Death in the Choir (4 page)

“
Doin
’ a lot of
shoppin
’ these days, Patricia?” Molly seemed to be enjoying
herself.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I spent the entire day at
Phipps.”

Of course, it would be
Phipps
,
Francesca groaned inwardly. It was one of Atlanta’s trendier malls, made
popular by the city’s many wealthy residents who apparently had discovered
life’s ultimate meaning in recreational shopping.

Molly opened another bottle of wine and poured herself
a glass.

“I need this.” She settled down on a cushion on the
hearth. “I’ve had quite the day. We delivered five babies in a row.”

“I know what you mean.” Patricia was examining her
wine glass, and Francesca hoped it didn’t have any smudges on it. “I spent
nearly three hours this afternoon trying to find a purse to match this outfit.”
She tenderly caressed a small velvet bag dangling from her arm as if it were a
sacred relic.

“Well, we all have our crosses to bear,” Molly
drawled, offering Tubs a crumb of cheese, which he wolfed down greedily.

As the women started helping themselves to the array
of food on the coffee table, Francesca reminded them that freshly baked
brownies awaited them for dessert.

“Oh, none for me, I’m dieting.” Patricia’s voice had a
whiney edge.
 

“What on earth for?” Molly exclaimed. “Sugar, you look
like a good wind might blow you over.”

“Well, if you must know, I’ve gained two pounds this
year and I don’t want to keep on gaining.” She looked meaningfully at the plump
Rebecca, who was filling her plate with finger sandwiches. “It’s so easy to
just let oneself go.”

Patricia chewed on a grape and took a small sip of
wine. “And you know when you have a new man in your life, well…”

All the munching sounds came to a dead halt. Romantic
news was always considered an excellent topic of conversation at Choir Chicks’
meetings.

“Do tell,” said Shirley. “Anyone we know?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Randall and I had a late
dinner last night. It was very nice. We went to that new Italian restaurant in
the Square.”

What a fool I am
, Francesca thought sadly.
Randall probably has a bevy of women he
takes to the same restaurant. The waitresses no doubt have a good laugh
whenever he comes in with a new one.

“Well, what’s he like on a date?” Molly prodded.

“Very cultured, very much a gentleman.” Patricia
paused to adjust a gold link on her charm bracelet. A wave of her perfume
wafted across the room.
Expensive,
thought Francesca.
 

“So, is it serious?” Rebecca cast a knowing look at
Francesca.

“Oh, it’s too early to tell.” Patricia dabbed her
carefully painted lips with a napkin. “We had a lovely time, but that was it.
We didn’t,
er
, well, there was nothing…” Her voice
trailed off delicately.

“So he didn’t put the moves on you, huh?” Molly leaned
in to re-fill her plate.

Patricia looked pained. “No, of course not. But I did
get a chance to tell him that I expect to have a solo now and again. After all,
I’ve been taking voice lessons for the past five years.”

“And?” prompted Shirley. “Did he agree?”

“Yes, he did. He said he felt that someone of my
musical caliber deserves more recognition.” Patricia impaled a piece of kiwi
fruit on her toothpick. “He plans to give me a solo for Christmas Eve.”
  

Francesca didn’t dare look at the other women. She
suspected they might be on the verge of a major giggling attack
. I bet he’s buttering up Patricia for a
contribution to the organ fund.

Patricia brushed one of Tubs’ stray hairs from her
skirt. “He said something rather perplexing though.”

The other women gave her their full attention.

“He was pretty steamed about Father John. He said that
if Father continued showing him so much disrespect, he might just walk out and let
Father handle the Christmas Eve music. But that’s not all.”

The room was silent except for the sound of Tubs
purring as he gnawed on the catnip sock.

“Evidently they had quite a blow up recently. And
Randall told me that if Father John doesn’t change his attitude, he might not
be pastor of St. Rita’s much longer.”

“What on earth would make him say that?” Molly hiked
her eyebrows up so far her forehead seemed to vanish.

Patricia blotted her lips delicately with her napkin.
“Randall wants to get the parishioners to sign a petition complaining about
Father John. He wants to send it to the Archbishop.”

“What would anyone complain about?” Rebecca’s face
mirrored the surprise of the other women.

“He told me there’s a group that wants the church
renovated. But Father John thinks it’s a waste of money, so he’s been dragging
his feet. And Randall also said there are some people who feel Father John
should do something about Father William’s homilies.”

Francesca sighed.
Dear
Father William,
she thought. He was the young associate pastor of St.
Rita’s, and she liked him very much. However, he had inadvertently made a
reputation for himself by delivering sermons that invoked the wrath of a huge
number of parishioners on a regular basis.

“Well, I wouldn’t sign any petition,” Molly said
firmly. “That’s over the edge.”

“I agree.” Patricia sipped her wine. “I think Father
John is very nice and quite competent.” Then she fingered a gold filigree
earring in one of her pink, seashell-shaped ears. “And rather sexy.”

Father John Riley groaned as he glanced at the clock on
the bedside table. Five a.m. and it was dark outside, and all he could think
about was having a cigarette. The craving welled up in him with the force of a
demon.

Now I
know how it must feel to be possessed
, he thought.
Maybe I should call in an exorcist.
 

Ever since the doctor had told him to stop smoking,
Father John’s spirits had been spiraling downward. He’d managed to survive a
whole week but then had broken down and sneaked a smoke yesterday morning. It
had been delicious, but the guilt he felt afterwards made him wonder if it’d
been worth it.

If a
man can’t have sex,
he reflected sourly,
at least allow him to smoke himself to
death.
Doctors shouldn’t be allowed
to banish any simple pleasures from the lives of celibates
.
Sex. Oh, no, why did I even bring the word
to consciousness?
Now I’ll be pursued
all day by images of voluptuous women striking lurid poses.

He had entered the priesthood late, at age 45, after a
series of failed relationships with women. In his twenties, he’d felt keenly
drawn to the priesthood, but the notion of living without a woman had seemed an
insurmountable obstacle. He had wanted a wife and family, and he couldn’t
imagine himself living alone. But, as he’d neared 40, he’d faced the facts. The
chances of finding a wife and having a family were growing increasingly dim,
while his attraction to the priesthood seemed to be gaining steam.

He knew that he was generally considered good-looking,
maybe because he had a full head of black hair and dark green eyes. He’d had no
problems attracting women in his twenties and thirties, but had been unable
actually to sustain a romantic relationship. It was always the same scenario.
The woman would demand more and more of his time, and he would find himself
withdrawing. He needed a certain amount of solitude to keep his sanity. There
would be recriminations, tearful accusations, and finally the inevitable
break-up.

He sighed. The irony was that now that he was a priest,
everyone demanded his time. But of course it was different because he didn’t
have to succumb to the emotional roller-coaster ride of romantic relationships.
Plus, he was doing the work the Lord had called him to. But what he hadn’t
realized, until he started wearing the white collar, was that women who would
never have given him a second glance when he was a layman now found him
attractive beyond belief. And there seemed to be some unspoken rule that
spurred some women to hug and kiss priests until the poor men were driven to
distraction.

These same women, who’d never have dreamt of revealing
the intimate details of their sex lives to, say, their medical doctor or even
their best friend, also felt compelled to unload themselves to him in the
confessional. One parishioner in particular came to mind because he had been
unprepared to defend himself the first time she confessed.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began in a
breathy voice. Then, before he could stop her, she had launched into a truly
lascivious stream of details about her sex life that made him cringe with
embarrassment. When she next showed up, he was ready to interrupt her the
moment she began her description: “And then he pulled me closer and wrapped his
arms around me, and…”

“Just a moment, my dear.” He cleared his throat to stall
for time. “There’s really no need to give all the details of your sins. Just a
general, uh, sense of what is involved is fine.”

This anonymous woman came to confession about twice
monthly. She always hid behind the privacy screen, so he couldn’t see her face,
and she seemed to be struggling primarily with the sins of the flesh. He
thought of her privately as Lady
Chatterly
.

If it
weren’t for sex,
he thought darkly,
the confessional would be filled with cobwebs.
In his estimation,
one of the seven deadly sins – lust -- was getting far too much air time in the
21
^st
century.
Envy, pride,
gluttony, sloth, anger, and despair have just about been forgotten.

Suddenly, the image of a cigarette with a beautifully
glowing red tip loomed in Father John’s mind.
 
His mouth was dry and tasted vile. Wondering if there might be a
forgotten cigarette in the drawer of his bedside table, he hopefully rummaged
through the pencils, coins, and holy cards. But he’d been very thorough with
his earlier search-and-destroy mission. He started saying a “Hail, Mary,” which
always calmed him.

Then he sat up in bed with a start. There was someone –
or something – in the hall right outside his door. A loud scratching sound assailed
his ears, making him suddenly recall the rumor that had long circulated at St.
Rita’s church. The rectory was said to be haunted. Supposedly the ghost of the
church’s first pastor paced the halls now and again, although Father John had
never encountered him, and certainly didn’t believe in ghosts. “The poor old
pastor was probably so worked to death in life,” Father John was fond of
saying, “that he wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of full retirement even
after death.”

The scratching sound stopped as suddenly as it had
begun, and Father John picked up his rosary beads. As he began praying, his
mind strayed. He loved the priesthood, but sometimes he fantasized about
cloning himself. With the number of Catholic priests dwindling to an alarmingly
small number, a pastor’s list of duties could be overwhelming. There were
funerals, weddings, and baptisms, in addition to visiting the sick and hearing
confessions. Many parishioners were of the opinion that if the Vatican would
just change the celibacy requirement, the priesthood would again flourish. But
he disagreed. It seemed to him that the worldly lure of having a well-paying
job with all the trimmings might play a bigger part in keeping men out of God’s
vineyard than the celibacy rule.
 

The
vineyard. That reminds me: I’m also supposed to cut down on my drinking.
Either that or find a new doctor.

The scratching noise started up again. Whatever it was,
it was drawing nearer and nearer to his room. Suddenly the image of a drooling
satanic being, complete with horns and hoofs, galloped into his mind. He was
sure he detected a sudden chill in the room, even though the heat was on full
force.

He continued praying the rosary, and soon the noise
stopped. It would be just his luck to be visited by an apparition of the devil,
when thousands of others in the nearby town of Conyers were claiming they’d
seen the Blessed Virgin Mary. And since sites where Mary was presumed to have
appeared tended to attract millions of religious seekers a year, he had to
wonder: Would a site rumored to be darkened by the presence of the Evil One
attract hordes of perverse pilgrims?

The door to his room now shuddered, and the scrabbling
noise grew louder. Silence emanated from the assistant pastor’s room down the
hall. Father John realized he’d have to deal with the situation himself.
That’s the way it always is,
he
reflected bitterly.
If there’s a dragon,
get the pastor to slay
it.

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have mercy on
me,” he prayed, while crossing himself and reaching for the crucifix next to
the alarm clock. Next he grabbed his bathrobe from the floor and wrapped it
around him.

“May the forces of Heaven prevail against the powers of
darkness,” he implored, throwing open the door.

A black blur leapt at him, nearly knocking him to the
floor. He caught himself just in time, sinking down on his knees. He shut his
eyes as his face was covered with moisture and a rank odor filled the room.
Time to face the demon,
he thought.
Still clutching the crucifix, he opened his eyes.

“Spot!”

The big drooling mongrel was sitting inches away from
him, expelling clouds of bad breath into his face. “You’re supposed to stay
downstairs. How in blazes did you get up here?”

The ungainly mutt had shown up about a week ago on the
rectory steps with a small nametag dangling from his leather collar. The word
“Spot” was engraved on the tag, although the animal was solid black. Spot was
still teething and, judging by the hunk of wood lying on the carpet inches from
his gaping mouth, he had recently ripped off a piece of molding to munch on.
Spot panted, his tail wagging joyfully.

“Bad dog, Spot! You know you’re not supposed to chew on
the walls.”

But then the humor of the situation struck him as he lay
back on the floor with Spot’s face inches away and the dog’s wet nose
glistening in the morning light. As the priest started laughing, Spot eagerly
nosed him under the chin. Father John stood up and brushed bits of dust from
his clothing.

“Let’s get you some breakfast, boy. It is going to take
divine inspiration to find a way to stop you from eating the rectory, piece by
piece.”

As he started downstairs, Father John heard the sounds
of the computer keyboard emanating from the assistant pastor’s room.
William’s getting an early start on his homily
.
Then he blanched. “
Homily,”
he
thought crossly,
it sounds so frilly.
Why can’t we just
say “sermon” like we used to?
It was
hard for him to swallow all the changes the Church had gone through in the
1960s.
After all, Christ didn’t give the
“Homily on the Mount.”

The clicking sounds sped up.
William must be on a roll. I just hope this week’s gem doesn’t alienate
as many people as last week.

He was fond of Father William
Snortland
,
who was 30 and a newly ordained priest. Father John knew the young man rose in
the dark each day to work on sermons that would be, in the young priest’s
estimation, inspiring, educational, and reflective. He was a pudgy, balding man
with a trusting expression that matched his childlike faith. And he was known
at St. Rita’s for responding with deep love and compassion to the sick and
dying. Father John sighed again. There was really only one big problem.
According to many parishioners, sermons were Father William’s Achilles’ heel.

Although Father William dutifully spent hours in
preparation, he somehow managed to annoy the majority of his listeners when he
stood up to preach. One Sunday, Father William had mentioned that animals
definitely didn’t go to heaven. His statement had prompted a flurry of e-mails
to Father John from all the animal lovers in the parish. Another time, he had
suggested that spending too much time at the gym could be a sign of vanity, and
therefore a sin. The joggers, bicyclists, and weight lifters had headed to
their computers that time.

* * *

Down the hall, Father William yawned widely. Today he
was outlining the various ways that parishioners could prepare themselves for
Christmas.
There are far too many parties
during Advent,
he reflected.
People
should wait to celebrate on Christmas Day.

As he deleted a few lines, and then inserted a nice
quote from St. Augustine, he glanced across the room, where he was met by a
pair of dark-brown beady eyes. His hamster, Ignatius, had been running on the
wheel most of the night and now seemed ready for a treat. Father William
reached into a nearby bag of sunflower seeds and handed a few to the little
animal, who sequestered them in his cheeks for later.

The
wheel
,
that’s it!
he
thought.
 
I’ll mention the wheel of the liturgical year and the relationship
between Advent and Lent.

* * *

In the kitchen downstairs, with Spot watching his every
move, Father John started the coffee and threw two pieces of bread into the
toaster. It was too early for the cook to show up, and he was glad. He needed
some time to pray in silence. As the scent of coffee started to fill the room,
his craving for a cigarette skyrocketed. He opened a can of food for Spot, and
then sat down at the rather rickety kitchen table, where he read morning
prayers from a small, well-worn book.

“Come let us worship the Lord with joy.” As he poured
himself a cup of coffee, he heard strains of organ music drifting over from the
church.

Barely
six o’clock. Randall’s also getting an early start today.

He frowned. It hadn’t been easy telling Randall there was
no money to buy a new organ. But he’d learned over the years that if he said
“yes” to every parishioner’s request, St. Rita’s would soon be bankrupt.

* *
*

An hour later, Randall was still at the organ. Music was
the only thing that blocked out his troubles. He had come to St. Rita’s eager
to bring dignified, beautiful music to the congregation. It wasn’t just
altruism; music kept him from dying of boredom in his accounting job.

“Call
to Remembrance” could be a really beautiful
piece of choral music,
he reflected,
if the choir just had the manpower to pull it off.

“Remember not the sins and offenses of my youth,” he
sang under his breath. In his estimation, the problem with an all-volunteer
choir was that only some of the members could sing worth a damn. He’d tried his
best to shame away the lousy singers with very broad and sarcastic hints, but
it didn’t always work. He stopped playing.
How
am I going to rein in Patricia? Why did I promise her that solo at Christmas?