The Song Trunk

“What is our gift? What is our legacy? It isn’t our own, you know, that would be too easy. Hidden deep inside us is an answer, honestly. In this world, can we really know? Do you know me?” Alfred Hopkins

Rock Haven is a small up-state New York town, about sixty miles north of Manhattan. It has a train station, an old movie theatre, a newspaper owned by the Haley family, and a small liberal arts college. Rock Haven College is known for its music program and attracts many bright musicians and composers of the future. This is the story of one such student.
Eric Haley got the story after the office had closed. He wanted to make sure that when he took over the Gazette that he didn’t wind up being there 24/7. But as he was about t head out the door, the phone rang. You would think that an obituary could wait until the next day, after all where was the dead guy going to go? This was a professor at the college and it would be cheesy to get scooped on this one. So the briefcase was reopened, dinner with Liz Anne was off and Eric began to type on his laptop:
“Alfred R. Hopkins, a respected English Professor at Rock Haven College, died suddenly of a heart attack. He was 62 years old. He leaves his wife of 32 years, Audrey, and a brother Arnold Hopkins of Sayville, Long Island. A memorial service will be held this Wednesday at 10 AM.”

“Nothing to it,” Eric thought. And then he thought about it, and the thought bothered him. There had to be more to Hopkins than he went to work, paid his taxes, and died. But what?

Audrey Hopkins doesn’t look 60 years old. But she is, and now a widow at that. She is going through Alfred’s belongings, his clothes, jewelry, golf clubs, books and his old steamer trunk. Everywhere the Hopkins lived that trunk went along. Audrey never complained. The trunk was old and appeared to be rusted shut, and as far as she knew there wasn’t a key. The story was that Alfred’s grandfather had everything he owned in it when he immigrated and the trunk had a special place in Alfred’s heritage. Audrey was still weak with grief and so she did what she thought best. Everything now had a price tag, after the wake, and burial, the estate sale would begin.

Bill Camp was a sophomore at Rock Haven College. Known as a gifted musician, and budding composer, Bill struggled with his ego. He was the type to brood in his creativity and spent most of his time on the piano. Bill’s ego caught the eye of many a professor and Alfred Hopkins was no exception. Camp wrote in an essay on the creative process that “music is a talent, an almost mystical gift bestowed on a select few to give pleasure to one self, and if gifted enough, to others.”
Bill received a decent grade on the essay but in the margin in green pen was a question: “Do you ever wonder where the gift comes from?” He wondered, why would he write such a thing? But Bill put off the question, and now staring him in the face was Hopkins’s obituary in the morning paper.

The rain poured down on the church that morning. There were a few people lining the pews. Some colleagues, students, family, and friends were among the mourners. Pastor Sanborn gave the eulogy which included lines from a poem written by Hopkins: “What is our gift? What is our legacy? It isn’t our own, you know, that would be too easy. Hidden deep inside us is an answer, honestly. In this world, can we really know? Do you know me?”
Bill listened to the poem and wondered who Professor Hopkins’s really was. Audrey smiled bravely, with tears running down her face. She thought of the sacrifice that her husband made. Then she felt that Alfred’s legacy was cheated and that no one could know who he really was.

Bill was sorting laundry. Then he took off to the Haven Mat. The laundry where he spent a lot of time writing, and a lot of quarters washing. On the way he noticed neatly printed yard sale signs. Visions of discarded musical instruments filled his mind. And so he jotted down the address, loaded his laundry, and went on his mission. He came to the house a large yellow Victorian with white, picket fence. As his eyes scanned the yard for instruments his eyes met a familiar face. He recognized her from the memorial service. There were many people in the yard. He opened the gate and an old trunk caught his eye. The initials A.R.H. in gold paint and the wooden frame gave the piece a distinct antique feel. He thought it would look pretty cool in his room. As he continued to look at the trunk he heard a voice from behind him, “If you move that trunk out of my yard, young man, I’d be grateful.” “How much do want for itâÂ?¦Mrs. Hopkins?” They agreed on 20 dollars. Then Bill tried to say something but didn’t know how to say it, “Sorry for you loss, Ma’am.” She nodded sadly, “Did you know my husband, young man?” ‘I had him for English last semester.” “What are you majoring in?” Bill answered proudly, “Music- Music Composition.” ‘Oh,” Audrey laughed. Alfred loved music. He wanted to be a composer himself, you know.” Bill was surprised. “No, I didn’t know that ma’am,” laughing a bit nervously. “Do me a favor, please call me Audrey, ma’am sounds like I’m your grandma, sonny.” They both laughed at her teasing. “Well Audrey, my name is Bill Camp.” Just then, Bill saw Gordy, whom he knew from school, Gordy Amato also known as “the yard sale rat.” “Hey Gordy, wait up, Got your truck? Bye, Audrey.”

As Gordy and Bill carried the trunk up the two flights of stairs, they heard something rustling inside. “Maybe its treasure that Hopkins stored in here,” Gordy joked. “Stop messing around Gordy andâÂ?¦” Gordy lost his grip, he quickly scurried between the falling trunk and the banister. “Geronimo!” he hollered. As it hit he tile floor at the bottom, the hinges popped open and the contents spilled throughout the stairway. Bill picked up the papers one by one. Every piece looked as if written by a master music arranger. Beautiful music notation handwritten in the manuscript caught Bill’s eye, and then as he looked closer to the left of each title: “Music and Lyrics by Alfred R. Hopkins.” Bill looked at Gordy, and Gordy’s eyes grew when he saw the name. “Hey Camp,” Gordy quickly said, “I just remembered I’ve got to meet someone-see ya.”

For weeks as he prepared and practiced , Bill pulled out a piece of music written by the professor. The melodies came alive as he played the intricate chords and emotional melodies. His practice became devotion, as if there were more meaning then words could express. One evening, his eyes moved from the chords and notes to the lyric and instead of just playing he found himself singing the words. The spring concert was in three weeks. Bill who had perfected the piece he had planned had abruptly changed his mind. He entered the music wing that morning, hesitant to tell his music advisor, Professor Harlan Myers about changing pieces. After he told Meyers the professor looked at him sternly, after a long pregnant pause, “Three weeks, Mr. Camp. Six months of work out the window. Alright then play me your replacement!” Nervously fidgeting, Bill felt like the days when he played Mozart at recitals. He sat at the piano, took a deep breath, and played the Hopkins’s piece. Then he sang the verses ,the notes circled the practice room echoing, and resonating and then it was done. Meyer’s looked up from his legal pad. There was a pause and then Meyer’s brow wrinkled. “Too religious, Mr. Camp, Back to the Berlioz,” Meyers stood and reached for the door. Bill nodded, then, stood up abruptly with resolve, “A few months ago, I would have been right with you. But this music is not religious, sir. It’s about a relationship.” Meyers suppressed a laugh. “Don’t you conduct the Hallelujah Chorus each year, Professor?” “That’s tradition Mr. Camp. That’s Handel, Mr. Camp, who wrote your piece? I don’t believe I’ve heard it before. Bill handed the folder to his Professor. Meyers gasped-“Hopkins?”

The auditorium at Rock Haven College holds five hundred. The seats for faculty and staff were roped off. As in college tradition there was an empty seat for a member of faculty who died. Seated beside Hopkins’s empty seat was Audrey Hopkins. For 22 years Audrey accompanied her husband to the spring concert. Audrey had no idea that Alfred would indeed be present on this emotional night. Dean Charles Robert stood up and walked to the microphone. “Good evening, welcome to Rock Haven College’s annual spring concert. Every year our students display their musical skills which have grown from the fall semester until tonight. This year I believe that you will be pleased. I would like to pay tribute to our fallen colleague and professor, Alfred Hopkins. We feel honored to have his lovely widow, Audrey Hopkins here this evening. The crowd rose in applause, Audrey stood waving with tears streaming down her face. Audrey longed to feel the clasp of her husbands hand as she sat down. And then the curtain rose. A near empty stage, a silhouette of a grand piano, and a bar stool. Sitting at the piano Audrey recognized Bill Camp. The man sitting on the stool was Harlan Meyers. She remembered Meyers and how Alfred prayed for him that Meyers would come to the Lord. Alfred had told Harlan about his own relationship but stopped trying after many rejections. Then she remembered Alfred playing the piano and singing in their living room. She remembered the melody well and had to catch herself humming. Then the spotlight panned to Meyers who said: “Tonight our concert is dedicated to Professor Alfred Hopkins, who spoke to my student, William Camp through music. I believe that it is interesting that an English Teacher could have made such a musical impression on a music major, much more than I have or quite frankly can have.” Then Bill started playing the piece. Audrey’s heart raced as she was listening to Bill play the piece she was just humming! Then Harlan Meyers began to sing, “Who am I in Christ?” Then the song was finished, Audrey turned to look at the crowd, not a dry eye in the house. The rest of the concert went on with an orchestra, chorus and several other ensembles and soloists and then it was all over.

As the auditorium emptied several people embraced Audrey. Then finally it was Bill Camp. “Mrs. Hopkins? I mean Audrey.” She turned around slowly and exclaimed, “Mr. Camp! I mean Bill. Thank you for playing that piece that Alfred wrote, I had forgotten the melody and hearing it brought back many memories.” Bill smiled, “That was one of many, you know.” “What? Where on earth did you find these in his office?” “No”, Bill explained “there is treasure in that trunk-his heart, his music, his testimony.” Audrey thought, “If I held on to that trunk the songs would have just remained buried. But they are giving so many people the message Alfred held deeply to personally, but was shot down with publicly.” Behind them still on the stage looking on is Meyers. He’s too far away to eavesdrop and his eyes aren’t good enough to read lips. But he can read expressions. As he sits at the piano watching Audrey and Bill he wants to call out to them to voice his approval. But this is her moment. He tinkles on the piano then with that patented raised brow breaks in to an encore of the song that was played from the song trunk.