The Bass Wore Scales (9 page)

“
My
birthday cake is going to have SpongeBob on it,” announced Ashley, now reclining on the top step of the chancel.

“
How many candles does it have?” Moosey tried to look past the priest. “Huh? It doesn’t have
any!”

“
Well, we didn’t want…we didn’t think it would be a good idea…”

“
Ooo, ooo,” said Robert.

“
On
my
birthday, I’m having
lots
of candles. I’m going to blow them out and make a wish,” said Ashley. “I’m wishing for a pony.”

“
I wished for a pony last time,” said Christopher, “but all I got was a baby brother. No, wait a minute. It was a puppy.”

“
Yes,” said Father George. “That’s nice. But this is the church’s birthday, so…”

“
You got a puppy?” asked Moosey.

“
No. I got a baby brother.”

The organ suddenly boomed out the opening strains to
Happy Birthday
and everyone turned around and looked.

“
Not yet!” shouted Brenda from halfway down the aisle. The music stopped as suddenly as it began, and Brenda continued her journey carrying the birthday cake sans candles.

“
Is it true you have to do unto others like they do unto you?” asked Bernadette. “‘Cause if it is, I’m gonna get my little brother good.”

“
Ooo, ooo,” said Robert.

“
Can I have some cake?” asked Christopher, sticking his finger into the frosting just as the cake arrived.

“
Yes…umm, I mean no…” said Father George in exasperation. “What
is
it, Robert?”

“
Momma says that Daddy won’t get in heaven if he uses his golfing words in the house. She says that Satan’s gonna have a field day.”

“
Here,” said Father George, grabbing a handful of cake and handing it to Robert. “Happy Birthday.”

The organ started up again, and this time we all sang
Happy Birthday
to the Church. I’m sure its heart was strangely warmed.

* * *

The choir sang an anthem following the Children’s Moment, presumably to set the stage for the Epistle reading from the Book of Acts. It was a little unaccompanied medieval carol using the text “Holy Spirit, Truth Divine.”

“
That was nice, wasn’t it?” asked Meg, quietly.

“
Yes, it was.”

“
But, now what?” she asked.

“
Now what” was a reading of the Pentecost story in different languages by members of the congregation. I was unimpressed. This had been done many times before. We were hoping for something new.

“
When the day of Pentecost came,” said Father George, the only one of the readers using a microphone, “they were all together in one place. Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting.

Gretta Schmidt stood up about halfway back on the right side and started reading in German. “
Und als der Tag des Pfingstfestes erfüllt war,”
she said loudly,
“waren sie alle an einem Ort beisammen.”

“
De repente vino del cielo un estruendo como de un viento recio que soplaba, el cual llenó toda la casa donde estaban.”
It was JJ Southerland. I didn’t know she spoke Spanish, but there she was, standing near the baptismal font.

“
Og det viste sig for dem tunger likesom av ild,”
came another voice, this time from a man I’d never seen before.

“
What language is that?” asked Meg.

I shrugged. “Maybe Danish? Or Norsk.”

“
They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them,” read Father George. “All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them.”

It was just at this point in the service that the worst happened. The church newsletter,
The Trumpet,
said that we were going to celebrate Pentecost in a new and meaningful way. It neglected to tell us we’d need to wear hard-hats. I found out later, after talking with an expert, that most birds actually need to learn how to fly. Oh, they will certainly flap their wings by instinct, but unless they have flying experience, once they hit the open air they’ll pretty much drop like rocks. So when Moosey tossed the eight birds over the edge of the choir loft, these birds, having been raised in captivity specifically for the Hunter’s Club Restaurant, didn’t stand much of a chance.

It was a good bet that when Princess Foo-Foo and Father George planned this extravaganza, they were thinking about Garrison Keillor’s story about the Gospel Birds in which the birds flew gracefully around the sanctuary, doing tricks and lighting gently on each member of the congregation, bestowing God’s blessing on every person. At the very least, they were probably counting on the birds flying around for a few minutes and then coming to roost in the rafters, making for a nice, feel-good moment. This would pose a whole different set of problems, of course, but ones that could be dealt with at leisure. Unlike the Birds of St. Barnabas, however, Garrison Keillor’s Gospel Birds had the advantage of being both highly trained and fictitious.

The first one of the unfortunate symbols of Pentecost hit Thelma Wingler right in the head. It happened right in front of us. There was a flurry of feathers followed by a light thunk. Thelma didn’t say anything; just jumped up, screamed and grabbed her hair with both hands. As the bird bounced off her head and into the pew beside her, we could see that it was a dove. The second bird to come down was a pigeon. A big pigeon. It was, as they say in the hills—eatin’ size.

It was another direct hit, this time clobbering Calvin Denton, little Robert’s father, who jumped to his feet and began to use his golfing words. All of them. Loudly. The reading of scripture stopped abruptly as the entire congregation turned toward him in astonishment.

“
Holy smokes,” said Meg, as mothers reached for their children, doing what they could to cover their ears. “He’s speaking in unknown tongues!”

“
I’d speak in unknown tongues too if a three pound pigeon hit
me
in the head,” I said. “But, you’re absolutely right to be upset. He’s not supposed to speak in unknown tongues unless there’s someone in the congregation to interpret.” I paused. “I guess I could do it.”

“
I don’t think anyone needs an interpretation,” said Carol Sterling, who was sitting next to Meg. “We get the picture.”

By now the rest of the birds, a mixture of doves and pigeons, had landed. Out of the eight, five managed to crash into unsuspecting parishioners. Three landed harmlessly in the aisle or on an empty seat. There was more screeching and general pandemonium, and several folks bolted for the door, not knowing how many other birds were likely to come crashing down on them. Two ushers finally appeared and began collecting the poor birds and putting them in a couple of men’s hats. I didn’t think the birds were hurt; they were certainly fluttering hard enough to break their falls, and as the furor subsided, we looked back up toward Father George. He was nowhere to be seen.

Georgia, one of the lay Eucharistic ministers, disappeared for a moment into the sacristy, then came back out, walked into the congregation and whispered something to Tony Brown, our retired priest. I could just imagine what
he
thought of the entire proceeding. Father Brown got up and followed Georgia into the sacristy. She came out a moment later and began the Creed.

“
Apparently, we’re not getting a sermon this morning,” I said.

“
I guess not,” answered Meg, joining in with the congregation. “….Maker of heaven and earth. Of all that is, seen and unseen.”

By the time the Nicene Creed was over, Father Brown had appeared in a robe and chasuble and offered the Prayers of the People. The rest of the service was comparatively uneventful.

* * *

“
Whew,” said Meg, during coffee hour. “That was one for the books. I’m always amazed at what we can come up with to celebrate God’s Spirit with us. Has anyone heard from Father George?”

“
He just walked out,” said Bev. “Right in the middle of the service. Can you believe that? I called his house and left a message on his machine.”

“
Hey,” said Georgia. “You don’t think he’s dead do you? The way things have been going around here for the last couple of years, he could be dead. Murdered in his office.” She sounded hopeful.

“
Nope,” I said, as Billy Hixon walked up. “He’s not dead.”

“
Who’s not dead?” he asked.

“
Father George.”

“
Oh,” said Billy and changed the subject. “You’re going to be here on Tuesday, right?”

“
Yeah. I’ll be here. Did you get hold of the bishop?”

“
Not yet, but I’ve left several messages with his secretary.”

I looked over at the cookie table and saw Moosey and Robert filling their pockets.

“
What do you think about all this Satan stuff?” I heard Robert ask.

“
Well, you know how Santa Claus turned out,” answered Moosey. “It’s probably just your dad.”

* * *

After church, Meg and I headed out for our weekly picnic. Our lunch was on ice, securely in the trunk of Meg’s Lexus, and consisted of cold lobster and dill sandwiches, Meg’s special German potato salad and cheesecake for dessert. All this served with a Pinot Noir recommended by Bud.

“
We’re meeting on Tuesday at noon for our Bad Writing Circle,” Meg said. “At the Bear and Brew.”

“
I’ll be there. I’m not letting you three women gang up on me. Have you written any wonderfully bad sentences?”

Meg took a sip of her wine. “Maybe. I’m certainly working on it.”

“
Not as easy as you thought, is it?”

“
No, but I’ll get the hang of it. I picked up an old typewriter at the church. Elaine brought a couple up from the basement.”

“
You didn’t want to use you mother’s?”

“
Nope. It’s an Underwood, but not like yours. This one was probably made in the ‘50s. I had to put a new ribbon in it, but it works just fine. And you were right about one thing—it’s much more fun than typing on a computer.”

“
I’ll be there at noon,” I said, “but I’ve got to keep it short. I have something at three.”

“
Oh, yes. The Blessing of the Racecar.”

“
I told Billy I’d be there. He’s trying to get the bishop to come up for the service, but I think that’s a pipedream.”

“
The bishop might come,” Meg said, “if he finds out about the media coverage.”

“
What media coverage?”

“
Well, Channel Four will be there. Then there are two TV stations from Charlotte, at least five newspapers, the NPR station from Asheville, and a crew from ESPN.”