Edward was a kite on a string, always threatening to break free. Before he started schooling, Eddie was safe at home. Tess took good care of him in the mornings, and I was home to watch him on weekday afternoons. When he turned four, Eddie went in with me on the way to work. I’d drop him off at the nursery school and then swing by from Twain when my music classes were through. In our few private hours I taught him scales, but when he bored of the piano he toddled off to his blocks and dinosaurs, inventing imaginary games and companions to while away lonesome hours. Every once in a while, he’d bring over a playmate for the afternoon, but those children never seemed to come back. That was fine by me, as I never fully trusted his playmates. Any one of them could have been a changeling in disguise.
Strangely, my music flourished in the splendid isolation we had carved out for ourselves. While he entertained himself with his toys and books, I composed. Tess encouraged me to find my own sound. Every week or so, she would bring home another album featuring organ music found in some dusty used record store. She cadged tickets to Heinz Hall performances, dug up sheet music and books on orchestration and instrumentation, and insisted that I go into the city to work out the music in my head at friendly churches and the college music school. She was re-creating, in essence, the repertoire in the treasure chest from Cheb. I wrote dozens of works, though scant success or attention resulted from my efforts—a coerced performance of a new arrangement by a local choir, or one night on electric organ with a wind ensemble from upstate. I tried everything to get my music heard, sent tapes and scores around the country to publishers and performers, but usually received a form rejection, if anything. Every great composer serves an apprenticeship of sorts, even middle-school teachers, but in my heart, I knew the compositions had not yet fulfilled my intentions.
One phone call changed everything. I had just come in the door with Edward after picking him up from nursery school. The voice on the other end was from another world. An up-and-coming chamber quartet in California, who specialized in experimental sound, expressed interest in actually recording one of my compositions, an atonal mood piece I had written shortly after the break-in. George Knoll, my old friend from The Coverboys, had passed along my score. When I called him to say thanks, he invited us to visit and stay at his place so I could be on hand at the recording session. Tess, Edward, and I flew out to the Knolls in San Francisco that summer of ’76 and had a great few days with George and his family. His modest café in North Beach was the only genuine Andalusian restaurant among a hive of Italian joints, and his stunning wife and head chef did not hurt business, either. It was great to see them, and the few days away from home eased my anxieties. Nothing weird prowling around California.
The pastor of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco allowed us an afternoon to record, and the pipe organ there rivaled in tone and balance the ancient instrument I had played in Cheb. The same feeling of homecoming entered me when I pressed the pedals, and from the beginning notes, I was already nostalgic for the keyboard. The quartet changed a few measures, bent a few notes, and after we played my fugue for organ and strings for the seventh time, everyone seemed satisfied with the sound. My brush with fame was over in ninety minutes. As we said our good-byes, everyone seemed sanguine about our limited prospects. Perhaps a mere thousand people might actually buy the record and hear my piece, but the thrill of finally making an album outweighed any projected anxiety about the size of its audience.