Death in the Choir (5 page)

At the time, he recalled, he’d hoped to get a start-up
donation toward the organ fund. Surely that would be worth it. Maybe it looked
like he was compromising his principles, but he was doing it for the good of
the whole congregation. At that moment, as if on cue, the organ let out a bleat
that he privately thought of as its dying moose call. Frustrated, he jiggled a
few of the stops and tried the measure again.

Better
this time,
he thought,
but
who knows when it will happen again
?

Absently, he reached into his shirt pocket and extracted
a white pill. For his nerves, the doctor had said, and to keep anxiety and
depression at bay. He picked up the cup of water nearby. He usually had trouble
swallowing pills, but he had cut this one in half earlier, so it went down
easily.

* *
*

A few miles away, Francesca was dismally surveying the
contents of her closet.

Why in
the world did I agree to a date? I’m really not ready.
Oh, aren’t you
, answered another voice
in her head,
then why did you join the
choir in the first place?
Wasn’t it
to meet men?

She sometimes wondered if everyone had a series of
voices in their heads that seemed to hold conversations of their own. Whenever
she read about saints heeding the voice of God, she wondered how they could
tell which voice it was. She pulled out a purple sweater and a black skirt from
the closet. With some silver earrings and a silver necklace, she’d look fine.
Keep it
simple,
she reminded herself. And maybe if she skipped lunch, she’d
feel less guilty about eating Italian food tonight.

Sitting in the Italian restaurant that evening,
Francesca wondered why she had gone to such trouble. She had dressed carefully,
surveying herself countless times in her full-length mirror and wishing for the
millionth time that she weighed less. She had also applied a coat of “Purple
Passion” lipstick, chuckling again at the name.

The restaurant was cozy enough with tiny tables lit by
candles and swathed in snowy linen cloths, but at first Randall seemed ill at
ease.

Maybe
he really isn’t interested in women,
she worried –
or he’s trying to butter me up for a
contribution to the organ fund – or both. Oh, why can’t I just relax and enjoy
myself?

As they began eating their appetizers, Randall, much to
her relief, never broached the topic of money. And after he had poured them
each a glass of wine, he started to relax. He looked at her earnestly.

“You know, I sometimes wonder if I’m totally insane,
spending as much time as I do on the music for St. Rita’s. I mean, do you think
people really care whether they sing one of the grand old hymns like ‘Holy God,
We Praise Thy Name’ or something like ‘We Are Many Parts’ by
whatshisname
…that Marty guy?”

She laughed. “I think I remember singing that one at a
church I went to in Florida. Doesn’t it have lyrics that go, ‘We are many parts.
We are all one body?’”

“That’s it! That’s the very tune.” Now he began to sing,
and she joined in: “May the Spirit of love make us one indeed.”

He took a sip of wine. “It’s revolting, but very
popular. Songs like that are making big money, even though they’re incredibly
trite. And, frankly, they remind me of some of the hippie stuff from the
sixties!”

He paused to refill their glasses from the carafe on the
table.
He comes to life when he talks
about music,
she thought
. He’s really
fun.
But when the entrees arrived, he ate silently, looking pensive. She
downed three glasses of Chianti and ate every bite of manicotti. Once their
plates were removed, he cleared his throat in a particularly officious way. And
then, much to her horror, he extracted a sheet of paper from his pocket and
handed it to her.

“These are my ideas for the organ fund-raising drive.
What do you think? Would this letter inspire someone to contribute?”

She looked the letter over quickly.
He’s outlined the costs and explained the benefits
, she
thought.
 
He’s certainly made it look like a worthy cause
.

“Well done,” she smiled, and he brightened considerably.
Then there was a long pause as the waitress brought desserts. At the precise
moment that her fork shattered the tender shell of the
cannolli
,
he leaned a bit closer to her.

“Would my words inspire you personally to, uh,
contribute?”

She dabbed at her lips with the linen napkin. “I,
er
, think so. If I had the money, that is…”

“That’s good to know.” Now he folded his dinner napkin carefully
by his plate. “Look, don’t get the wrong idea. I just wanted your advice on the
letter; I’m not hitting you up for money. And to tell you the truth, I really
hate going after money at all. But I want the music at Mass to be really good
-- and that organ…” His voice trailed off.

“Please, Randall, you don’t have to explain. I think
what you’re doing – trying to raise money —which I know you hate – well, it’s
rather noble in a way.”

He raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated double-take.
“Noble? What on earth do you mean?”

She could feel the blood warming her cheeks.
Am I making a total fool of myself here?
But she had to tell him how she felt.

“You’re doing it for the good of the congregation.
You’re doing it so the music at Mass will be the best quality. So…I guess I see
that as noble.”

He smiled at her. “Listen, don’t nominate me for
sainthood. Let’s face it: I have some selfish motives here. Every choir
director wants the latest and greatest instruments.”

“More coffee?” The waitress’ tone of voice indicated
dread. Francesca glanced around and realized she and Randall were the only
diners left. The waitress clearly wanted to go home.

“No, thanks,” Randall said. “Just the bill will be
fine.”

They drove in silence back to her house. As he parked the
car, she asked, “Do you want to come in for another cup of coffee or an
after-dinner drink?”

“That sounds wonderful, it really does, but I have to
get up early tomorrow to get ready for Mass.”

Oh,
Lord, I hope I don’t look too disappointed. It’s not that I want a relationship
with him, but I would love to feel attractive – and desirable – again.
The
other voice chimed in quickly:
Shut up!
Don’t make this into a big dramatic event. He turned down coffee, not a
marriage proposal.

“OK, well maybe another time.” As she began fumbling
with her seatbelt, he leaned across the seat and undid it for her. Then he
quickly took her in his arms and planted a long, succulent kiss on her lips.

Her heart started beating so quickly she was sure he
could hear the knocking sounds.
 
The
voices in her head were suddenly silenced. Drawing back, he gently traced the
outline of her lips with his finger.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Francesca. And I’ll
definitely take a rain check on that coffee.”

“Thank you. And, yes, we’ll have to…uh…yes, you can have
a rain check.” She got out of the car quickly, surprised at the intensity of
her reaction. He walked her to the door, and this time she kept her distance
from him, bidding him a quick goodnight and then scurrying inside.

As she locked the door behind her, she realized that she
felt guilty.
I still think of myself as
married.
Then she went to the kitchen for a glass of water and saw Tubs
sitting by his bowl, staring at her. She gave him a generous supper and headed
to bed. Her last thought as she fell asleep that night was:
Definitely not gay.

The next morning she arrived at St. Rita’s promptly at
9:30, since the choir always spent a half hour before the 10 a.m. Mass
rehearsing the day’s psalm and the anthem. This morning she was particularly
curious to see how Randall might react. Would he act warmly toward her, would
he ignore her – or pretend nothing had happened? And she wondered if she’d be
able to look at him without blushing.

There was no choir rehearsal room at St. Rita’s, so the
group rehearsed in the back of the church. As Francesca headed for her assigned
seat in the alto section, the first person she saw was Patricia, who was draped
over the organ with an almost possessive look in her eyes as she gazed at
Randall.

She’s
wearing a rather low-cut blouse for church
, Francesca noted darkly. And
then she remembered her earlier resolution to be kinder to Patricia.
I’m going to have to start with my thoughts.

“You look lovely this morning,” she heard Randall say to
Patricia and then Patricia giggled and seemed to puff up like a peacock.
Francesca was surprised to feel a hot tide of jealousy surge from somewhere
deep within her and settle in her throat.

“Good morning, Randall, good morning, Patricia,” she
said as nonchalantly as she could. Patricia barely looked at her, but Randall
smiled.

She took her seat next to Bertha
Chumley
,
an obese cheery woman in her sixties whose clothes always seemed to need a more
thorough washing. Today, she noticed, Bertha was abloom in an expansive flowery
print dress with ruffles on the bodice and a skirt that looked like it might
provide shelter for a small town. Once again, Francesca realized she was giving
hospitality to unkind thoughts.
Lord,
she prayed,
save me from my judgmental
mind.

Bertha looked at Francesca appraisingly. “Are you coming
down with something? You’ve got a rash.”

A
rash!
Francesca fumbled in her purse for her mirror and
scrutinized herself frantically. Her face was covered in bright red splotches.
Hives, something she had once been stricken with in college. When she’d left
the house, there had been no sign. She quickly hurried downstairs to the ladies
room, where she splashed her face with cold water and added a generous layer of
foundation.

While she was making her repairs, she heard someone
talking out in the hall. The word “archbishop” floated through the door.
Curious, she inched toward the door and stood listening. There was a small
group gathered in the hall, talking about signing a petition to send to the
archbishop.

“We’ve put up with these problems long enough,” one man
said angrily.

Randall’s
a fast worker,
she thought, heading back upstairs. As she stepped
into the sanctuary, she saw Father John being engulfed by a female parishioner.
The woman planted a firm kiss on his cheek, leaving a scarlet imprint, and then
squeezed his bicep appraisingly.

“Oh, he’s such a darling priest,” the woman gushed to a
friend standing nearby.

Father John, whose face had turned the color of rare roast
beef, nodded vaguely and then stuck his hand out to greet the next parishioner.

“Let’s go over the psalm. Number 652 in your books,”
Randall announced, as Francesca took her seat between Bertha and Rebecca.

“My soul pines for you like a dry, weary land without
water,” she read silently from the book. “On my bed at night I remember you.”
Hmmm, rather a nice sentiment
, she
thought, glancing up at Randall, who seemed deeply engrossed in directing the
men.

“Guys, let’s speed it up a little,” he urged, as the
tenors and basses sang through the first verse. “This is not a dirge. Let’s put
some joy into it.”

After the women practiced the psalm, it was time to run
through the day’s anthem. There were only about ten minutes until Mass started,
and Randall seemed nervous. There never was enough time on Sunday mornings.

“Come on, folks, get out your music and get ready to
sing.”

The choir members all stood up. “What are we singing?”
Bertha began shuffling through a nest of sheet music that she’d stuffed into an
over-sized floral-print canvas sack.

Randall took a deep breath before replying. “The same
thing we practiced at rehearsal this past Thursday: ‘If Ye Love Me.’”

As Bertha continued shuffling, he glanced meaningfully
at his watch. “Everyone should have a copy,” he said through gritted
teeth.
 
Bertha continued riffling through
her bag.

“I wasn’t here, and I don’t have the music either,” came
a nervous voice from the tenor section.

With a dramatic sigh, Randall flipped through a folder
and found extra copies of the music.

“OK, folks, let’s give it a try.” He plunked out the
opening notes on the organ.

Suddenly Father John appeared at the choir director’s
side. Francesca noticed that Randall’s eyes had a hunted look now. The priest
fidgeted with a page in his hymnal.

“Look, I don’t want the ‘Lamb of God’ sung in Latin
today. Do it in English like the other churches in the archdiocese. The
congregation won’t sing if it’s in Latin.”

Randall didn’t say a word, but Francesca saw the muscles
in his cheeks clenching. He had commented time and again to the choir that St.
Rita’s parishioners refused to sing, no matter what language the songs were in.
They enjoyed sitting snugly in their pews and listening to the choir.