The Bass Wore Scales (7 page)

“
What’re they saying?”

“
Hmm,” I said, listening harder to pick up the text.
Per singulos dies benedicimus te.
“They’re saying ‘We bless you every day and we praise your name forever until the end of the world.’”

Moosey nodded thoughtfully. “Are they talking about God?”

“
Yep.”

“
That’s a good song.”

“
It is indeed.”

* * *

The fog was still heavy on the lake as we walked down the hill from where I parked, but we could feel the breeze beginning to pick up. I had the two rods and the tackle box; Moosey was carrying the can of worms carefully with two hands. I’d taken Pete at his word when he said the boat was tied up to the dock, but now, not seeing it where I expected to, I’d wished I’d taken the time to walk down and make sure the rowboat was where Pete had left it. I needn’t have worried though. It was there, just as Pete said, tied fore and aft to the pier. It was an old fashioned wooden rowboat, about twelve feet long with two bench seats, a pointed bow and a flat stern with a place to mount a small motor. It had been painted red, but was now in need of another coat. I looked it over as Moosey set the worms down on the dock. The oars were in the locks, everything was ship-shape and, as my good friend Pete once remarked, “the boat bobbed lightly on the water just exactly the way that a bowling ball wouldn’t.”

“
Mom says to wear a life jacket,” said Moosey. “I can swim, all right, but she says I might hit myself in the head with the bait bucket and drown.”

“
She knows you pretty well, Moosey. The life jackets are under the seats. Get mine out, too. Who knows? You might hit
me
in the head with the bait bucket.”

“
Naw. We don’t even have no bait bucket. Just this ol’ can of worms.”

“
Even so,” I said, helping Moosey with the straps. “We don’t want any accidents. It would put a damper on the whole weekend.”

“
I guess,” said Moosey. “Oh yeah—I forgot to tell you. I’m helping with the birds tomorrow.”

“
The birds?”

“
You know. For Penny…umm…” Moosey thought hard. “Penny somethin’,” he finally said. “At church.”

“
Pentecost. You’re helping with the birds for Pentecost?”

Moosey nodded and we both got into the boat. I untied one of the ropes, he untied the other and we pushed off from the dock into the still lake.

“
Are you going to St. Barnabas tomorrow?” Moosey asked, as I dropped the oars into the water.

I hadn’t been back to church to play since the third Sunday of Easter. It had been a month of Sundays, and now Pentecost was upon us. I was still on an extended leave-of-absence from the church, and Father George had hired another substitute organist on the advice of several vestry members. Unfortunately, the only organist available in this part of the world was a one-legged, retired music teacher named Henrietta Burbank. Meg was less than impressed by her skills. She might have been a pretty good pianist, but, in Meg’s opinion, an organist should, ideally, have the use of both legs. Oh, she could walk around well enough, but space was tight up in the choir loft, and her prosthetic limb wasn’t constructed to bend in all the directions needed to situate oneself on the organ bench. Her solution to the problem was to unstrap her leg and lay the appendage up on the console like some kind of medieval relic—the leg of St. Henrietta the Untalented. Marjorie, a choir member since the middle-ages, said that the plastic prosthesis was just “grossing the choir out.” Meg told me, in an effort to guilt me into ending my sabbatical, that almost all her playing was done on the manuals (although she’d throw in a few pedal notes if they were above middle C) and consisted of hymn arrangements written for piano. I had heard from a number of parishioners that things in the music department were less than satisfactory, and although I hadn’t been back to church to play, I
had
gone with Meg to the Ascension Day service. The choir didn’t sing, but Henrietta had been in fine form, the Feast of the Ascension being an opportune time to play a Josh Groban arrangement of
You Raise Me Up
.

“
Told you,” whispered Meg.

“
Yes, you did,” I whispered back.

“
Can you see her leg from here?”

“
If I spin around. She’s in the back you know.”

“
Everyone can see it when they come back from communion. And also when they leave at the end of the service and she’s playing the postlude. You know how you’re not supposed to look at an accident, but everyone does? That’s what it’s like. You can’t help but stare. It’s right there!”

“
Why doesn’t someone ask her to put it on the floor?”

“
Everyone’s embarrassed. I mean, it’s not every day you have to tell the organist to get her leg off the console.”

“
Reminds me of my organ performance class in college,” I said, and was rewarded with an elbow in my ribs.

“
Are
you going to church tomorrow?” Moosey asked again, and my attention snapped back to the task at hand—rowing us to the center of the lake.

“
I guess I will. It’s the birthday of the church.”

“
How did you know what we were doing?” asked Moosey suspiciously.

“
Huh?”

“
We’re having a birthday cake.”

“
Really? When?”

“
Miss Brenda says when she calls us up to the front for our time with Father George, we’re gonna have cake and sing
Happy Birthday
.”

“
Ah,” I said, finally understanding. “The Children’s Moment.”

“
Yep.”

“
Is that when the birds come in, too?”

“
Nope,” said Moosey. “That’s later. Did you bring any candy bars?”

“
Yes,” I replied. “But you can’t have one until at least seven o’clock. I promised your mother.”

* * *

It was a glorious morning once it got started. There were a couple of herons stalking us along the lakeshore, pausing just long enough in their inspection of us to skewer whatever frog or fish ventured into their reach. Moosey and I had our lines in the water, but enjoyed no luck. Not even a nibble. We’d even switched worms several times as our wrigglers became waterlogged. After a couple of hours of fruitless angling, we decided to call it a morning and head in for some breakfast. As I rowed to shore, the turtles that had come out to take advantage of the sun splashed back into the water, disappearing in the concentric circles that marked their departure. It made for a very pastoral tableau. We tied the boat to the dock, shelved the oars, stored the vests under the seats and made our way back up the hill.

“
Sorry we didn’t catch anything,” I said to Moosey.

“
That’s okay. We’ll catch them tomorrow.”

“
Umm…I can’t tomorrow, Moosey. We have church. Remember?”

“
What about after church?”

“
Well, fish usually bite early in the morning. If they’re hungry, that is.”

“
What about Monday? You said you’d help me catch a fish,” reminded Moosey.

“
I did?”

“
Yeah. So what about Monday?”

“
How about next Saturday?”

Moosey pursed his lips. “Well, okay. But if you want to go fishing before that, you’d better call me.”

“
That’s a promise.”

* * *

It was a night for bratwurst, sauerkraut, Anchor Steam beer, Cuban cigars and Prokofiev—specifically, my new recording of the
Classical Symphony
and the
Third Piano Concerto
. I sat at my typewriter, sipping my cold beer and contemplating what passed for a plot. Meg was reclining on the overstuffed leather couch, reading a magazine, and I could smell the bratwurst starting to simmer in the beer. I’d take them out in about ten minutes and put them on the grill.

“
Are you working on your Bulwer-Lytton entries?” asked Meg. “I think I may have a good one.”

“
May I hear it?”

“
Nope. Not yet. It needs a little refining.”

“
I’m actually working on my detective story,” I said. “And if there happens to be some overlap, well, so be it. Two birds with one stone, as it were.”

“
Do you have a plot yet?”

“
Not yet, but that’s never stopped me before.”

I drove up to the Chartreuse Chapeau and flipped the

valet a sawbuck. The Chartreuse Chapeau was out of my league, but I was here to make an impression. I took Betsy’s arm and walked her toward the doorman. She smelled like the bus station by moonlight.

“
Now tell me, Toots, what’s your problem?” I asked once we were seated.

“
What about dinner?”

“
Yeah,” I said. “Sorry. Order whatever you want.”

I hoped she wasn’t too hungry. After the valet, the doorman and the maitre d’, I had about six bits left. Luckily, I had a dead woodchuck in my pocket. I figured that dropping it in my salad and covering it up with a slice of tomato not only guaranteed splendid service, but a couple of free meals as well.

“
I’ll have the Lobster Picador,” said Betsy to the waiter. “On the hoof.”

“
I’ll have the Penguin Platter,” I said. “And a salad.” Then I turned my attention to Betsy. “You wanna tell me now?”

She nodded. I waited, then waited again.

“
It’s my husband,” she said, the tears suddenly streaming down her face, her shoulders heaving with tiny sobs, like the sound of Snuggles the Fabric Softener Bear getting his leg caught in the lint trap. “I think he’s being unfaithful.”

I sighed. The old unfaithful husband routine. “Tell me about him.” I tried to sound sympathetic, but I knew this night was going nowhere fast.

“
He sings in the church choir,” she sniffed. “He’s a bass with real low notes.”

“
Low C?” I asked.

“
Low A,” she said. “He’s been highly recruited.”

“
What’s his name?”

“
They call him Fishy Jim.”

“
Fishy Jim, eh?” said Meg, looking over my shoulder. “I suggest you come up with something better than that if you want to win the contest. Sheesh. Fishy Jim…”

“
This isn’t my actual contest entry,” I reminded her. “I’m working on my detective story.”

“
Fine,” she said with a toss of her black hair. “I’m going to get another beer and put the sauerkraut on. Care to join me?”