Death in the Choir (6 page)

“Right, Father,” he said quietly, and the priest rushed
away. Randall again pounded out the opening notes.
 

“If ye love me, keep my commandments,” sang the choir.
Randall stopped them dead at the end of the first line.

“
Someone
in
the soprano section is as flat as the proverbial pancake. If you cannot hit the
notes, then please don’t sing.”

Rebecca lightly poked Francesca in the ribs. “Guess
who?”

They went through the piece again. Patricia, Francesca
noted, continued braying flat notes at top volume. Randall cast Patricia a dark
look, but she apparently didn’t notice, since her eyes were glued to the music.
Mass began promptly at 10 with the choir singing the opening hymn. When it was
time for them to sing the psalm with men and women taking turns on the verses,
one of the basses, new to the choir, accidentally sang with the women. His
mistake prompted a look of unadulterated rage on Randall’s face. The man was
elbowed quickly by the men near him and silenced.

After he read the Gospel, Father William
Snortland
carefully adjusted the microphone, causing it to
emit a string of embarrassing sounds that sent two teen-agers in the back of
the church into a fit of hysterics. The main gist of his sermon was about
keeping Advent holy. He mentioned the wheel of the liturgical year. He said
that Advent and Lent were both times of preparation and penance. The wheel
brought to Francesca’s mind the image of a hamster wheel with a little furry
creature running on it.
Ignatius,
she
thought,
isn’t that the name of Father’s
hamster?
She tried to keep her mind on the thread of his sermon, but she
couldn’t get the image of the hamster out of her head.

Father William also mentioned a few words about the
rules related to genuflecting. Many of St. Rita’s parishioners, he said, were
growing lax in following the Church’s dictates. Francesca remembered that last
week he’d talked about the importance of dressing properly in church. Still, as
she surveyed the congregation this morning, she noticed that many people were
wearing blue jeans and sweatshirts.

Fifteen minutes later, as Francesca tried to stem her
tide of yawns, Father William ended his remarks. Next came the offertory
prayers and the hymn, and then, before long, the congregation headed to the
altar for Communion. After she had received Communion and completed her prayers,
Francesca sat studying the line of parishioners waiting to receive the
consecrated Host from the priest. She loved to see the way their expressions
softened afterwards.

When the choir stood up to sing the anthem, Francesca
silently said a prayer that it would go well. She knew from past experience
that her own actions could help prayers come true, so she decided to sing very
softly and let Rebecca take the lead.

“If ye love me, keep my commandments,” the choir sang,
“and I will pray the Father, and he will send you another comforter.”

Patricia seemed to be going out of her way to pronounce
each “r” in spades, but at least she was hitting the notes. And then it
happened. Just as the song was drawing to a climax, with the sopranos’ voices
soaring delicately skyward with the words “That he may bide with you forever,”
the organ emitted an unexpected, very loud noise. It sounded like a cross
between a groan and a moo. In the ensuing shock, many of the choir members lost
their places in the music. And although it seemed like an eternity, it was only
two seconds before Randall leapt from behind the organ and directed the rest of
the piece
a cappella.
 

When it was over, Rebecca whispered to Francesca, “Well,
we butchered that one, didn’t we?”

Randall wasn’t looking at the choir, Francesca noticed.
That’s a bad sign,
she thought. On the
days when it went well, he lavished praise on them. But when there were
mistakes, he usually grew silent and moody.
Maybe
I don’t want to get involved with a temperamental musician,
Francesca
reflected.
I think I’d rather have
someone more stable.
But at that moment, Patricia rushed up to Randall and
gave him a hug, and Francesca felt a surprisingly strong wave of jealously wash
over her.

“You were wonderful, but what happened to the organ?”
Patricia queried in a loud voice.

With what appeared to be a Herculean act of will,
Randall replied quietly through clenched teeth, “I have no idea.”

When Mass was over, as Francesca started gathering up
her music, she glanced toward the back door, where she saw Father William being
accosted by an angry parishioner.

“Let me get this straight, Father,” the man growled. “If
I genuflect wrong, that’s a sin. If I don’t dress right, that’s a sin. It looks
like the church is filled with potential land mines. Wouldn’t it be safer for
my soul if I just stayed home?”

Just then, Francesca saw a little girl -- who looked
about four years old -- running over to Father William, giggling. The child was
carrying a wrinkled piece of construction paper on which there were pasted
ragged cotton balls.

“I made this for you,” she said.
 

“It’s wonderful!” Father William exclaimed. He accepted
the gift and held it as if it were a sacred manuscript from the early centuries
of Christianity. Then he turned his attention back to the parishioner.

“I certainly didn’t mean to imply that, well, that not
genuflecting and dressing too casual were sins. What I meant to say was that…”

But at that minute, the child interrupted him, tugging
at his arm and pointing at the paper.

“Those are LAMBS, Father, like the ones Jesus
loves!”
 

Both men looked at each other and then at the child, and
Francesca saw them smile.
 

“The lambs are wonderful! Thank you!” Father William
said, reaching down to pat the child on her head.

Then he extended his hand to the man, who was staring a
bit sheepishly at the floor.

“I’m very glad you’re here at Mass, and I hope to see
you next week.”

“You got it, Father. No worries. And,
er
, uh, well, I’m sorry if I was a little steamed.”

Just then the child’s mother swooped down and retrieved
her.

“Come along, now, love,” the mother said. “We’re going
to light a candle for granny.”
 

The child took her mother's hand and they rushed away.

“Well, Father, you have a good week now,” the man said.

Father William smiled and nodded. He looked down at the
clumps of cotton on the paper.

“You too.”
 

* *
*

Father John came rushing down the aisle.
I’m dying for a cigarette,
he thought
. I’ll give them up as soon as the stress
around here dies down. After all, I’ll need my wits about me to handle the
barrage of complaints that will probably result from William’s performance
today.

“Father John.” He heard his voice being called rather
urgently by Randall. The priest stopped by the organ.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Father,” Randall said in a voice loud enough to startle
the parishioners who were still kneeling in the pews, praying. “I warned you
about the organ. It’s on its last legs. And the terrible noise it made today is
just the tip of the iceberg.”

Father John, his nerves frayed to the last thread,
didn’t appreciate the temper tantrum. He leaned closer to Randall and looked
him directly in the eyes.

“As I told you the other night,” he said slowly and
distinctly, “We can’t buy a new one now. So either accept the situation or
figure out a way to raise the money.” And then he said something he regretted
ten seconds later. “Or it might be time to find another job.”

Francesca
ladled a generous helping of punch into her glass and took a sip.
Good,
she thought
, it’s spiked to a razor-sharp edge.
She’d spent a few hours
preparing for the choir get-together, starting with a long, coconut-scented
soak in a bubble bath, while Tubs rested nearby on the bath mat. Still, she
felt apprehensive about the gathering, and figured the punch would relax her.

The
choir rehearsal get-together, held each year to prepare for Christmas, followed
a fairly predictable format. Thanks to Father William’s efforts, the choir had
been made well aware that Advent was a time to prepare spiritually for
Christmas, rather than to party, so there was a real effort to focus the
get-togethers on the music. Everyone studiously avoided using the word “party,”
but there was a thin line that sometimes was crossed. The evening opened with
light appetizers and drinks, then moved on to rehearsal at the piano with more
food and drinks to follow. Each year, the event was hosted by a volunteer from
the choir who happened to have a piano at home. This year, Molly Flowers was
the hostess.

Sipping
her punch, Francesca surveyed the room. She glanced surreptitiously at Randall,
who was standing in the dining room talking with Thomas White, one of the
tenors. They were known to lock horns on musical selections and she had seen
them walking to their cars after choir practice, gesturing rather fervently
about an apparent disagreement over choral matters she knew little about.
Judging by the color of Randall’s face
,
she thought,
he’s probably been dipping
somewhat freely into the punch bowl.

Patricia, her hair freshly streaked with golden
highlights,

was wearing a silky blouse and a snug black designer
skirt, short enough to show off her well-toned calves. She was engulfed in her
own private cloud of expensive cologne, and her fingernails were gleaming with
a blood-red polish that precisely matched her lipstick. As she dipped the ladle
into the punch bowl, she gave Francesca a frosty little smile.

“I see you’ve done something different to your hair.”

“Yes, a touch of henna.”

“
Hmmmm
,” was all Patricia
said.

I’m
not going to let her bother me.
Francesca helped
herself to cheese and crackers. She
waved at Molly, who was in the kitchen, replenishing a tray of appetizers. When
everyone had first arrived, Molly had given a brief tour of the modest
two-bedroom house she’d recently bought, happily pointing out the fireplace and
polished hardwood floors. Her 18-pound orange tomcat, Otis, was now stalking
through the room searching for cheese crumbs on the floor. Everyone gave him a
wide berth, since Otis had a reputation for nipping people that annoyed him.

Rebecca, arriving late, appeared to be in a gloomy mood.
“Another loser blind date last night,” she confided to Francesca. “He turned
out to be shorter than me, and he had one thing he wanted to talk about, which
was golf.”

Francesca gave her a hug. “Don’t get discouraged. You
know how it goes: ‘You win some, you lose some…’

Rebecca chimed in: “Yeah -- and some bore you to death.
But, seriously, my biological clock isn’t just ticking; it’s going into full
alarm mode.”

“Come on, folks, let’s get started,” Randall called out,
and the choir members gathered near the piano, taking seats in the chairs Molly
had arranged there.

“Before we start, I have an announcement to make.
Francesca
Bibbo
has agreed to be my assistant. So you
can get in touch with her for things like sheet music, programs, and so forth.
And if you are going to miss a rehearsal or a Sunday morning, please let her
know.”

Rebecca nudged her and whispered, “Let me know if he
asks you to work overtime, OK?”

The choir rehearsed for two hours, taking breaks only to
replenish their drinks. There was a long list of music they had to practice for
the upcoming Christmas Eve Mass. Randall seemed somehow subdued since his
run-in with Father John, Francesca noted. Even when Thomas White and Gavin
Stewart, the lead tenors, botched one of the easier pieces, he didn’t say a
word. His mind was apparently elsewhere. Soon they had one piece left to
rehearse – and it was then that Patricia dropped the bombshell.

“Randall, when do I get to practice my solo?”

There was an almost deafening silence in the soprano
section.

“Patricia has a solo?” Lily Santiago had a look of
horror on her pretty face.

Lily Santiago was as tall and shapely as Patricia was, but
had gleaming black hair and exotic features that revealed her Hispanic roots.
She was a professional singer in Atlanta with a silken voice that received rave
reviews in the newspapers. She always wore sophisticated, trendy outfits and
had every gleaming black hair in place. Lily had often voiced her strongly
negative opinion of Patricia’s singing abilities to the other choir members.

Randall, silent, was staring at the piano as if it were
an alien life form that he had never seen before.

“Randall,” Lily said slowly, “I didn’t realize you had
already assigned Christmas Eve solos.”

“I haven’t made any decisions yet.”

“Oh, really?” Patricia piped up. “Well I seem to
remember you promised
me
a solo.”

What happened next made Francesca wonder how much punch
Randall had consumed. Something inside him seemed to snap. He slammed his hand
down on the top of the piano with such force that the framed pictures on a
nearby wall were jolted out of alignment.

“You have about as much talent for singing as pigs have
for flying,” he snarled.

Everyone in the choir seemed to be struck dumb for ten
seconds. Patricia’s face turned scarlet. Then Andy Dull, seemingly unaware of
the land mine he was treading on, chimed in, “Hey, Patricia’s got a great
voice. Give Lily and Patricia both solos, why don’t you, and then we can all
get something to eat?”

Randall had descended back into silence. He was studying
the musical score in his hands as if it were a check for a million dollars
endorsed to him. Patricia, lips pressed tightly together, stormed out of the
room, her high heels grinding tiny holes in Molly’s hardwood floors. Francesca
couldn’t help but notice that Lily had a triumphant little smile on her lips.

“Alright, folks, I think we’ve done about as much damage
as we’re going to for now. Let’s take a break,” Randall said.
 

* *
*

Father John rang the doorbell a few moments later, and
Molly Flowers rushed to answer it. As he walked in, he was sure he had a guilty
look on his face.

“So glad you could make it, Father.”
 

Ah, yes,
she’s the one with that wonderful Southern accent. And thank God she’s not a
hugger,
he thought, making his way to the drinks table.

He tried to make an appearance at most of St. Rita’s
functions, but he’d almost talked himself out of coming tonight. He and Randall
hadn’t spoken since the blow-up. Father John was furious with the choir
director, who he felt had definitely overstepped his bounds, but he also was
somewhat ashamed of the way he had handled the recent confrontation with him.

Not only that, but Father John had received a call from
a parishioner to let him know about a petition to the archbishop that was
circulating at the church. Although he didn’t know for sure, he suspected
Randall was behind it.
That’s all I need,
he thought moodily, fishing for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket.
Next thing I know, I’ll be transferred to
some hole-in-the-ground church in the Okefenokee Swamp.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked the hostess.

“Not at all, Father, go ahead.” She gave him a big
smile. But, then, as he lit up, he noticed she made a point of throwing open
all the windows in the living and dining rooms.
So much for honesty
, he thought.

He inhaled greedily. He had a new bargain with himself:
He’d give up smoking once the holidays were over. After all, the stress of the
upcoming season, not to mention the potential mess with the archbishop, would
be impossible to withstand without a few vices. Speaking of which, he filled a
tumbler full of red wine and then began helping himself to a few thick slices
of roast beef.

Molly came over and, before he could stop her, she began
talking about her job in labor and delivery.
Please, spare me the details
, he prayed silently.

“We just catch most of them, Father. Once the head
emerges, it all happens so fast.”

He could feel his face flushing, as he immediately began
talking about the weather.

Anything to get her off that topic. As he was mentioning
the forecast for the next few days, he saw a tall blonde woman emerging from
the kitchen and shooting Randall a very dark look.

The woman began chatting with one of the tenors, and
Father John stopped in mid-stream with Molly.

“What is it, Father?” Molly asked.

“Oh,
er
, nothing, I thought I
heard something.”

He looked over at the blonde woman.
Could she be Lady
Chatterly
?

Just then, Molly made an excuse about having to check on
the punch bowl, and Andy Dull took her place next to Father John.

“What do you think about that new ordinance, Father, the
one that’s going to make it illegal for homeless people to beg for money
downtown?”

It was one of Father’s John’s hot buttons, the way the
city tried to shame poor people.

“If Christ were to visit Atlanta today,” he told Andy
sadly, “He might be thrown in jail for vagrancy.”

“I wonder what Christ would think if He came to St.
Rita’s.”

“What do you mean?” Father John hoped Andy wasn’t going
to launch into criticism about the parish.

But Andy didn’t seem to have any ulterior motive. “Well,
I think He would see that we’re trying to take care of the poor, what with all
the collections for the St. Vincent de Paul Society, and the way folks help out
at the homeless shelters.”

“Oh, yes, definitely, our parish is very concerned about
the poor.”

Now Andy stared at the floor. “But what about the
music?”

Uh,
oh, here it comes. Something about how Christ would buy a new organ or
something
, Father John thought and took a sip of his wine.

“The music is quite dignified and quite traditional,
wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, sure, but to keep it that way, I think we need that
new organ, Father, with all due respect.”

“As the pastor, I have to be a good steward of the
money, Andy.
 
And I really believe the
organ can be repaired.”

Andy had opened his mouth for a rebuttal, when suddenly
Molly walked over and interrupted them. “Father, would you bless the food
before we begin
?”

Father John quickly put down his plate. “Oh, yes, of
course, certainly.”
Saved by the belle,
he
thought.

* *
*

After everyone had eaten their fill, some of the tipsier
choir members gathered at the piano and began singing Christmas carols.

“Don’t we know any Advent songs?” Molly asked.

“I’m dreaming of an Advent wreath.” Andy wrapped a hairy
arm around her shoulder.

“Excuse me, I need to get another drink.” Molly quickly
disengaged herself.

Andy was not one to be discouraged easily. “Rudolph had
an Advent Candle, and he lit it every night,” he bellowed, “and if you ever saw
it, you would say it sure was bright.”

There were collective groans from the group gathered at
the piano.

“Alright, maybe I’m not a songwriter after all.”

Francesca, meanwhile, was keeping an eye on Randall. She
noticed that, after a brief hello, he had managed to avoid Father John for most
of the evening. But now she saw Randall follow Patricia out onto the back deck.
She scooted close enough to the door to peek outside and overhear their
conversation. She knew in her heart that what she was doing was wrong, but the
impulse to eavesdrop was stronger than her impulse to heed her conscience.

Patricia appeared to be studying the night sky as if the
stars were Tarot cards revealing her future. Francesca saw Randall come up
behind Patricia and put his arms around her slender waist.

“Hey, beautiful, are you going to forgive me?”

Patricia turned around to face him.

“Why did you say those horrible things about my
singing?”

“Darling, look, you have a lovely voice, you know it and
I know it, but how was I going to deal with Lily? I don’t want to be
forced
into giving anyone a solo. You
were wrong to mention the solo before I had a chance to announce it to the
whole group.”

Patricia’s expression changed. The dark angry look
softened – and Francesca felt a true wave of compassion for her.
She really wants to believe whatever he
tells her,
she realized.