The Conductor’s Grandson

Myrtle looked up at the behemoth of a building that contained her grandson’s office and tutted.

“An entire city block and not a single bench,” she said to no one in particular. A young lady with her froufrou fluffball dog in a harness walked by. A flautist, certainly. Whatever happened to old-fashioned dog collars? The flautist and her dog sped away. Myrtle was exhausted just watching.

Nothing doing, she’d have to go inside. It mucked up her plan to avoid Tyler noticing her, but her knees wouldn’t let her stand here all day. 

Myrtle walked up to the sliding door, but it didn’t open. She stepped to the side, then back, then forward again. Beside the door was a little black box, just like the one at Tyler’s apartment. She waved at it in case it was one of those camera doorbells. 

Tyler’s wife Kiran said she hadn’t seen any other woman on the doorbell camera. At least if Myrtle’s grandson was having an affair, he was sneaky enough to avoid his own home. Through the front door, anyway. 

Spotting her moment, Myrtle slipped through the front door as a woman in a red suit exited. She looked Indian, with tawny skin and thick hair tamed into a chignon, like Kiran. Just Tyler’s type. Could she be the cause? 

“Ma’am, this is not a public building,” a security guard said. Lanky. Good breath support evident in his tone. Smiling even when trying to be stern. She’d give him a trombone, if he asked. 

“I’m just here visiting my grandson,” Myrtle replied. 

“You need to sign in, then,” the security guard said. 

Myrtle continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “But he works such long hours, and I don’t want to interrupt him at his desk, so I’ll just sit here on this couch until he’s ready. Here, will you help me sit?” 

She didn’t really need help sitting but she’d once heard on the radio that asking someone for a small favour encouraged them to help you with a big one. Or at least it could distract the security guard for long enough to think of a name. A single bench outside the building would have prevented this problem. She patted the guard’s hand. “Be a dear and bring the book over here?”

Rather than the clipboard she’d expected, he brought an iPad. 

“I can’t type without my glasses. You’ll need to put it in for me.” 

“Who’re you here to see?”

“My grandson, young man. Don’t you listen?” 

“His name, please.” 

“Tyler,” Myrtle said, and immediately regretted it. She didn’t want Tyler to know she’d been spying on him. She thought of the friends her grandson had had when was young. “Steven Tyler.” Three Stevens in his class; there must be at least one here in this monstrous complex.

“And your name?” The security guard’s fingers flew over the keyboard, but his mouth quirked as if trying to contain a laugh. 

“Cecile Chaminade,” Myrtle said, confident that her pseudonym wouldn’t be discovered. 

“Like the composer?” the not-trombonist asked. 

Myrtle inspected him from head to toe. Six foot two and lanky he may be, but those nimble fingers would be wasted on an instrument with no keys. Add knowledge of obscure French composers and an irrepressible desire to be right to a stranger, and she could only reach one conclusion.  

“You’re a flautist.”

The security guard blushed. “No ma’am, but my sister is. She used to practice that piece until I wanted to stuff cotton balls through the keyholes. It’s pretty if you don’t listen to it three hours a day though.” 

Myrtle took out a business card and forced it into the security guard’s hand. Sister, indeed. 

“If your sister ever needs her flute repaired or cleaned, send her my way. I’ve been fixing instruments for 70 years.” 

“You’re not still working?”

Myrtle kept her eye on the glass door. Someone was coming. Someone whose even-tempoed-despite-his-refusal-to-participate-in-marching-band gait she’d know anywhere. 

“My youngest son mostly runs the shop these days. I’d hoped my grandson would take over the family business one day but alas! He can’t even play chopsticks on the piano.” Myrtle stood — with a minimal groan, she was proud to say — and scurried to the washroom. She listened at the door until she hear the telltale swoosh of the outer doors. When she returned to the lobby, she found a bewildered security guard. 

“I forgot, my grandson said he was working at home today. My memory’s not what it used to be. And after I came all this way… Don’t forget to give your sister my card!” She waved as she followed Tyler onto the street. 

Tyler’s large duffel bag bounced as he dodged commuters, dog walkers and a food-delivery man who’d chosen the sidewalk as his personal bike path. Myrtle quickly realized the flaw in her plan to track her grandson discreetly. It wasn’t the discretion but the following that was the problem.

By the time Myrtle beat the flashing red hand across the street, Tyler’s dapper suit blended into the grey city around him. Winded, she sat on a bus bench and watched Tyler disappear. She’d promised Kiran she’d find out what Tyler was up to. An affair, gambling, drugs… he was keeping secrets. And what was in that duffel bag? The secrets needed to stop for the sake of Tyler’s happiness – and the whole family’s. 

Then, like the flute in Beethoven’s Sixth announcing the triumphant return of the sun after a thunderstorm, a familiar short blue bus drew close. 

Myrtle waved frantically at the driver, who pulled the handibus straight to Myrtle’s feet. As the bus knelt before her, a comforting voice rose above the beeping of the bus. 

“What are you doing all the way out here, Myrtle?” Frank the bus driver asked. Frank was a trim, red-faced man whose greying hair matched the checkered pattern on his tie. Younger than Myrtle, but who wasn’t these days? He drove the handibus route on Tuesdays, taking elderly citizens to appointments or wherever they needed. Normally, you needed to phone first but sometimes you might just get lucky.

Only one other person was on the bus, a white-haired old lady carrying a large purse. 

“Are you coming or going?” Myrtle asked. 

“I’m in no hurry,” the woman replied. “Just chatting with Frank here on my way home from the orthopedic surgeon about my hip. You see, my hip bone has fused to—” 

“In that case,” Myrtle interrupted, pointing at her grandson’s drab jacket, “follow that man!” She could describe medical issues as well as anyone, but she was in too much of a hurry for politeness. Especially towards a clarinet player, who could probably expound for hours. 

The bus beeped back up to full height. Frank didn’t blink at Myrtle’s request, which made her wonder about other seniors’ demands. Tyler stopped at a red light, tapping his foot. The bus trundled along through traffic, barely able to catch up. At least they wouldn’t lose sight of him. 

“What kind of crazy quest you on today?” Frank asked as he deftly avoided a cyclist. 

“You’re so nimble,” Myrtle said. “You should really join us for dancing at the seniors’ centre.”

“Dancing?” the clarinet replied. “I could use a good foxtrot partner. It’s been ages.”

“I thought your hip…” Myrtle said. “It must cause you a lot of pain.” 

“Oh no, it doesn’t hurt at all. All the nerves are gone you see, and–”

“Oh,” Myrtle interrupted again. “Can you lead?”

“Follow only,” the woman said. Myrtle looked longingly at Frank, who looked to be a sprightly 75 to the clarinet’s 85. And importantly, a man. Who presumably knew how to lead a foxtrot or a waltz.

“Why are we following that young man of yours?” Frank asked. “Want me to honk so he stops?”

“No!” Myrtle shouted. Or almost shouted. Her lung capacity wasn’t what it used to be. “No,” she continued in a more normal tone. “I’ll catch up with Tyler after he gets where he’s going. But seeing me could change where he’s going, and then I couldn’t find out.” 

“Up to no good, is he?” asked the clarinet.

“Probably,” Myrtle admitted. “I promised his wife I’d find out. He’s been disappearing at odd hours, refusing to say where he’s been. Odd deposits and withdrawals from their bank account.”

“Sounds like gambling,” said Frank.

“Or drugs,” said the woman. 

“I think it’s a woman,” Myrtle said. “I thought we’d raised him right but when he started hanging out with all those hockey boys… bad influences, you know. Gave him a big head. He thought the rules didn't apply to him.” As she always did when she talked about Tyler’s teenage years, she squashed the feeling that he had been the bad influence, encouraging his friends to skip class and sass their teachers and cheat on their girlfriends. “Wish he’d joined the school orchestra instead.”

But while Tyler had been the best hockey player in his high school and had even been drafted to the juniors, he never made the NHL. He’d settled into university and gotten a sales job where his friendly overconfidence earned him high commissions. Five years later, he met and married Kiran, a decidedly good influence.

“My daughter was like that. A good girl, respectful, good student…a clarinet player, you know. Until she met those soccer players. At first, they’re all giggles and team spirit, but then it turns to backtalk and worse.”

“And you wouldn’t know anything about that, I’m sure,” Myrtle said, and then, “Stop! He’s going in! I need to get off!”

With a nod, Frank pulled the little bus to the nearest open space. Myrtle pressed her nose as close to the window as her eyeglasses would allow, trying to track Tyler’s turn.

The bus hissed as it stopped. With a final farewell and repeated invitation to Frank – and a snub to the clarinet, whose following skills really weren’t needed – Myrtle emerged from the bus. 

It was a public building this time– no locks.

Myrtle scanned the list of tenants in the directory. An eye doctor. An exploratory gold company. Not a woman, then. This was a professional building. And there, in unit 301, occupying floors 3, 4 and 5 were B & B’s Studios. 

Had she accidentally followed Tyler to a routine eye exam? Or could he be wasting money on gold speculation? But neither of those would explain late nights or the giant duffel bag he carried, which was definitely not heavy enough to contain gold bars. She pushed the button for the elevator. 

A young man joined her. He was wearing, of all things, a cloak, and carrying not only an oboe case but also–

“Is that a lute?” Myrtle demanded. 

“None other,” the man replied. “We’re recording a great set tonight. Hobbit core.” 

“Hobbit core?” Myrtle repeated the gibberish slowly. She followed the man into the elevator and let him select the floor.

“Yeah, you know. Pop songs with medieval instruments. Lutes, fifes, hautbois. Oboe, I mean, technically but it’s the closest we can get. It does really well on Spotify and TikTok.”

“You play both?” Myrtle asked, ignoring the modern fluff for the real content. 

“I’m just on lute,” the cloaked man replied. “My friend Ty plays the oboe but he doesn’t have a good spot to store it at home, so I bring it for him.” 

Myrtle eyed the cloak-wearer suspiciously. An oboe case took up no more room than a record player. A gallon of milk. Four mid-sized books. How could someone not have room for an oboe case? 

The elevator dinged as it reached the third floor. Myrtle stared at the sign: B & B’s Recording Studies, with a logo boasting a microphone and violin. On the wall behind was a chessboard of grey baffles to dampen sound. 

“Break a leg,” she said to the man. She let the doors close again and rode the elevator back to the ground floor. This building didn’t have a security guard but it did have a bench, which Myrtle took advantage of while pondering her next steps. 

She didn’t know for certain which business Tyler was frequenting, but all signs seemed to point towards her hockey-playing, too-cool-for-school, music-shop-hating grandson’s mysterious errand being inside a recording studio.

Where had they gone wrong? She and Wilfred had spent years building up their business. They’d successfully instilled a love of music into their children. Two of the three had gone on to marry musicians, but for some reason, this one black sheep grandchild had refused even the elementary school recorder. If anyone had dared suggest he touch a violin or a trumpet — and he’d have made a wonderful trumpet with that ego of his — he’d run away to shoot pucks at the garage door. 

And yet, here he was at a recording studio. Probably. Myrtle had to know for certain. 

She called the elevator yet again and waited for the familiar ding. If she’d had perfect pitch, she might have labelled it an E flat, but sadly without her tuner her guess was as good (or as bad) as anyone’s. 

The recording studio’s front desk was empty. No way to run a business, leaving your potential customers to roam around unwelcomed and unmonitored, but it worked for Myrtle’s purposes. The soundproofing in the hallway was quite effective but of course imperfect. She passed three rooms of rock guitars and drums until she heard something a little more familiar. 

And there it was, in all its unexpected glory: hobbit core. The lutist wore his green cloak proudly. A young woman with long braids and oversized sleeves played a fiddle. Another woman played a hand drum. 

Front and centre, holding the oboe that apparently didn’t fit in his three bedroom townhouse, was Tyler. Like the others, he was dressed in medieval garb. No cloak, but his trousers were a loose fit and his tunic neckline was secured with twine. The contrast between this and his hockey jersey was unbearable. At least his flowing locks, which Myrtle was used to seeing dangling from his hockey helmet, fit this aesthetic equally well. 

It wasn’t enough to see. She had to hear. Was he any good? 

Two sound booths were attached to the room. A man wearing a polo shirt with the B & B Records label on it stood in one, holding a set of headphones to one ear. The other was empty. 

Myrtle snuck in, crouching as low as she could. If anyone had looked to their left, they certainly would have seen her because crouching below window height was impossible, but luckily their focus remained on their sound. 

A jaunty tune filled the air. Myrtle vaguely recognized the melody though she couldn’t remember the lyrics out of context like this. The lutist showcased his dexterity, the drummer kept a perfect beat, and the fiddle’s tone was sweet and melancholy all at once. 

And there, in the middle with a sweet, melodious tone, precise rhythm and a delighted expression, was Tyler on his oboe. 

Myrtle had never been a fan of oboes. Oh, she could repair them. Bent keys, twisted posts, sticky and detached pads… they were her bread and butter. But when played poorly – or even sometimes when played well – an oboe far too often quacked like a duck. Its comedic tone grated on Myrtle’s nerves more than the screech of a beginner violinist ever could. 

But this – this was good. Tyler hadn’t just picked this up weeks ago. This was years, if not a decade or more of practice. 

The quartet’s entrances were precise, their cuts perfect, their instruments in tune. Tears welled up in Myrtle’s eyes. Not for the beauty of the music – she listened to it every day, after all, and didn’t go around crying every time she heard something professionally done – but for the missed opportunities. 

Sure, she’d attended hundreds of Tyler’s hockey games and practices. She’d watched him shoot and score and pass with perfect timing – which, in hindsight, should have been a clue. She’d cheered him on and celebrated his victories and commiserated his losses. 

But they didn’t get to have fun together. They didn’t get to play for the same team and make something better than themselves. Suddenly, Myrtle felt almost angry with her grandson for depriving her of the chance to make music together. 

“And that’s a wrap,” the drummer said. “A few touchups, and we’ll get this up on Spotify.” 

“All we need is 600,000 streams and we’ll break even,” the fiddler said. “Lucky Ty bankrolled us with all his big sales guy money or we’d never get this recording time.”

Another brief rush of rage bubbled up, this time at how very little musicians got paid. It had always been bad, but online music had made it worse. 

Tyler shrugged. “I can afford it.”

“As long as Kiran doesn’t find out,” the lutist teased. “You’re like… reverse Superman. Cool, rich sales guy by day… closet Clark Kent at night.” 

Tyler shrugged again as he twisted the bell off the bottom of his oboe. “We did good today, guys. Maybe some of the twiddly passages could use some work, but this is basically Spotify ready. ” 

Myrtle realized the significance of Tyler dropping the weighted end of his cleaning cloth through his oboe. She’d stayed too long.

As quietly as she could, she snuck back out to the hallway, closing the door softly behind her. 

Waiting for the elevator, she tapped her foot to the rhythm of the first piece they’d played. The lilting melody would stick with her for a long time. She glanced behind her though no footsteps had followed yet. Or would the baffles on the wall dampen even those? 

As the elevator doors closed behind her, Myrtle let out an uncontrolled sigh. Tyler hadn’t spotted her. Now she could reassure Kiran that she only needed to worry about sticky keys, not sticky fingers.