern. It’s my opinion that you should restrict him to watching. Do
they
know that he plays baseball in the summer? His teachers? If he had an agent, he’d tell you it must stop and Maestro Gomez would say the same. This symposium is a tremendous opportunity and his hands must be perfect.”

David stirred the liquid in his cup and didn’t answer immediately.

“I first took Dan to Wrigley Field when he was five, ’bout the same age I was when my dad took me to a ball game in New York. He wasn’t American so he couldn’t really
see
the whole baseball experience, but he took me, his American-born kid. I loved it passionately and so does Dan. The Cubs mean the—”

“And I’m not suggesting for a moment that he should stop going with you—”

“But playing is part of his commitment to the game. He acts out those games with his pals, just like I did. Part of coming home and being where he belongs is
playing
baseball.” David looked across at the man to make sure he understood the point. The pale, narrow face was frowning, and the gray eyes looked tired and full of concern.

“How does Cindy feel about it?”

“She’d agree with you, one hundred and ten percent. She’s the one who’s battled with him when he didn’t feel like practice, since he was four. I know she’s told him to be careful of his fingers, but you can’t approach a ball sport that way.”

“Talk to him about it, please? He can still be a fan. All gifted people have to make sacrifices. They have to put their destiny first.”

David shook his head. “Dan doesn’t see himself as gifted and he wants to be like his friends—”

“He’s not. He won the Hillier competition; his path in life is different. He’ll see that if you explain it to him, I’m sure. You must help him to see it, otherwise you’re failing him.”

T
wo days later Cindy sat at their upright piano accompanying Daniel as he practiced. He’d done his usual selection of scales, major and minor, separate and slurred, melodic and harmonic; and now he was working his way through a lively Hungarian dance. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was watching him closely.

“Good boy! . . . Watch that thumb . . . right through to the heel of the bow, give me a nice sustained sound . . . on the string, quite weighty, give it some strength . . . lovely! Nice flourish at the end.”

It’d been their daily ritual for ten years, whether they were at home or in Philadelphia. She’d watched and listened to his teachers, read books, watched DVDs, and studied on the Internet; he respected her considerable knowledge. Pleasing her was as important to him as pleasing his teachers. He and his mother had such a well-refined shorthand that one look could convey whole conversations, and he knew what her likely reaction would be to almost everything.

As he was cleaning his violin she called him into the living room. It was a Sunday morning and he was surprised to see that his father hadn’t yet left for the golf course. There seemed to be tension in the room and he paused in the doorway.

“What’s up?” he asked, looking from one to the other. Cindy smiled at him and patted the sofa.

“We want to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait till tonight, Mom? I’m meeting Aaron by the bridge.”

“Going fishing?” his father asked.

“Playing ball. The guys from Stonyridge are biking over, then we’ll go swimming with them. I’ll be home for dinner. That’s okay, isn’t it, Mom?”

His parents glanced at each other, which meant they wanted to tell him something.

“Sit down, Dan,” his father said, sounding suddenly serious. “That’s what we want to talk to you about.” Daniel felt a prickle of unease. He did as he was told, sitting down not beside his mother but in a chair opposite her. David cleared his throat loudly.

“When I picked you up Monday, I had a chat with Mr. D. while you collected all those eggs. He’s very worried about the bruise on your finger. He thinks you should stop playing ball—”

“No!”

It was an instinctive reaction. He was driven to his feet by the force of the statement.

“Sit down, son. Nothing’s decided, we’re just talking. Mr. D. knows how good you are. He thinks you can go all the way to Carnegie Hall, be a concert violin—”

“But I don’t
want
to be a concert violinist! And
he’s
not my real teach—”

“Don’t interrupt your father, Daniel. You can’t know that yet. If you have the talent that everyone thinks you have, you must be what you must be.” He could see his mother was losing patience and that meant an explosion was not far away. When she paused for breath, David abruptly took up the argument.

“Dan, you could break a finger. If it doesn’t heal correctly, it’d change your whole fingering pattern. We’ve talked abou—”

“But I won’t break a finger. No one I know has
ever
broken a finger playing baseball. I catch the ball with a glove.”

He couldn’t believe they could be so ignorant about something so important. His mother glared at him.

“Tony sprained his wrist last year and it took weeks to heal. And you know some of the boys have cuts and bruises.”

“Oh, come on, Mom! They told me to be careful but what I did during the holidays was up to me. Maestro knows it’ll never stop me playing the violin.”

“But that’s just the point, darling, it might. Forever. And we can’t risk that; you’re just too talented. We’ve put too much time and money into this. You won an international competition, for goodness’ sake. What if something happened and you couldn’t play at the symposium? How would that look to Maestro Gomez?”

His father came between them and stood over him. Through his anger Daniel registered that David was sweating slightly and the vein in his temple was throbbing, a sure sign he was agitated; his eyes were focused on a spot to the left of Daniel’s face.

“So that’s it, subject closed. But even though you won’t play baseball anymore, we’ll still go to the field and watch the Cubs, I promise you that.”

Daniel slumped back and stared at them in horror. Anger and frustration and panic and loss swirled around inside his head. He could see his father was concerned, but there was something else in his eyes—guilt.

“Talk to me, Dan. Don’t bottle this up. If you talk to me, you’ll see I’m right—”

“So we’re not actually
discussing
it at all, you’re telling me what’s been decided.”

Cindy made her gesture of extreme exasperation. “It’s for your own good, darling. When you can look at it coldly, you’ll see that.”

Daniel pulled himself to his feet.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“Out!” He spat the word back at her.

“Before you go I want your glove and your bat and your ball.”

Daniel turned away and headed for the door.

“Daniel! Did you hear what I said?”

He spun around, his dark eyes blazing and his face flushed.

“I’m getting them, okay? You win, Mom, as always. They’re no good to me anymore.”

When he returned, the gear in his hands, he could hear the raised voices still coming from the lounge. He paused at the door and listened.

“He’ll cool down, David, and then he’ll understand. He’ll see we’re right. He’s a very bright boy and music is his life.”

“Perhaps we’re putting too much pressure on him. He’s just fourteen, for God’s sake.”

“Precisely. He’s fourteen and Sarah Chang was performing with major orchestras, in concerts broadcast worldwide, by the time she was eleven. He doesn’t have time to waste on damn baseball.”