Chapter Eighteen

Mrs. Tucker placed the tote bag on the table and pulled from it’s depths a stack of music paper, which she nervously shoved in front of Mrs. Clark.

“What’s all this?”

“This is what Timmy has been doing ever since you gave him the notation paper.”

Mrs. Clark thumbed through the stack, first nervously, then with interest and amazement.

“He did all this in a week?” She asked in astonishment.

“Oh, this is just a portion. It’s all he does anymore. It doesn’t seem normal…” she broke off hesitantly.

Mrs. Clark’s face was now lit with excitement.

“Can I keep these for today? I’d like to play them and see what they sound like.”

Mrs. Tucker reached for the papers. “Timmy doesn’t know I took them, so I should probably get them back before he knows they are gone.” A hand grasped hers, keeping her from taking the music.

Then a gentle subdued voice, Mrs. Clark asked, “Can I make a copy of all of this?”

Mrs. Tucker drew back her hand. “Do you have any idea what’s happening to Timmy?”

“No, I don’t. I’ve been a bit…” she hesitated, “…disturbed by his behavior lately, but this may be an explanation, or at least part.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, as I understand it, most child composers began earlier than Timmy, but perhaps he has simply come to it late. Perhaps he is a musical genius.”

A tear rolled down Mrs. Tucker’s cheek. “I hope that’s all it is. He’s so distracted and strange.”

Mrs. Clark carefully imposed professionalism had melted to reveal a warm human beneath.

“I’m sure you’re worried. I’ve been concerned myself, to be honest, but I haven’t been sure how to approach you about this.”

“I have a friend who teaches at Julliard. Would you mind if I showed these to him and get another opinion?”

“That would be okay.”

Mrs. Clark patted Mrs. Tucker’s hand. “I’m sure it will all be fine.”

Neither one of them was really convinced of that, but as adults often do, they pretended to believe it.