The Devil's Dance

By Dr. Thomas Milhorat

The Devil's Dance is a New York Tale about the life and love of a young concert pianist who ascends from humble beginnings to the pinnacle of the musical world following his masterful debut at Carnegie Hall, when he is not yet 19. With newfound wealth and critical acclaim as "the next Rubinstein", he is drawn into the highlife of the 1950's and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781956896312

Book preview

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: 1949

Chapter 2: Julliard

Chapter 3: Fame And Fortune

Chapter 4: Maggie Mcguire

Chapter 5: Goin’ Down The Road

Chapter 6: Feelin’ Bad

Chapter 7: Under A Wide And Starry Sky

CHAPTER 1

1949

Now when a stranger passes through Gravesend Village, he can see why the young people move out, the ones with any real ambitions that is, for there isn’t much to do there except finish up school, work on a farm or in some broken-down store on Main Street, go to church, attend country fairs, fish along the Rock River, catch a movie at the Half Moon Theater, get married, raise a family, grow old and fat, and spend the rest of eternity up on St. Mary’s Hill under the big oaks with one’s family and neighbors: a safe, honest, gossipy life. But breaking away is tricky business because there has to be a good plan and if you don’t have fate on your side, you’re not going to get very far. Whenever the subject comes up, the Right Reverend Delbert Martin likes to tell the following story.

During the whole of a cold, dark, stormy night in late September, when the only sound was the howl of the wind and rain blowing in off Lake Erie, a young man lay awake in bed, eyes open, thinking, twisting and turning, waiting for the first light of dawn. He got up with unhesitating readiness and went directly to his closet where he removed a heavy canvas duffle bag, apparently containing all of his possessions, and carried it over to the door. There was a sense of great expectancy in the room and it was easy to imagine that when summer ends, school starts, and trees are already yellow, there is autumn in everything. He was going to school in New York City!

The young man dressed with nervous haste in front of a full-length mirror. For the occasion, he borrowed his father’s gray gabardine Sunday suit, white collared shirt, and blue silk paisley tie, and when he was done he looked for all the world like a professional man on the way to work, though he was not yet eighteen. He stared intently at his reflection, transfixed, mesmerized, hardly knowing what he was seeing, trying to comprehend the person looking back at him. For a moment, an expression of profoundest joy, rapture almost, came over his face. What a lucky one! Who could have imagined? There he was, a genuine musical prodigy, a recognized virtuoso of classical piano concertos, and now he had been chosen above all others by the Julliard School of Music to study with the finest teachers in the world for the next four years on a fully funded scholarship. He looked down at his hands, at the long, thin, agile fingers which had brought him so much success, and wondered wistfully, as he often did, how such a gift could have been given to him.

It didn’t really matter how the gift came about, but if you were to ask the folks in Erie County, Pennsylvania, the few who had given the matter any thought, that is, they would likely say it was divine providence. There was nothing in the young man’s background that might have predicted something special. After all, he had attended schools of no particular distinction and was by all accounts an average student, restless and easily distracted, who excelled in mathematics and sports but not much else. Neither of his parents were musicians, and though they praised the works of classical composers the way ordinary people often do, what they really enjoyed listening to were the big bands of the 1940’s which played on the radio almost every night. The history of the family was a bit of a mystery, but from the little that was known it is quite possible the young man was the first in his line to pursue an education beyond the level of high school. He was, by the way, exceptionally good looking, above average in height, slim, well-built, with marvelous blue-green eyes and dark brown hair. He might have been a popular student-athlete if Mrs. Rita Cahill, his school’s music teacher, hadn’t detected a hidden gift and encouraged him to take up the piano. That seemed like a long time ago.

Now there is a saying that a musician must make music if he is to be truly happy and at peace with himself, and it was this ultimate reality which prompted the young man to leave his father’s home for the last time and set forth on a most uncertain and uncharted journey. After today, nothing would be the same and for a moment he positively glowed at the thought of the imagined adventures which lay ahead. But soon another reality crept into his consciousness from deep within his soul: an unfathomable sense of sadness and regret, perhaps of guilt, and he turned pale, for he was leaving behind a terrible problem.

If one is lucky enough to be raised in a loving household, the fondest memories are of the people and their things, and whatever life brings, these stay with you as long as you live, for home is where the heart is. He looked longingly around his room, knowing at a glance the things he wanted to see and what he didn’t, and mostly the things he wanted to remember: the grass-stained 36 ounce Louisville Slugger with its handle wrapped with frayed electrical tape; the left-handed fielder’s mitt which needed a good oiling and hadn’t gotten one lately; the hand-me-down 12 gauge Ithaca shotgun mounted in a rack next to the bed which had taken its share of pheasant and grouse; and, by all means, not least of all, the four poster maple bed with a canopy veil that kept out mosquitoes and softened the light so one could sleep late on Saturday mornings. He would miss those things.

He walked over to the window and looked out at his world. It had changed as much as he had. The Victory Garden was gone, replaced in the spring of ’46 with a colorful bed of wild flowers, and so too was the low-limbed, good-for-climbing black cherry tree which fell in the hurricane of ’47. Also gone was Blue’s dog house, God rest his soul, which was taken up to the attic last year. But his grave was still there, as was the crude handmade wooden marker that read: Here lies ole Blue Boy. Other things were pretty much the same: the century-old barn next to the pond with its soaring silo and roofed stalls for the livestock; the stout Macintosh apple trees leading out like Roman columns to 200 acres of rich loam farmland which had supported the family for generations; and beyond, the dark, deserted woods where he would go to think and dream and enjoy the changing seasons in a spiritual reunion with nature that would be hard for most city folks to understand. Out there you could tell the weather, even on quiet summer mornings, because the wavy, buzz-saw song of the cicada meant hot days ahead and when the cows laid down, rain was coming. If you paid attention, you got to know that the tree frogs’ eerie cry came an hour before the rain and the katydid’s voice was a warning that frost was but six weeks away. He paused, raised his eyes, threw up his hands, clenched his fists, and swore to himself through pursed lips that he would never forget. His eyes moistened for a brief moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders, picked up his bag, and tiptoed past his mother’s bedroom and the open doors of his father’s sick room on the first floor, and went outside to the front porch where he waited for Fat Albert to arrive.

Almost everyone in Erie County it seems had heard a story or two about Fat Albert. He was a colorful character, a big bear of a man, who owned a stud farm down by French Creek and had a reputation for breeding pretty good racing horses. Over the years, his horses had won more than they lost and he was able to indulge his hobby of collecting fine motor cars, the most recent addition of which was a brand new, 1949, two tone, V-8, hydraulic, Oldsmobile convertible. Now it turns out that Fat Albert wasn’t really fat, just big all over, but he encouraged the use of his childhood moniker because it gave the impression of an affable, roly-poly, perhaps less than seriously disciplined man, which he used to advantage when horse trading. He had commanding presence, roughly hewn, almost handsome in a manly sort of way, and might be compared to a middle-aged Ernest Hemingway, were it not for his military style flat-top haircut, handlebar moustache, and penchant for dressing in overalls, hunting jackets, and a red-and-black checkered hunting hat with ear flaps, rather than knickers and vests and a fedora. After a few beers, he liked to raise a little hell and rail at the top of his lungs against the social democrats who were ruining the country, but he had a good heart, and when he learned from his wife, Rita Cahill, that a student of hers had won a scholarship to Julliard and would be traveling to New York City by himself, he offered to drive him to the train station.

The hinterland of Erie County is lonesome country, for no buses or trains go there, and if one is traveling to or from Gravesend Village, the best thing to do is take the state road that runs along the border with New York because it’s asphalt and usually kept in decent condition. But out-of-towners have to be wary. The road is lined in both directions by a succession of monotonous fields and shabby farmhouses and barns that all look alike and there aren’t many signs. Before getting off the highway, a stranger better be pretty sure of his bearings because the unpaved country roads can get him lost in a hurry. Autos have to be driven very carefully not to get busted up or have a tire go flat in the labyrinth of ruts.

As the young man paced with nervous impatience, the town’s eight o’clock whistle sounded, alerting parents to get their children ready for school. Somehow it had gotten late. The trucks and tractors that drove by the house twice a day had long since gotten to the fields and the road was empty of vehicles. The rain had started to let up. In the shrinking mist, glimmerings of pink and orange light reflected off the puddles like little road flares. He kept his eyes fixed intently in the direction from which Fat Albert was to come, knowing that a watched pot never boils but he looked anyway. Minutes passed. A flock of geese, coming from the north, flew overhead in perfect formation, squawking loudly, soaring high like Orion’s arrow in a rush from one place to somewhere else. And then, as if on cue, a magnificent motor car came round the bend, approached slowly, minding the ruts, showing off its splendid maroon-over-burgundy colors and sleek white-wall wheels, and turned into the driveway. The gravel crunched as the car came to a stop and a large man got out.

Hey there young fella! he called up through cupped hands to the young man on the porch. Are you Harrison Braque? Andre and Nellie’s kid?

Yes sir, I’ll be right down. A smile of relief and anticipation replaced the young man’s anxious look and he dragged his bag over to the car. Thanks for coming. I’m Harry Braque. Everybody calls me Harry.

Nice to meet you, Harry, said the large man, extending a beefy hand in greeting. You’re taller than I thought. And skinnier. I’m Albert Cahill. Everybody calls me Fat Albert. I’m here to take you to the train station."

Thanks, Mr. Cahill, it’s awfully nice of you. Holy smokes that sure is a beautiful car you’re driving.

Glad you noticed, Harry.

Who wouldn’t notice a brand new V8 Oldsmobile convertible?

Ah ha, I can see that Rita was right. You’re a man of taste. You like good music and good pianos. I happen to like good horses and cars. I guess we’re a little bit the same that way. No offense.

Come again, Mr. Cahill? Why would I be offended?

Because according to Rita you’re a gen-u-ine musical prodigy. I’m just a good ole country boy. Didn’t mean to compare the two.

We actually have a lot in common, Mr. Cahill. I like to think of myself as a good ole country boy too.

For now, maybe, but what about after you’re done with Joeliard?

That’s Ju…lee…ard, Mr. Cahill. Yes, even after Julliard. I’m sure I’ll always have some country boy in me. My mother likes to say if you don’t know where you’re from you don’t know where you’re going.

That’s pretty good, Fat Albert replied, looking at his watch, and knitting his brows in a little frown. Oh oh, Harry, enough of the chit-chat. We’re a little behind schedule now. No time to waste. We gotta catch the 8 o’clock train out of Ithaca which gets into Penn Station around five in the afternoon.

Sorry, Mr. Cahill. But how can we make that train? It left the station more than a half hour ago!

The train makes one stop in Sayre, Pennsylvania at 11:58. We’ll be able to catch it there if we leave right now. It’s about 175 miles away.

A 175 miles away? Do we have enough time? You’d have to average almost 50 miles an hour on country roads!

Don’t you worry, Harry boy. This here car’s got 110 horsepower and has the fastest pickup in the forty-eight. With any luck we’ll make it to Sayre with time to spare. Now put your bag in the back seat and sit up front with me. The radio has AM and FM.

Harry had to admit the car was something special. He was immediately taken by the luxurious upholstery, the enameled steering wheel, the four-speed automatic gearshift on the driving column, and the futuristic dashboard with a high frequency radio, electric cigarette lighter, and more dials than a Piper Cub airplane. He had never seen a miles-per-hour dial that went up to 140. But what affected him the most, and what he would probably remember longer than anything else, was the smell, that new car smell, there was nothing quite like it. As the car backed down to the road, he dropped his eyes and stared at the floor, avoiding another glimpse at his boyhood home which for him held a dreadful secret.

Fat Albert drove the Olds northward, navigating the washboard roads out of town with skill and confidence, but soon got caught up behind a slow-moving flatbed truck that failed to yield to a few polite beeps. He waited until both vehicles reached the two-lane state road going east and then he stepped on the gas, zoomed around the truck with a long angry beep, and sped off on the much improved asphalt surface. Once the real part of the journey was underway, he reached into his hunting jacket for a pack of Camels, slipped out a cigarette, tapped it on one end, lit it on the other, and rolled his window down. He inhaled deeply, nodding his head in sweet satisfaction, and exhaled a thin cloud of gray-white smoke which wafted lazily over his head and out of the window.

Boy oh boy, Harry, there’s nothing like a good cigarette, he observed, removing it from his mouth and smelling the lit end. Especially Camels. They’re made of 100% Turkish tobacco, not like the other brands. Would you like to try one?

Thanks, Mr. Cahill, but I won’t be eighteen until next April. I sure am looking forward to it though. Eighteen. That’s when everybody smokes.

I wish I were your age, Harry. A lot to look forward to. Cigarettes and booze and women. Them’s the finer things in life, you know, especially good booze and bad women. Ha ha ha.

I can hardly wait.

The car whizzed by dilapidated farms and one sorry looking town after another. There were no markers anywhere and it didn’t seem to matter. The sun was out and the clouds were high and spotty like little puffs of cigarette smoke.

Say, Harry, I forgot to ask. How’s your father. Any better?

No, Mr. Cahill, about the same. He has his good days and bad days.

Is he able to get out of bed yet?

No, he hasn’t been able to do that for a while now.

How come? I thought the docs said his condition gets better on its own.

Yes, that’s what they said in the beginning, but so far it hasn’t worked out that way. There’s disagreement about what he has. We just have to wait.

Sure hope he doesn’t have that Lou Gehrig thing.

No, thank goodness, he doesn’t have that.

So how does he get along?

Ah……well mother and I pretty much take care of him.

But Harry, you’re off to school! What about now?

It was the question Harry dreaded, the one he had asked himself over and over, day and night, ever since receiving his scholarship, and the more he considered the answers, the less he liked them, and the more resigned he became to ignoring them altogether. He turned pale and his lips began to quiver. He was, in fact, quivering all over.

Are you car-sick, Harry? Fat Albert inquired, suddenly concerned about the very real risk to his fine upholstery. I can pull over if you want.

No, it’s not necessary. I don’t get car-sick. It was the question that upset me.

You mean the one about your father’s condition when you’re away at school? Sorry, Harry, just passing time. It’s none of my business.

It’s a big problem, Mr. Cahill, that’s all I can say. Mother and I are working on it.

The traffic was light and Fat Albert was making good time, smoking one cigarette after another and throwing the snuffed ends out the window. As he zoomed around the slower cars, the occupants of the stranded vehicles craned their necks for a fleeting look at the fabulous new Olds and exchanged uncomprehending glances upon seeing the oversized driver, in a hunting hat, who passed them at way over the speed limit. By 10 o’clock he was east of Coryville and approaching Port Allegany.

Wanna hear a little music, Harry? he inquired, fiddling with the radio and stopping at stations that caught his attention.

I’d like that, Mr. Cahill. Say, I’m really impressed by the high fidelity sound of your radio. It’s like being in a concert hall.

Stereo, Harry, stereo. It divides up the instruments. Look in the back. There’s a pair of really good speakers on the sides of the seat. Most cars don’t have ’em. He continued fiddling with the radio and eventually found a station playing a bouncy melody sung by an equally bouncy, slightly nasal female singer, and turned up the volume. He grinned from ear to ear and his eyes lit up like a Japanese lantern, as though he was listening to the voice of an angel. Do you know who that is, Harry?

I’m not sure.

That’s Theresa Brewer. She’s my favorite. Greatest singer ever, Harry. You got a favorite?

I have lots of favorites.

Name a few.

Well, off the top of my head I would have to say Lily Ponds, Lawrence Tibbett, Enzio Pinza…

Stop right there, Harry. Don’t believe I know those singers. Keep going.

Alright, then how about Helen O’Connor, Bob Eberele, Billy Holliday, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby……

I heard of Sinatra and Crosby Fat Albert interrupted, with a sarcastic smile, and maybe that Billy Holliday fella too. They’re okay. But dontcha like any really good singers, Harry? I mean like Rudy Valle and the Andrew Sisters.

Sure I do, they’re just not the first ones that come to mind.

Shh, Harry, get a load of this! Theresa Brewer’s singing ‘Music! Music! Music!’. Best song ever. Bet you never heard of it.

Of course I have. She recorded it earlier this year with the Dixie All-Stars on the London Records label. It was on the B side of a record called ‘Copenhagen’. The song was a big surprise and has already sold more than a million copies.

How do you know stuff like that, Harry? Rita says your specialty is old fashioned music.

Music is music, Mr. Cahill. It’s a universal language. I like all different types.

Rita says you play a pretty good piano, Harry. Who are your favorite players?

Well, again, I have quite a few.

Which ones?

Hmm……starting from the top, I would say the classical pianists: Arthur Rubenstein, Artur Schnabel, Vladimir Horowitz, Jose Iturbi….

"Forget about it, Harry, all those guys sound the same to me. Couldn’t tell ’em apart in a million years. Maybe you