The Bass Wore Scales (16 page)

“
Does he have to stay behind the glass all the time?” asked Ardine.

“
Oh, no,” said Dr. Pelicane. “When I’m here alone with him, the door is open, and we interact freely.”

“
Thank you for letting us meet Kokomo,” said Meg, and the rest of us offered our thanks as well.

“
Can I ask one more question?” said Noylene.

“
Sure,” said Dr. Pelicane.

“
Kokomo,” said Noylene, putting her mouth close to one of the metal disks. “This is very important. Would you like to accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?”

The motor home became deathly quiet—the only sound, the hum of the air-conditioner. Thirteen people stood there looking at Noylene. There she was, witnessing to Kokomo, and none of us could move.

“
Did you hear me Kokomo? Will you accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior?”

“
Yes, Kokomo love hugs,” Kokomo signed.

“
Kokomo loves hugs,” Moosey translated. “I guess he didn’t understand.”

“
Oh, he understood,” said Pete, looking over at me. I nodded.

“
What?” said Meg, looking first at me, then over at Dr. Pelicane. The doctor looked puzzled, as if she was trying to figure out what Kokomo meant.

“
Oh my,” said Nancy, a look of understanding coming across her face. “Oh my. Not hugs…”

I whispered to Meg. “Remember the
Moudly Cheese Madrigal
?”

“
Sure.”

“
Kokomo just did the same thing.” Everyone in the room was looking at me now. I felt as uncomfortable as Kokomo probably did on a daily basis. I looked around at the thirteen faces. The
Mouldy Cheese Madrigal
is this Christmas piece we sing that, for better or worse, rhymes ‘Holy Jesus’ with ‘Mouldy Cheeses.’ It started off as a joke, but it’s a pretty good piece.”

“
No,” smirked Meg. “No, it’s not.”

“
So what are you saying?” said Kent. “That Kokomo is using a sound-alike? For what? Hugs?”

“
Not hugs,” said Dr. Pelicane, very quietly. “Squeezes.”

“
Yes…Kokomo…loves…squeezes,” said Noylene, her voice approaching something akin to awe. “He loves Jesus,” she whispered.

“
Holy smokes,” said Wormy. “That gorilla loves Jesus. He’s done been saved!”

“
Well…hallelujah…I guess,” said Collette, quietly taking Dave’s hand.

“
Damn,” whispered Molly.

I looked at Brother Jimmy Kilroy. His eyes were bright, and his face had a glow I hadn’t noticed before.

“
Well, Kokomo’s been born again,” said Pete, with a good-natured laugh. “This really opens a theological can of worms, don’t it?”

* * *

“
Well, what happens now?” said Collette.

“
What do you mean?” I asked. After our visit to Appalachian State, Meg and I went back to the Slab for a piece of cake and a cup of coffee. Arriving there ahead of us, were Pete, Collette, Dave, Nancy, and Noylene. Pete and Collette were back at work, getting ready for the lunch crowd. That work included bringing the rest of us a piece of Red Velvet Cake and some of Pete’s not-so-famous coffee.

“
What about Kokomo? I mean now that he’s been saved.”

“
This is an interesting conundrum,” I said, “worthy of many interesting discussions.”

“
I don’t see how there’s anything to discuss,” said Noylene. “If he’s saved, he’s saved. That’s what the Bible says.”

“
I expect you’ll get some debate on that,” said Meg. “Hey Pete? Is Bud around? I need some advice.”

“
I’ll get him,” said Pete.

“
Anyway, I’m glad Kokomo’s not going to hell,” said Collette. “He seems like a nice gorilla.” She walked into the middle of the restaurant. “Dave and I have an announcement to make.”

Everyone in the restaurant looked over at Collette.

“
As you know, Dave and I got engaged and were going to get married in October.”

“
Do you think they broke up?” whispered Nancy to Meg. Meg shrugged.

“
We’ve decided to move the wedding up to June! This month! We’re so excited, aren’t we Snookie-Pie?”

We all looked at Corporal Snookie-Pie for a verbal affirmation, but he had a mouth full of cake, so he just nodded, smiled and kept eating.

“
Dave and I are getting married at New Fellowship Baptist Church. Brother Kilroy will be doing the service. You’re all invited.” She looked around the Slab and fixed her gaze on the ten or so customers populating the tables on the other side of the restaurant. “Y’all, too,” she said with a smile. “All y’all are invited.”

Bud came out of the kitchen and up to the table.

“
Hi, Miss Farthing. Pete said you wanted to see me.”

“
Hi Bud. I wonder if you can suggest a couple of special wines that will go with whatever Hayden is planning on cooking for me.” Meg looked over at me and gave me her nicest smile.

“
Well, sure,” said Bud. “What will you be having to eat?”

Meg’s eyebrows went up. “Well, let’s just find out, shall we?”

Yes,” I said, “supper. I’m thinking that on Friday we’ll probably begin with an onion tart, followed by an entree of seared scallops in a light tomato-plum sauce. I hadn’t planned any dessert, but, now that I think about it, some baked D’Anjou pears would be nice.”

I looked over at Meg and Nancy. Both their mouths were hanging open. I smiled at them and pulled out my pad to take notes. Bud was always thorough.

“
Onions are really diverse and can be enjoyed with white and red wine,” began Bud. “If you’re using Vidalia onions you should choose a white with a more flinty tone like a Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. ‘Cause Vidalias are sweeter. A Chardonnay from Washington or Central Coast would be just perfect. I would ordinarily choose a white over a red, but a Beaujolais Villoiage from George Duboeuf or a Chianti Classico from Fonterutoli would also match very nice.”

I nodded and jotted down this info. “Beaujolais Villoiage…George DuBoeuf…Chianti Classico.”

“
For the main course, if you’re having a red with the appetizer, I’d go with a New Zealand Sauvinon Blanc or a light, crisp, clean Pinot Grigio.”

“
Got it,” I said.

“
Now for the pears.” Bud stopped and thought for a moment. “Robert Mondavi is growing a delicious Moscato D’Oro. Also the vineyards from Martinelli are producing a tremendous Muscato. Those wines are rather powerful in acidity and have high levels of residual sugar. The flavors are full of pear, apricot, melon and honeysuckle. It would be a great match with this dessert. Also a sparkling wine or a glass of Champagne would be delicious.”

“
What do you think?” I asked Meg. “Champagne or a Moscato D’Oro?”

“
I…uh…” said Meg, now at a loss for words. She hadn’t planned on this. She’d been trying to catch me unprepared. I, on the other hand, had been planning for days.

“
Champagne it is,” I said, snapping my pad shut. “That settles it then. Thank you, Bud.”

“
No problem,” said Bud. “I’m happy to help.” He turned and walked back to the kitchen.

“
That boy never fails to amaze,” said Nancy. She looked at me. “You, too! Seared scallops in tomato-plum sauce? Where did you learn that?”

“
Oh, here and there. I can be quite a cook when I get motivated.”

“
That’s news to me,” said Meg.

“
News to us all,” added Dave.

“
Speaking of news,” said Noylene. “I’ve got some news, as well.”

“
This morning is just getting better and better,” I said.

“
Y’all know that me and Wormy been seeing a lot of each other. Well, Wormy’s going to open his cemetery in the fall, and I’m going to help him. I got some business experience since I opened the Beautifery—more’n Wormy anyway.”

“
That’s great,” said Meg. “I’m sure you both will do very well.”

“
Oh, that ain’t the news,” said Noylene, with a big smile. “The news is that Wormy and me’s getting married, too. I’m keeping my professional name, but I may hyphenate for formal occasions. Noylene Fabergé-DuPont.”

“
Umm, Noylene,” Pete said. “Aren’t you and Wormy first cousins?”

“
Well, sure. Is that a problem?”

“
Not in North Carolina,” I said. “Not in North Carolina.”

Chapter 9

Betsy was a good time waiting for a bus. We headed over to a dive I knew for some dancing and then to the Possum ‘n Peasel for drinks. When I woke up the next morning, she was long gone--gone like the “Amens” on the end of some of those hymns, plagally content in their subdominant/dominant relationship until someone decided they weren’t theologically accurate and dumped ‘em as unceremoniously as I’d just been dumped by Betsy.

I peeled myself off the floor of the bar, staggered to my feet, looked around the P ‘n P, brushed the cigar butts out of my hair, and decided that the next time a Methodist Minister challenged me to a vodka-drinking contest I wouldn’t wear suede shoes. My head hurt the way your tongue hurts when you accidentally staple it to your tax return.

I headed back to the office. I still didn’t know anything. I was supposed to find out who Fishy Jim was seeing on the sly, but this whole case stunk like a dead woodchuck wrapped in chicken skins lying in the backseat of a car. Which reminded me…

* * *

“
This is very good writing,” said Marjorie from the tenor section. “I’m glad you’re still in fine form.”

“
Well, I need to keep in shape. I have a contest to win.” I smiled over at Meg and Elaine.

This was my first choir rehearsal since before Christmas, not counting the couple of times I had subbed after Agnes Day died. Bev told me that Henrietta Burbank would no longer be showing up for services. I’d come up to the choir loft earlier in the day, set the organ back up the way I liked it, and spent a few hours reacquainting myself with the fine old instrument. It was soon apparent to me that I’d have to put in more than a few hours. As Paderewski, the famous pianist, once said, “If I don’t practice for one day, I know it. If I don’t practice for two days, the critics know it. If I don’t practice for three days, everyone knows it.” Granted, I wasn’t in Paderewski’s league, and I didn’t practice every day anyway, but I’d been away long enough to notice a big difference. Still, I had some old standards under my fingers, and I’d rely on them until I was back in playing shape.

“
Okay choir,” I said. “I’m back. No more goofing off. And no more singing like pigs.”

This brought snickers from the bass section. Sitting on the back row were the basses Fred, Bob, Mark and Phil. The tenors were a little thin, being anchored by Marjorie. Marjorie had been in the choir since God was a boy and had been singing in the men’s section since 1972. “I’m a tenor, dammit!” was her answer to any organist brave enough to question her choice of seats. Marjorie also kept a flask in her hymnal rack. None of us dared check to see what it contained. The back row altos (or BRAs as they preferred to be known) were the rowdiest section. Rebecca Watts had made herself at home in this moderately militant feminist organization and sat next to Martha Hatteberg. Also gracing the alto section was Tiff, our unpaid summer intern from Appalachian State. The sopranos included Meg, Elaine, and Georgia. Bev, who had decided she could sing in the choir as well as be the Parish Administrator, was in the soprano section as well. Everyone included, I counted twenty-two folks.