The remarkable young pianist Zacharias Jones was the subject of the adults’ conversation as he had been the subject of the luncheon but the young pianist himself was not much engaged. He, him, the boy he overheard, at a distance. Long he’d been adept at detaching himself from the attentions of others. In the roadside cafés where his hands had first discovered the piano keyboard he had begun knowing that it made little difference what others said, what others thought, there was only the music, finally. From Hazel Jones he’d learned to be both here and not-here simultaneously; how to smile even as your mind has retreated elsewhere. Zack behaved rudely and impatiently, at times. He would be forgiven, for he was a gifted young pianist: you had to assume he was playing music in his head. Hazel too played a continuous music in her head, but no one could guess what that music was.

During the lunch in the Conservatory dining room Zack had glanced up at Hazel Jones, to see her watching him. She’d smiled, and winked so that no one else could see, and Zack had blushed, looking quickly away.

They had no need to speak. What was between them could not be uttered in words.

Make his debut. Zacharias Jones would make his debut in February 1969 with the Delaware Chamber Orchestra among whom there were few musicians younger than eighteen.

February 1969! At the luncheon, Hazel had laughed uneasily saying it seemed so far off, what if something happened to…

Others looked at Hazel so quizzically, Zack knew that his mother had misspoken.

Gallagher intervened. Showing his devil’s-point teeth in a smile remarking that February 1969 would be here quickly enough.

Zack would play a concerto, yet to be chosen. The orchestra conductor would be working closely with him of course.

Feeling at that moment a sensation of alarm, the cold taste of panic. If he failed…

Afterward, Hazel Jones had touched his arm, lightly. They would allow the others to walk ahead through the park. It was a wan warm sepia-tinted autumn afternoon. Hazel paused to admire swans, both dazzling white and black, with red bills, paddling in the lagoon in surges of languid energy.

How the company of those others oppressed them! Almost, they could not breathe.

After the previous evening’s recital, Gallagher had hugged Zack and kissed the top of his head playfully saying he should be damned proud of himself. Zack had been pleased, but embarrassed. He was deeply in love with Gallagher yet shy and self-conscious in the man’s presence.

Pride puzzled Zack Jones! He had never understood what pride was.

Nor did Hazel seem to know. When she’d been a Christian girl she’d been taught that pride is a sin, pride goeth before a fall. Pride is dangerous, isn’t it?

“Pride is for other people, Zack. Not us.”

Zack was thinking of this when he saw the man in work clothes, at the edge of the roadway. The park was not very populated, traffic moved on the road slowly, intermittently. No one in view was dressed in work clothes except this individual who was staring at Hazel as if trying to decide if he knew her.

It was not unusual for strangers to stare at Hazel Jones in public but there was something different about this individual, Zack felt the danger.

Yet he said nothing to his mother.

Now the man had decided to approach Hazel, and was walking toward her with surprising swiftness. Suddenly you could see that he was a man who acts with his body. Though he looked unhealthy with his caved-in chest and boiled face yet he was not weak, and he was not indecisive. Like a wolf coming up swiftly and noiselessly behind a deer, that has not yet sensed its presence. The man made his way slantwise across a patch of grass in which please! do not walk on the grass was prominently displayed, and along the graveled path. Massive plane trees bordered the path and sun fell in coin-sized splotches on pedestrians as they passed beneath.

There was something of the deer to Hazel Jones in her high-heeled shoes and stylish straw hat, and there was something of the wolf, coarse-haired, ungainly, to the man in work clothes. Fascinating to Zack to see his mother through this stranger’s eyes: the scintillant chestnut-red hair, lacquered flash of red nails and red mouth. The perfect posture, high-held head. For luncheon in the elegant Conservatory dining room Hazel had worn a very pale beige linen suit with several strands of pearls and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a green velvet ribbon. Zack had noticed people looking at her, in admiration; but no one had stared rudely. After the Rochester Young Pianists’ Competition when Zack, the youngest performer, had received a special citation from the judges, photographs of the honored pianists and their parents were taken and one of the photographers had told Hazel, “You’re so beautiful with your hair and skin tone, you should certainly wear black.” And Hazel had laughed, disdainfully, “Black! Black is for mourning, and I’m not in mourning.”

Now the man in work clothes had caught up to Hazel and was speaking with her. Zack saw his mother turn to stare at him, startled.

“Ma’am? Excuse me?”

Blindly Hazel groped for Zack, who stood out of reach.

He saw the panic in her face. He saw her frightened eyes inside the Hazel Jones mask.

“Just I’m wondering if-if you know me? Like do I look like anybody you know, ma’am? My name is Gus Schwart.”

Quickly Hazel shook her head no. She would regain her composure, smiling her polite, wary smile.

Ahead, Gallagher and the others had not noticed. They continued on, in the direction of the hotel.

“Ma’am, I’m real sorry to bother you. But you look familiar to me. Used to live in Milburn? It’s a small town maybe a few hundred miles east of here, on the Erie Canal? I went to school there…”

Hazel stared at him so blankly, the man began to falter. His scabby face flushed red. He tried to smile, as an animal might smile showing yellowed, raggedy teeth.

Zack stood close by to protect his mother but the man took not the slightest interest in him.

Hazel was saying apologetically no she didn’t know him, she didn’t know Milburn.

“I been sick, ma’am. I ain’t been well. But now I’m over it, and I…”

Hazel was tugging at Zack’s arm, they would make their escape. The man in work clothes swiped at his mouth, embarrassed. Yet he could not let them go, he followed them for a few yards, clumsy, stammering, “Just you look kind of-familiar, ma’am? Like somebody I used to know? My brother Herschel and me, and my sister Rebecca, we used to live in Milburn…I left in 1949.”

Tersely Hazel said over her shoulder, “Mister, I don’t think so. No.”

Mister was not a word Hazel Jones ordinarily used, not in this tone. There was something crude and dismissive in her speech, that was unlike Hazel Jones.

“Zack! Come on.”

Zack allowed himself to be pulled with Hazel, like a small child. He was stunned, unable to comprehend the encounter.

Not my father. Not that man.

His heart beat heavily, in disappointment.

Hazel pulled at Zack’s arm and he jerked it from her. She had no right to treat him as if he was five years old!

“Who was that man, Mom? He knew you.”

“No. He didn’t.”

“And you knew him. I saw that.”

“No.”

“You used to live in Milburn, Mom. You said so.”

Hazel spoke tight-lipped, not looking at him. “No. Chautauqua Falls. You were born in Chautauqua Falls.” She paused, panting. She seemed about to say more, but could not speak.

Zack would taunt his mother now. In the aftermath of the encounter in the park he felt strangely aroused, unsettled.

In the aftermath of the recital he was free to say, to do anything he wished.

He was furious at Hazel in her linen suit, pearls and wide-brimmed straw hat.