The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1) by A.J. Flynn (early reader books .txt) 📗

but if it made Mrs. Helen happy enough to leave the room she was willing to let her carry on thinking so.

McPherson had just turned her back to the door, when Mrs. Helen poked her head in and said, “I forgot to tell you band practice is set to be over in a few minutes and Mr. Hardwood will be here once that’s finished. Also, Miss Tack asked me to give this to you.” She held out a small piece of paper. “It’s Mr. Nerdelbaum’s address. He was Charlie’s science teacher. He’s trapped at home with a bad cold.”

McPherson thanked her and returned to her seat. The teachers had each given her something to think about. They presented a far different picture of Charlie from the one she’d received from the boy’s family or friends. It was beginning to look like he had learned early on in life how to politely do as he pleased so he could save his time for things that interested him. He probably would have grown up to be one of those people possessed with enough drive to raise them to the very top of whatever field they chose to pursue.

McPherson was still thinking over everything when the music teacher arrived. He was a well-dressed man, about five foot eleven and exceedingly thin. His cheeks were sunken low and his dark hair needed to be combed, but it was his eyes that held McPherson’s attention. They were frantic and wavering, and the constant movement caused them to shine, as if there were fire behind them burning. McPherson had little trouble picturing him as a music teacher. He would have looked perfectly at home wearing a beret, like an artist from Paris’s left bank.

“I’m Hardwood,” the man said. “They tell me you’re Lieutenant Emma McPherson.”

McPherson admitted her identity.

“Band practice just finished. Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said, although it was obvious he didn’t give a damn. McPherson had come into contact with his type many times before. To those who liked them, they possessed self-confidence. To those who didn’t, they were arrogant bastards. She was inclined to agree with the latter.

Hardwood took a seat and pulled a pipe from his pocket. “I take it you want to talk about Charlie.”

“Yes, I’d like to hear your opinion of him.”

“The boy was pathetic.” There was no doubting the earnestness of his words.

“Pathetic?” McPherson echoed in surprise. “How do you mean?” So far she’d heard many words used to describe Charlie, but pathetic wasn’t one of them.

“To strive after something when there’s no chance of reaching it always struck me as pathetic. He loved music with a passion that was difficult to conceive in someone so young. It was the only thing that mattered to him. Everything else he did, he did because he had to.”

The man was embarrassingly intense; in fact, the entire time it seemed as though he was making a speech.

“Well, lots of people have a love for music. I enjoy it myself.”

“Well, that’s just my point,” Hardwood said quickly, “he was never satisfied to just sit and listen and enjoy it. He wanted to create it, write it and play it, but he hadn’t a shred of talent. He had no sense of pitch, was practically tone deaf, and hadn’t the slightest sense of rhythm, but he had enough will and determination for ten children. It was as I already said, pathetic. I have plenty of students who could develop themselves into wonderful performers, and perhaps one that might even be great, but none of them are willing to practice. Charlie practiced as faithfully as anybody and he still didn’t stand a chance of being passable.”

“I was told he played in the orchestra,” McPherson offered.

Hardwood put his hand to his face and kneaded the skin between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed that there was always movement around him of some sort.

“Yes,” he admitted, “but that’s just because of the belief among most educators that a child shouldn’t be discouraged from what he wants to do. I’ve listened to many great arguments on the subject, and I must say I don’t agree with them.”

“I’m not familiar with the theories of modern education,” McPherson said.

“I’m afraid I judge mostly from my own case. My father wanted for me to be a concert pianist, almost as much as I wanted the same. I studied and studied for years on end. It wasn’t until much later that I learned my teachers had told my father that although I’d be an excellent pianist, I lacked the spark to be a great one—but nobody told me that. I’ll never forget the day it dawned on me that I would never be anything beyond second-rate. I was perfectly convinced that my reason for living had vanished.” The set of the man’s long face showed that the memory was still painful to him.

“That’s why I understood Charlie so well. Sooner or later he would have to face the music and realize that all the work in the world wouldn’t make up for his lack of talent.”

McPherson revised her opinion of the man somewhat. The man appeared to be truly distressed at what the future held for Charlie.

Hardwood sat back in a more relaxed manner, but continued kneading his cheek. “Sometimes life’s inequalities make me wonder if there’s any pattern to it at all.”

McPherson had no time for waxing philosophical, so she interjected, “Aside from him being a musician with no talent, what was Charlie like?”

“He was a fine young lad. Eager to please and never caused trouble.”

“Can you think of any reason why somebody might have disliked him or held a grudge against him?”

“No, not at all,” Hardwood assured her. “I doubt if Charlie had an enemy in the world.”

“Alright. Now if you could tell me where you were two nights ago, I’ll let you go.”

“You want an alibi—from me!” Hardwood exploded. McPherson felt as if she’d just asked Wagner to conduct a rock and roll session.

“It’s part of regular