---

Had any of the music school faculty seen Hilton after his fifth session with Brant, the shock would have been incalculable for he leaned back in his chair staring out his office window, coat off and tie loosened, feet propped on his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand. As he watched Randy and Brant walking across the campus toward the parking lot, he dreamed of teaching Brant until he completed a doctorate in performance. Musing over the number of students he had taught over the years, he was able to think of only two or three who approached Brant's ability, for he already possessed the talent required for success as a concert pianist, simply needing careful development. But since Brant seemed determined to follow Randy in his father's discipline, perhaps he and Bill could convince both boys to go for a double major. He had already made a notation to waive the required audition for entry into the school of music for them both.

Though he would never have done so in the presence of anyone else, he was lavish in his praise of Brant when he talked with his wife over dinner a few weeks later. "The boy's a genuine prodigy. I never have to tell him anything twice and everything is instantly absorbed and used. What I wouldn't give if all my students had such a gift. I'm going to have him play the Mozart 'Seventeenth' with the orchestra. Chuck listened in and agreed that he should do it."

"Isn't that rather advanced for someone Brant's age?"

"For anyone else, yes. But remember, I said Brant is a true prodigy. You know as well as I there are quite a few competent pianists around. I've taught my share of them, but they'll never be great. They lack that spark of brilliance. Brant has it. He'll play it as well as anyone with twice his experience."

"How does he feel about it?"

He gave her a sly grin. "He doesn't know yet, but the competition proved he can do stage performance without problems. It will also give me the perfect excuse to borrow Bill's Bösendorfer and hear it in a proper setting. Both he and Sequoyah swear that Brant plays twice as well on it as he does any other instrument. You can't have forgotten how well they both played the night of the party."

At his next lesson, Brant sat open-mouthed when told of the planned performance. "But, sir, I'm not even in college yet. I don't know enough."

"You're better than most of my graduate students will ever be. It's time you did something equal to your talent and stopped wasting your time on grade school competitions. Your first rehearsal with the orchestra is tomorrow week. I'll pick you up at home."

Brant lost count of the hours of practice he put in. After the lesson, he was rewarded by Hilton's satisfied expression and lack of critical comments. "You did well. I'll see you tomorrow night."

Though Hilton stood with him, Brant felt intimidated by the eyes riveted on him while the conductor introduced him to the orchestra. When he took his seat at the piano, he was acutely aware of the doubtful glances of the concert master.

Even with having listened to a CD of the piece several times, hearing the live orchestra was so different from the piano reduction Hilton had played with him, he entered a measure early. While the orchestra prepared to replay the opening measures, Hilton came up beside him. "Relax. I'll stay with you until you're used to Chuck's directing."

The rehearsal was broken again when a point of interpretation arose, with Hilton defending Brant's approach. When the conductor began to crack jokes at his own and Hilton's expense, Brant relaxed and began to play well.

At the second rehearsal, he played with confidence. During the drive home, Hilton passed him several tickets. "These are for people you might want to invite, like your parents and Mr. Nowell. Bill, Helen, and I have faculty tickets."

At dinner the next evening, he handed tickets to his father.

"What makes you think we want to attend this?" He asked after glancing at them and setting them aside.

"I'm playing the Mozart 'Seventeenth' with the orchestra."

"Oh, sure you are! Kids play with the symphony every day."

"But I am! That's why I've been working with Doctor Hilton."

"I suppose von den Acker will be there," he grumbled.

"Doctor Hilton said he had season tickets."

Petersen looked at his wife. "It wouldn't hurt to go. After all, the bank is a sponsor of the symphony association, and God knows what he would have to say if we weren't present for something like this."

"I don't know why you're so concerned what he thinks, but I'll go as long as we don't have to sit with him," she snapped.

"What's wrong with that?"

"You know damned well I can't stand his condescending attitude, as if he had anything to be so proud of with that ugly half-breed son of his."

"Then you'd better keep in mind that he's chairman of the bank's board and keep your mouth shut before you say something to jeopardize my position."

"He's just one vote. I don't see ..."

"You don't know the first damn thing about it! So shut up."

Knowing that anything he might say would begin another quarrel, Brant kept quiet, excusing himself from the table as quickly as possible to go to his room to practice.

Two days before the event, the evening paper carried a small picture of Brant and a short write-up supplied by Hilton. Brant's father was in a jovial mood when he arrived home. "I'm pleased with this, Brant, but you realize that if you screw-up it will reflect on us all. So for heaven's sake, try. I suppose you have a tux?"

"No, sir."

"Then where did you get the dinner jacket you were wearing at the party?"

"Randy rented it for me. He has one, so he said I should wear one, too. I don't have to have a tux for this, Doctor Hilton said a dark suit would do."

"Nonsense. Considering what you'll be representing, you'll wear a tux as does the orchestra. Come by the bank after school and we'll go to the men's shop."

"Yes, sir." Brant turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To Randy's to practice."

"Why are you going there when you have a perfectly good piano in your room?"

"I need to work on a full sized grand. The touch is completely different from mine."

"I suppose you must, then. I just don't understand how von den Acker can put up with the constant racket from his son and now you."

The proprietor of the shop which his father often patronized greeted them effusively. "How may I help you, Mr. Petersen?"

"My son is playing with the symphony tomorrow night. He needs a tux."

"Of course. If you'll step this way, we'll get your measurements." Brant endured the tailor's extravagant motions with the tape, not missing the momentary change in the man's expression when his hand came in contact with the unyielding leg. Brant changed into the tux brought out then sat at a table and spread his arms in a playing motion.

"What are you doing? I haven't all day." His father demanded.

"It's too tight in the shoulders and it rides up in the back. I need more room."

"It's a perfect fit," the tailor said.

"Not for playing piano. Can I try the next size up?"

"Oh, I didn't know you were a pianist. You'll need the fuller-cut jacket and I'm afraid we don't have that in stock. It'll take about a week."

"I told you he needs it tomorrow," Petersen snapped.

"I'm sorry, but that's impossible."

To avoid argument, Brant looked at his father. "It's okay. I'll wear my suit."

"You will not! We'll go somewhere competent to fit clothing."

"We're the only shop in town that stocks, Mr. Petersen. The others just order," the proprietor said. "If you'll give me a few minutes, I should be able to locate one requiring a minimum of alteration."

"Work it out with Brant, then. I have more important things to do than stand here wasting my time." He stormed from the shop, leaving a chastened Brant, whose embarrassment communicated to the men.

"I know this is an important occasion for you," the proprietor said. "Have a seat and I'll do my best to find what you need."

In a few minutes he returned from his office with a broad smile. "I located a jacket in your size which should be just right. They're shipping it overnight delivery. We'll hem the trousers now to save time. Come in tomorrow about ten, and we'll fit the coat."

"Thanks a lot."

Brant left home at his usual time the next morning, but turned toward Randy's house instead of school. To avoid an argument with his parents, he had not mentioned the excused absence from classes the headmaster had granted him on Hilton's demand.

Randy's father opened the door just as Brant walked up the steps. "Sequoyah said you might come by to practice. I'm just leaving, so make yourself at home. If you should leave before Sequoyah comes in, the door will lock when you close it." He handed Brant a ring with two keys. "The smaller one operates the gate and the other fits this door. Just be sure the gates close completely, one of them occasionally tends to stick about half way. If it does, just push on it. I'll make a note to call the repairman."

"Remind me to give the keys back tonight."

"I want you to keep them and use them when you come to visit. It will save us a walk if the gates are closed. Come here a minute."

He opened a small box set near the door. "Are you familiar with alarm systems, Brant?"

"No, sir."

"We have it because many of my artifacts are priceless. I'm going to give you the security code. Memorize it, because when you use your key to come in you may hear a beeping. You will have twenty seconds to come over here and punch in the code. If you don't, the alarm will go off and there will be cops all over the place. This light will turn green if you have done it correctly. If you don't hear a beeping when you enter, it will mean that Sequoyah or I are home. If we're not here anytime you leave, I want you to reset the alarm."

"But, sir, you don't want me coming in when you aren't here."

"You're always welcome in this house, Brant. Besides, Sequoyah and I often set the alarm when we're here alone. If I'm working I won't wish to be disturbed by having to answer the door or having the alarm go off. If Sequoyah is here and practicing or up in his room, he won't hear the bell so you must keep the key and use it. Now, I want you to try it."

After giving Brant the code, he set the alarm, then opened the door which started the control box beeping. Brant quickly punched in the numbers and the light turned green.

"Good. Please be sure you remember the code and use it only if the control starts to beep."

"Thank you, sir."

Brant practiced in relaxed peace for a couple of hours before he walked the short distance to the clothiers to try the tux.

He exulted in the freedom the cut gave his shoulders and arms, completing the outfit with a vest, shirt, socks, and accessories. He was generous in his thanks to the tailor and the proprietor.

"Hard to believe he's Petersen's son, isn't it?" The tailor remarked after Brant left.

"That's why I tried so hard for him. He may be just a kid, but I'll bet he does a good job tonight. It's hard to believe that someone that young is actually playing with the orchestra."

Brant carried the formal wear back to the von den Acker's, for Randy would carry him to the concert hall.

"You certainly can't expect your mother and me to stand around there for an hour, and if I take you early I won't have time to come home and dress and have a drink with her before we have to leave. Why don't you ask Randy? You seem to want him to do everything else for you." His father had replied when Brant asked.

After placing the tux in Randy's room, he went to relax in the whirlpool, nearly asleep when Randy came in. "I thought I heard the pump."

"How come you aren't at school?"

"Dad got me out early to do a couple of things. I got them out of the way so I could be with you." He shed his jeans and joined Brant.

"I guess I ought to run through it once more," Brant said a little later.

"No way! If you don't know it by now, you never will. Besides, we're going to eat in a little while."

"I don't think I can."

"You haven't had any lunch, have you?"

Brant shook his head.

"Then you need something."

"I don't think I can eat anything right now. Maybe a little later."

"Okay. We'll have something light before you dress - a salad or a sandwich. Mozart doesn't need your belly rumbling an accompaniment."

"I suppose."

After they had dressed, Randy looked at Brant with admiration. "You're beautiful."

He viewed his reflection in the full-length mirror. "I look like a penguin. You're the one who's tall enough to wear a tux and look good."

"Well, now that you mention it, short as you are and with the way you walk, you do look like a penguin. If your hair was black like mine, you could pass in a flock and nobody would notice the difference."

"You rascally redskin! You always agree with me at the wrong time. Do I really look okay?"

Randy hugged him. "Perfect. Come on. Let's go so you can check out the piano."

The ride to the auditorium seemed to last only seconds. When he went with Randy to the stage to check the piano, it was the Bösendorfer.

"H... how?"

"That's why you thought I was early. I was helping the men get it out of the house while you were getting your tux. Hank asked because he knows you play better on it. I'm glad he did, because I've always wanted to hear it in a place like this where the sound can really develop. Try it for tuning." Brant ran a few scales and declared it perfect. "Good. Now come on to your dressing room and relax."

Brant flopped into a chair, only to rise when Dumont stuck his head in the door to wish him luck. After the conductor left, the impact hit Brant. "How did I get myself into this?" He asked timorously.

Instead of answering, Randy stood behind him and began to massage his temples with a light circular motion of his fingers and whispered repeatedly, "Close your eyes and relax. Your eyes are getting heavy. You're going to sleep." Within a minute or two, Brant slumped in the chair. Randy sat watching him until the orchestra reached the last movement of the first work on the program.

He began to massage Brant's temples once more. "You will wake when I say your name. You will feel wonderful and you will go out and play better than you've ever played before. Nothing but the music will matter until it's over." He bent and whispered, "Brant, wake up."

He slowly opened his eyes and stared up at Randy. "I can't believe I went to sleep."

"Didn't hurt you. Stand up and let me straighten your shirt. You need to comb your hair, too. You look like Dennis the Menace. Here, let me." He grabbed the comb out of Brant's hands, still trying to make the stubborn cowlick lie flat when Hilton came in.

"Ready?"

Brant looked up. "Yes, sir."

"No butterflies?"

"No way. I feel great."

Hilton looked at the bright smile and began to worry, accustomed to the disasters which usually followed such displays of confidence. "Just take it easy and follow Chuck, will you?"

"Sure. What could go wrong? I mean I've got Randy's piano and you taught me the music." He grinned at his teacher. "I think maybe you should relax, sir."

They walked out to the stage wing, Hilton standing with Brant while the members of the orchestra not needed for the concerto left the stage and the remaing musicians took places nearer the podium. Dumont joined them and then motioned for Brant to precede him on stage.

Brant adjusted the piano stool and sat while the orchestra played the opening measures of the work, then placed his hands on the keys.

Watching, Hilton wiped perspiration from his brow, wondering if he'd been premature in having Brant perform. Seconds later, he leaned against the wall, weak with astonishment. He would have been happy for Brant to have played as well as he had during the final rehearsal, but this! He tried to recall other performances of the work with which to compare, but with the exception of one or two by major concert personalities, he failed. The conductor's expression became a broad smile as the orchestra responded to the flow of the piano, playing as he seldom heard them.

A slight motion distracted him. Randy stood beside him, eyes bright. "My God," he whispered, "is he that good?"

His godfather crushed him in a hug, unable to answer as they listened to the final allegro. In the closing measures, the huge Bösendorfer trembled under the force of Brant's hands, while Dumont struggled with the diminished forces of the orchestra to balance the sound.

The last notes died away in the hall's reverberation. The conductor dropped his baton to the music desk and stood with his arms hanging limply. The members of the orchestra seemed breathless. Brant sat quietly, a slight smile directed at the conductor.

"Bravo!"

Randy recognized Rex's yell from the audience as the tumult broke loose. The concert master stood, tapping his bow on the music stand, followed by the other members of the orchestra. Brant walked to the podium to shake Dumont's hand before taking bows. The conductor joined him as Brant waved his hand to include the orchestra. After another bow and shaking hands with the concert master, Brant walked to the wing and Hilton's ecstatic embrace.

The standing audience chanted, "More! More!"

"What are you comfortable with?" His teacher asked.

"The 'Ah, vous...'"

Hilton turned to Dumont. "He'll do the Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman."

"That's almost fifteen minutes long."

"So? The rest of the program isn't that much. Give your people a rest."

Brant returned to the piano waiting until the members of the orchestra had resumed their seats and quiet filled the hall to begin.

At the slight pause at the end of the first section of the piece, Brant's mother began to applaud. Her hands stopped spread apart when she felt the eyes focused in her direction. She was thankful that the darkness of the auditorium hid the scarlet that flamed her cheeks.

At the end of the piece the audience demanded several more curtain calls before Randy and Hilton all but dragged Brant to the dressing room. He flopped down in a chair and looked at his teacher who stared at him, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

"What happened to you?"

"Didn't I do well?" Anxiety filled Brant's voice.

"Well! You blew 'em out of the water! You're one of the few soloists I've seen who could make Chuck follow instead of leading. That's his one fault as a conductor. As for the 'Ah, vous...' for God's sake, boy, why haven't you played like that before?"

Brant looked at him blankly, then to Randy, and back. "I ... I guess it's Randy's piano. It's like magic. I give it all I've got and it seems to beg for more. I got completely caught up in the music." He held out a hand to Randy. "Drink?"

Randy opened a small cooler he had brought from home and mixed Campari and soda for Brant and himself. "Want one, Hank?"

"Lord, no, if that's what I think it is. You kids shouldn't be drinking, but Brant probably needs it. Give me a Coke if you brought any."

Randy popped the tab on a can and handed it across, then set Brant's drink on a table and pulled him up. "Give me your coat, you're wringing wet." He opened the shirt collar and hung the coat and vest on a rack. Comfortable, they listened to the last work on the program.

At the end of the concert, Dumont burst into the room. "What the hell were you trying to do to me?" His words offset by a broad smile as he mopped his forehead with a damp handkerchief. "I've never worked so hard in my life to keep up. Why didn't you do this in rehearsal?"

"It's about time you met your match," Hilton retorted before Brant could say a word. "First you bitch about playing with my student and then you bitch because he made you work."

"I... I'm sorry I didn't do it like you wanted," Brant edged in.

"I'm not criticizing. Lord, no! I just didn't expect such brilliant playing," the conductor said quickly. "You're a professional whether you and Hank think so or not, and I'm going to make sure we have another chance to work together."

An elated Nowell, Mathews, Mitchell, along with members of the orchestra and others from the audience began to crowd into the small room. Mrs. Hilton elbowed her way between people to give Brant a resounding kiss, while his parents eased into the crowd toward him. His mother kissed him lightly on the cheek. "It was very nice."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Mitchell swore under his breath. "After the way he played!"

His father, wreathed in a beneficent smile, shook hands with him. "I'm proud of you," he said and turned to Hilton. "Surely he could have played something better than 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' for a solo." He said, remembering the piece from childhood.

Hank struggled to keep from hitting him, answering with as much contempt as possible. "I'd hardly refer to any Mozart as without appeal, no matter how it may have sounded to you, and I'm certainly more than capable of selecting repertoire suited to Brant's talent."

Dismayed that no recognition came their way, his parents left after pointedly telling him they expected him at home. When the congratulatory crowd finally dispersed, Randy helped Brant into his coat and they walked to the car.

"Didn't your dad come?"

"Yeah, but he knew what the mob would be like, so he went on ahead. You can come for a little while, can't you?"

"Sure." Brant turned sideways in the seat and stared at Randy. "Okay. What did you do to me?"

"I didn't do nothing."

"Bull! You rubbed my temples and I went to sleep and when it was time to play, I never played like that in my life, not even when we were just screwing around. Everything came together all at once."

Randy responded with his half-smile. "Indian magic. The shaman taught me. I do it to myself in my meditation, but this is the first time I've tried it on anybody else."

"How'd you do it?"

"Medicine man's secret. Elikwa."

Knowing Randy would say no more, Brant relaxed, suffused with warmth and pleasure, instead of feeling the weariness he knew he should.

Randy's father met them at the door, welcoming Brant with an enthusiastic hug. "Thank God, Hank took you on! Had I not heard it for myself, I would never have believed the superb performance you gave. I left after your encore so nothing could spoil my memory of the way you played."

"I probably wouldn't have been very good if you and Randy hadn't sent the Bösendorfer. I don't know how to thank you."

"Your playing was more than enough thanks. I never dreamed the instrument would sound so magnificently in the hall, though it's always been far too big a sound for our music room. But it's the piano Sequoyah's mother wanted after she played it while we were in Europe on a holiday. I wish she could have been here to hear you play and see how you appreciate it. She would be thrilled, especially since our idiot son here just wouldn't rest until he learned the organ."

"Who was it gave me my first lessons?" Randy countered.

von den Acker shook his head sadly. "Only to stop your nagging and then not for very long. You surpassed my ability by the time you started with Hank. But enough. Let's celebrate." He popped the cork on a bottle of Asti Spumanti, a sparkling white wine he knew Brant particularly liked.

It was after nine the next morning before Brant awoke, surprised that he hadn't been called much earlier. His father passed the entertainment section of the paper across the breakfast table with a smile. "You can't begin to imagine how you've delighted us. It's gratifying that the article mentions my position at the bank and I know the board will be equally pleased at the credit you've reflected on us all."

HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR CHALLENGES CIVIC SYMPHONY

An astounding performance of the Mozart Seventeenth Piano Concerto by Barton senior Brantford Petersen and the Civic Symphony was the highlight of last evening's program.Petersen's bravura playing brought forth a masculinity seldom accorded Mozart's compositions, yet under his hands the adantino was a lyric delight. Petersen displayed a rare ability to exploit the full dynamic range of his instrument, and his enthusiastic playing inspired the orchestra to heights uncommon in their regular series.

Petersen's solo encore the 'Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman' was as superbly performed as the concerto. Astonishingly, for one so young, Petersen played both works flawlessly from memory. This reviewer predicts that within a few years Petersen will be recognized as a consummate interpreter of Mozart's works. Hopefully this young man will soon make another appearance with the Symphony, for it is unlikely that any subsequent program of the season will equal Petersen's performance of last evening.

He turned the page to read a more biographical article getting only the first few words: Petersen, son of prominent banker Duane Petersen and Mrs. Petersen ... before his mother placed a waffle in front of him. Though they were a favorite of his, she fixed them only on those rare occasions when she was pleased with something he had accomplished. He laid the paper aside and began to eat, understanding the special treatment and his father's rare display of pleasure.

"The piano was so big and old looking," his mother mused, "you'd think they'd have something newer in an auditorium that nice."

Brant looked up. "They do. I played Randy's Bösendorfer."

"Why would you do that?"

"It's the finest piano I've ever played. I love it. Doctor von den Acker and Doctor Hilton had it moved to the hall as a surprise for me because I didn't like their Steinway. Gee, I wish I had a piano like that."

Still in an expansive mood, his father asked, "How much does one like that cost?"

"I think it's way over a hundred thousand."

His father's cup crashed into the saucer, cracking it. "A hundred thousand!" He yelped. "That's almost half what this house cost. I can't believe von den Acker's stupid enough to pay that much for a piano for his son to bang around on."

"It was his mother's. Besides, Randy doesn't bang; he's as good as I am. You've heard him at church."

"He plays so damned loud in church I can't tell, but if he's so good, why hasn't he played with the orchestra like you?"

The hall doesn't have an organ, and there aren't as many works for organ and orchestra as there are for piano. "

His father picked up the financial section of the paper, ending the discussion.

Brant finished eating and left to arrive at Randy's just as the university's truck pulled into the drive to return the piano. Six burley men wrestled the instrument onto a dolly and finally had it back in place under Randy's supervision.

Brant drew a sigh of relief. "I hope it didn't get hurt."

"Naw, you can't hurt it; these old ones are built like a battleship. It'll just need a little tuning."

Brant found himself a celebrity when he arrived at school on Monday, teachers and the headmaster almost deferential, while a number of classmates spoke to him for the first time. His greatest pleasure came from a shy ninth grader who, braving the scowling presence of Randy, stopped him in the hall and held out a concert program. "Can I have your autograph?"

"Sure." Brant scrawled his name across the page. "You take from Mr. Nowell?"

The boy nodded.

"Stick with him, he's good. I hope you get your chance."

"My hero!" Randy sneered as the youngster walked away.

Brant punched him on the arm. "Yeah? Well you're my Little People."

Randy stared at him wide eyed. "You remember that?"

"Darn right. I just want to hear you play with them."

"No way! You get to hear me at Mass and when they bring in instruments, but that's it."

"I bet Hank'll see you get a chance."

Randy shrugged at the improbability.