The Last Holiday Concert (13 page)

And riding in the sleigh was none other than Tim Miller dressed up as Elvis who was dressed up as Santa. Without a beard. Elvis swung his hips and sang at the top of his lungs, simultaneously blasting metallic twangs from a real electric guitar and a portable amplifier that was hooked onto the wagon with bungee cords. Tim as Elvis as Santa was a huge hit.

During the sing-along Hart was standing in his favorite concert spot—the back row of the chorus. The kids had wanted him to be like the director and stand out front during the songs. He had refused. There was enough to worry about without having to look stupid and pretend he knew how to direct a chorus.

The words to “Jingle Bells” were coming out
of his mouth, but Hart's mind was flopping all over the place, whispering to itself, trying to remember a hundred things at once.
So … so next comes the Shalom song. How's the tune go? How's it go? Oh yeah, oh yeah … Then the dreidel stuff. …and it's a round … my group first, and then Billy's—or is his first? Wait… No … Shalom is the round… Which … and the batteries? Did Dad get ‘em? ‘Cause fifty's not enough … and the lights … ‘cause that means … or does the dreidel song come next?

As muddled as it was inside Hart's head, out in the hall behind the stage it was worse. The two kids inside the big dreidel costumes had been practicing their spinning, and one of them had just spread a good part of his dinner all over the floor. No one could find the custodian, and a mom and a dad were trying to manage the emergency cleanup with tissues and a bottle of spring water.

Colleen, the stage director, had three different little walkie-talkies clipped to the front of her sweater: one to talk to the kid running the spotlight, one for the kids moving props around the stage, and one to keep in touch
with Mr. Meinert. She grabbed one of them and said, “Mr. Meinert, Mr. Meinert! One of the dreidels just threw up! Play an extra verse of ‘Jingle Bells'!”

So the sing-along went on a little longer, and no one seemed to mind, especially Tim Miller.

Most of Hart's worries were unnecessary.
“Shalom Chevarim
” began as Jenna explained the connection between Hanukkah and the hope for peace. Hart loved this song. It had become his favorite during the rehearsals because the chorus sang it as a three part round. There was such a simple dignity to the melody all by itself, but by the time Hart joined in singing with the third group, the full effect of the harmony and the interwoven strains was so beautiful, so powerful and real.

Up onstage, facing the audience filled with his family and his neighbors, Hart was glad to be in the back row when they sang
“Shalom Chevarim
.” And he was glad there were so many other kids singing, because he felt his throat begin to tighten up. The music, the harmony, the way the whole concert was flowing
along—it all filled his heart in a way he'd never felt before.

Then “I Have a Little Dreidel” celebrated the lighter side of Hanukkah, and the big spinning dreidels got everyone laughing—except one small child in the front row who announced for all to hear, “Something smells like spit-up!”

After the dreidels took their bows, all of the students in the chorus walked off the stage single file, half down one side of the gym, half down the other. When they had surrounded the audience, each about four feet from the next, the lights dimmed a little and Mr. Meinert hit one soft chord on the piano. With no introduction, the chorus began to sing.

 

“O little town of Bethlehem
,

How still we see thee lie
.

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
,

The silent stars go by
.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting light
.

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in thee tonight
.”

 

Then the spotlight came up on Allie Marston. She read from a single sheet of paper.

 

“What are ‘the hopes and fears of all the years?' Maybe the hope is our hope for peace. And maybe the fear is the fear that real peace will never come to the Earth. When the angels came to the shepherds near Bethlehem, they sang, ‘On Earth, Peace, goodwill toward men.'

 

“This year, right now, that is our hope, and we share it with you.”

 

The room went completely dark. Mr. Meinert played a short introduction on the piano, and at the front of the gym one girl turned on a flashlight and aimed it at her own face. It was Janie Kingston, and she sang the first two lines alone, her voice high and sweet. As more and more children joined the singing, each one lit a light.

 

“Let there be peace on earth
,

And let it begin with me;

Let there be peace on earth
,

The peace that was meant to be
.

“With God our Creator
,

Children all are we
,

Let us walk with each other

In perfect harmony
.”

 

The piano played through the melody of the first two verses again, and seventy flashlight beams turned upward and met in the center, high above the audience. And into that brightness—with wings of gold and a silver gown—an angel descended.

It wasn't Lisa Morton. It was a doll she and her mom had made. Lisa's dad and big brother were up in the bleachers controlling it with a system of pulleys and fishing line.

As the angel began to fly a slow, graceful circle above the audience, all the flashlight beams followed it, and the singing resumed.

 

“Let peace begin with me
,

Let this be the moment now;

With every step I take

Let this be my solemn vow:

 

“To take each moment

and live each moment

In peace eternally
.

Let there be peace on earth

And let it begin with me
.”

 

The chorus repeated the last two lines, and when it got to the words
with me
, Janie sang them alone, and then ten other kids on the other side of the audience repeated, “with me,” and then ten more sang it again, and it went on through six repetitions until the whole chorus sang the words one last time. “With me!”

The lights came up, the chorus took a bow, and then the entire audience—every mom and dad, every grandmother and grandfather, aunt, uncle, neighbor, and friend—they all jumped to their feet and began to applaud. The applause went on for one minute, and then two, not wildly, not with hooting and stomping, but with deep feeling, and plenty of dabbing at the corners of the eyes.

The applause went on because all the people knew they had just seen something extraordinary, and because they all knew that if they stopped clapping, the concert would be over. And no one wanted it to end.

Mr. Meinert did not want it to end either.

He sat on the bench behind the piano. He did not stand, and he took no bow. But he did look out and catch his wife's eye as she stood there in the fourth row, tears running down her cheeks. He smiled, and so did she. And he knew that now Lucy Meinert understood. She understood why he hadn't quit, and why he would always believe that there's a future in teaching.

The applause finally stopped.

Hart Evans found his parents and endured a big hug from his mom. His sister Sarah made a face as she handed him a copy of the program. “Why does it say ‘Sixth Grade Chorus, Hart Evans, Director?”

Hart shrugged. “Probably a joke.” But he carefully folded the program and put it in his back pocket.

His dad grabbed Hart's hand and shook it. “That was the
best
concert I have ever seen! ‘Hart Evans, Director'—it's no joke. I am
very
proud of you.”

Hart smiled, but he didn't know what to say, and he felt his face getting red. His dad came to the rescue.

“What do you say we all go out for some ice cream?”

Hart said, “Yeah, great.” Then he turned quickly, looking for Mr. Meinert. He couldn't spot him. “Listen, I've got to go backstage for a second. Be right back.”

Mr. Meinert wasn't on the stage or in the hallway behind it. Hart saw Colleen, and trotted over to her. “Colleen, nice job!”

Colleen smiled and said, “Thanks. You too.”

“You seen Mr. Meinert?”

Colleen pointed. “He went that way with a stack of music. Probably going back to the music room.”

Hart took off down the hallway.

W
hen Hart peeked in the doorway of the music room, only one row of lights was on, down at the front of the room. Mr. Meinert was standing at his desk, staring into a cardboard file box.

Hart paused. It was something about the way the guy stood there, leaning slightly forward, both hands on the back of his chair. Hart felt like he was interrupting.

He knocked on the door frame anyway.

Mr. Meinert jumped a little, but when he saw it was Hart, his face broke into a big smile.

“Mr. Meinert? Can I come in?”

“Sure,” he said. “What a
great
concert, Hart. Really. One of the best ever, anywhere.”

Hart smiled back. “Thanks. I looked for you over in the gym, but you'd already left. And Colleen said you might be here. Because I just wanted to thank you. ‘Cause if it hadn't been for you, we'd have never had a concert—I
mean, not like this one.” Hart suddenly felt embarrassed, felt another blush coming on. “So anyway … thanks.” Hart walked to the desk and held out his right hand, and Mr. Meinert reached over and shook it.

And that's when Hart saw what was in the file box. A pair of orange-handled scissors with D.
Meinert
written on them. Mr. Meinert's “Great Musicians” desk calendar. A stack of
Music Educator
magazines, and six or seven books, each of them with D.
Meinert
scrawled on the cover.

“How come you're emptying your desk? You moving to a different room?”

Mr. Meinert paused. “I won't be back after the vacation. It's because of the budget cuts in the town. So I'm going to find work somewhere else.”

Hart was stunned. “You mean they
fired
you? They can't do that! Who's going to teach chorus?”

Mr. Meinert smiled and held up a hand like a crossing guard. “No, no, no—not fired. They eliminated my job, and they
can
do that. And I don't know who's going to teach chorus. Or
even if there'll be a chorus at all come January.”

“But—but why didn't you tell everybody? We—we could have done something—like send letters … or make a petition … or start a big protest…
something
!”

Mr. Meinert smiled again. “That's
exactly
why the affected teachers asked that this be kept quiet until the vacation. We all had work to do, and we didn't want a lot of pity and worry from everybody else getting in the way.”

Hart was stumped, almost angry. “But … but… it's not fair!”

Mr. Meinert nodded. “Couldn't agree more. But that's the way it is, for the moment anyway. Things can change. You know that. Things can change in all sorts of unexpected ways.”

It was Mr. Meinert's turn to hold out his hand. “So this is good-bye, at least for now. It's been a pleasure working with you, Hart.”

Hart shook his teacher's hand again, fighting back a lump in his throat. He managed a smile and said, “So long.” And he turned and headed for the door.

“Hart—hold it a second. I want you to have this.”

Hart walked back, and Mr. Meinert reached into his file box and pulled out an envelope. “I guess I can afford to give this up—I've still got another one.”

He fished around in the envelope and then handed Hart a slightly used Number 16 rubber band.

Mr. Meinert reached into the envelope again and held up the other rubber band. “I probably shouldn't be saying this, but I'm going to anyway: Thanks for letting me have this. Turns out it was just what I needed.”

Hart grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “Worked out okay for me, too.”

Mr. Meinert grabbed the box off his desk. “I've got to run. My wife's waiting out in the car. Listen, you have a happy holiday, Hart.”

Hart nodded. “Yup. You too. See you around town, Mr. Meinert.”

The teacher smiled. “You can count on it.”

And as he followed Hart out of the music room, Mr. Meinert turned off the lights.