A few months before graduation, Palmer had married Anna Krause, an art student he’d met at Interlochen. Anna was not nearly as talented an artist as Dave. But they did share at least two qualities: Both were extremely fertile and both were—for that day—exemplary Catholics, which led to a family of formidable proportions.
A few of their nine children were baptized by Father Koesler. The Palmers and Koesler kept in contact only sporadically. When not distracted by his family, Palmer was kept busy at the DSO. He had time for little else.
Even though they saw each other infrequently, Koesler was proud of his former classmate and bragged to anyone who seemed interested about his friend—his one and only acquaintance in the DSO.
Koesler was not particularly surprised at the number of children produced by Dave and Anna. Those were the days when faithful Catholics were grateful Pope Pius XII had discovered the rhythm system of family planning . . . even though it didn’t work for some— among that number, Dave and Anna.
Anna, like so many other wives of that era, hardly ever got out of her “eternity” clothes.
The peculiar fact that Dave was both a musician and father of a considerable number of children reminded Koesler of a true story then passing through clerical circles. It involved a suburban parish’s music director who was father to thirteen children. At a parish meeting, the music director complained about the quality of instrument he was forced to use, and he pleaded for a new and better organ. This prompted one of the ladies of the Altar Society to comment rather loudly that he seemed to be doing pretty well with the organ he had.
In any case, upon acceptance, Dave Palmer was assigned a seat in the second violin section. As far as Dave was concerned, this was a satisfactory beginning. But he had plans.
In that, he was not alone. While many members of symphony orchestras are content to remain at that professional level for the length of their professional lives—occasionally making lateral arabesques from one orchestra to another—some considered their orchestras mere springboards to further musical heights. Among the latter was Dave Palmer.
Palmer’s plan, not infeasible, considering his talent and education, was to move up: to the first violin section, to concertmaster, to featured soloist, to director of his own orchestra. Eventually, like Toscanini, Stokowski, Beecham, Koussevitsky, von Karajan, Munch, Bernstein, Solti, Reiner, Leinsdorf, Giulini, and Dorati, to become a household word. At least in the better houses.
However, he had not counted on Ridley C. Groendal. Palmer had no reason to do so. He should have.
Realistically, Groendal had no way of blocking Palmer’s entry to the DSO. That had happened much too early in Ridley’s career, long before his power had emerged to any degree. Besides, there really was little argument that Palmer was good enough to be a member of a major symphony orchestra. The only question was how far his talent might take him. It was to this question that Groendal effectively addressed himself.
In a sense, it was Ridley’s easiest victory. Groendal was powerfully motivated to make Palmer a victim. As far as Groendal was concerned, Dave ranked first, at least chronologically, as an instrument that had changed and ruined Ridley’s life.
Further, Palmer existed for the world of music, the strongest of Ridley’s critical fields and the one for which he would become best known.
Once Groendal was completely established at the New York Herald, it had been almost child’s play to torpedo Palmer’s musical career. Harshly negative reviews, ignoring important concerts, the almost unique instance of singling out Palmer as the cause of a failed orchestral performance; anticipating Palmer’s occasional auditions for other orchestras and reminding the pertinent music directors of Palmer’s many “failings.”
Added to all of this was Ridley’s enormous sway with not a few other critics. All in all, Groendal enjoyed being able to keep much of his clout in reserve and still make Palmer run in tight frustrating circles within the DSO’s structure.
A few weeks before Ridley’s death, Koesler had been invited to the Palmers’ for dinner. It was not the sort of invitation that Koesler welcomed. He’d been through it occasionally and invariably had endured an evening of the couple’s petty bickering, recriminations, arguments, and sullenness.
From time to time he wondered why the Palmers did not simply divorce. Their brood had grown up and moved away. The two were left grousing and generally dissecting each other. He wondered if they might be the embodiment of that fictional couple who filed for a divorce in their nineties. The judge, at a loss, asked how long they’d been married. Seventy-five years, they said. Then why had they waited so long for this action? They had been waiting, they replied, for their children to die.
If the Palmers were waiting to bury their nine children, they had many years of connubial misery ahead of them.
“Would Father like more spaghetti and meatballs?” Anna Palmer asked Koesler, preparatory to clearing the table for dessert.
“No, no, that’s fine, Anna.” Koesler was grateful he’d gotten through the single serving Anna had heaped on his plate. The overcooked spaghetti had been dry. He knew he would have trouble digesting it. And the meatballs reminded him of that old TV commerciaclass="underline" “’Atsa some spicy meataball.”
He wondered how Palmer, with his ulcer, could stomach all that spice. Having experienced Anna’s cooking many times in the past, Koesler had downed his glass of Chianti before taking a first bite of anything, hoping the dry red would make more palatable what would follow. He thought it had helped.
“You want more, honey?” Anna asked her husband.
“No. And why the hell do you put so much spice in those meatballs? You know I’ve got an ulcer!”
“You and your ‘hell’ with a priest in the house! Besides, if you didn’t baby that ulcer so much, it wouldn’t bother you so much.”
Dave tossed his napkin on the table in disgust. “I’m not in a contest with the damn ulcer. I’m not trying to conquer it. It won a long time ago. I’m just trying to live with it. And all that spice isn’t helping.”
It seemed that Anna did not hear all that he’d said. While he was speaking, she was rattling the dishes in the sink. They both finished at about the same time. She took from the refrigerator three servings of red Jello and put them on the table. For the first time Koesler wondered about the truth of the motto, “There’s always room for Jello.” Perhaps not, he thought, after one of Anna’s meals. But, out of politeness, he would try.
“Will you be coming to the concert, Bob?” Dave asked.
“Which one?”
“The Midwest Chamber Players.” Dave seemed miffed that there was any doubt as to which concert was under consideration.
“Oh, yes.” Koesler acknowledged he should have known Dave had to be referring to his baby rather than the DSO. “I remember now. It’s going to be right after Christmas. Gee, I don’t know, Dave. Even if I’m not busy that night, I’m sure I’ll be beat. That’s a very busy season for Santa and for me. But I’ll try.”
“I wish you would, Bob. Chamber music needs all the support it can get. After all, this isn’t Minneapolis. Chamber never caught on here in Detroit as it should have.”
“There you go,” Anna cut in, “nagging our guest. Can’t you let the man eat in peace?”
“I’m not nagging! I just asked Bob if he planned on going to our concert.”
“That’s nagging. And what’s with this ‘Bob’? The man’s a holy priest of God. Why don’t you call Father ‘Father’?”
“For God’s sake, Anna, we grew up together! He’s a classmate, for God’s sake!”
“There you go, taking God’s name in vain. Breaking the Second Commandment. And a priest right here in the same room!”