Liturgical Mysteries 01 The Alto Wore Tweed (20 page)

Everyone in the audience became very still and a deathly hush fell over the congregation as Herself reached for her sheaf of papers. Joseph had decided it would be best for him to make an unobtrusive exit, but she saw him move and whipped around, pointing a long bony finger in his direction. He froze, eyes wide. Turning back to the lectern, Mother Ryan began her narration in low, measured tones that were unlike anything I’ve ever heard.

“When Jesus was born in Bethlehem,” she said in a low, flat voice devoid of all inflection and humanity, “the animals came to the manger to see the newborn Savior.” She spit out the words as if they were poison, then looked up over her half-glasses, her cold eyes narrowing as she surveyed her prey, With a snarl on her lips, she bared her teeth and dared anyone to make a sound. No one moved. No sound was made. The tiger had stepped forth into the forest and all living things were huddled in silent terror. I noticed Bishop Douglas in the third row. He was beginning to squirm uncomfortably.

This last line by Herself was obviously the cue for the first animal to arrive. In, from the back of the church, came what appeared to be a very frightened sheep wearing a cute little costume made of a fluffy wool-like substance. His mother had begun by urging him forward down the aisle, but it had become apparent that this sheep was no fool and he wasn’t going down to face the tiger without his mommy. His mother looked up at me in desperation and I motioned for her to accompany her little lamb up to the front. While they walked to the front, I played a chorus of the
Echo Carol
to break the tension. The sheep stood in front of the congregation by the cardboard stable.

“What do you have to say to the Baby Jesus?” hissed the rector, obviously now playing the well-known part of the Antichrist of Bethlehem.

“I am the little sheep. I wander day and night,” the sheep said in a quivering voice, still clutching his mother’s hand.

“I’ve come to see the stable,” he paused, thinking.

“A great and glorious sight,” his mother whispered to him.

“A great and glorious sight,” the sheep bleated, now close to panic.

“Good job,” his mother whispered and led him to an empty pew that was reserved for the animals.

I expected some applause but there was none. Not a creature was stirring.

There was no introduction from Mother Ryan for the second animal. A donkey. I played him in with
The Friendly Beasts
. He was an older child. Third grade I would guess.

“I am the donkey, shaggy and brown,” he sang in a quavering soprano.

“I carried the maid, uphill and down.”

He looked over at Herself and his blood ran cold. I suspect that children can sense evil much like animals can. If there was more to his song, we never heard it. He finished abruptly and moved to the pew.

The cat never made it to the front. She was halfway down the aisle before screaming and bolting for the front door. It’s too bad too because I had just started playing “Alley Cat” to lighten the mood a little. I stopped halfway through a phrase, letting my fingers drag along the keys for effect.

Georgia had been watching the proceedings from the stairwell. With a view of both the church and the narthex, she could cue me in on which animals were coming up so I could be prepared. Suddenly she stood up and in a loud stage whisper that I’m afraid, in that deathly quiet, everyone could hear, said “That’s it, Hayden. They’ve all left except Moosey.”

“Is he ready?” I asked.

“Oh yes. He’s ready.”

I looked up at Herself. She was the Ancient Gargoyle of Christmas, still holding the congregation in her Medusa-like thrall from which no one dared escape.

Then Moosey made his entrance.

He came down the aisle in his penguin costume. It was black with a white front, two flippers where his arms were, orange high-top tennis shoes, a black hood topped by a red stocking cap and his nose was painted orange. I had vetoed the beak that came with the costume. I wanted everyone to see his face. He waddled down the aisle just as we had rehearsed and took his place on the top step right in front of the stable. I didn’t give him any traveling music. He was on his own.

He stood there for a moment, perfectly serious, then he pointed a flipper up to the choir loft and said in a loud voice, the way we had rehearsed it, “Maestro, if you please!”

I played him the introduction and he began to sing in his loudest soprano voice.

There ain’t no ice in Bethlehem,

I traveled here you see,

To greet the Baby Jesus,

But it’s too dang hot fer me.

It was an original tune and we had put in a little dance between verses. The stifled laughter from the congregation was now beginning to erupt like the first puffs of ignition from a long-neglected engine. By the time Moosey got to the chorus the engine was at full throttle.

Oh them floes, them icy floes!

To see them once again is my goal.

Oh them floes, them icy floes!

Just take me back to the South Pole.

My feathers all are matted now,

My beak is almost thawed,

It sure is one big price to pay,

To greet the little Lord.

More laughter, as Moosey two-stepped clumsily across the stage, his flippers slapping together in time.

Oh them floes, them icy floes!

To see them once again is my goal.

People were beginning to clap now and sing along with the chorus, ignoring the glaring rector and enjoying themselves immensely.

Oh them floes, them icy floes!

Just take me back to the South Pole.

Moosey headed into the last verses to hushes from the audience so everyone could hear him, although he was singing at the top of his lungs. He was hamming it up now, Gilbert and Sullivan style,ree-feet-six-inches of lovable penguin strutting across the podium, his orange high-tops slapping against the oak floor with every step he took.

I’m whaling ’cause I’m hungry,

And there ain’t no fish to find.

I’m eeling very sharkish,

Squid this salmon on my mind;

I flounder ’cause I’m crabby,

There’s no oysters in this house.

I’ll give my sole to Jesus,

’
Cause my bass is headin’ south.

The hoots and cheers that went up from the congregation at that moment drowned out the beginning of Moosey’s last chorus. They rushed the podium, knocked over the refrigerator box, lifted Moosey to their shoulders and carried him, singing, en masse, out the front door and into the street as I improvised a couple of choruses on the organ, playing with all the gusto I could muster. As I played the final chord, I looked up to the front. Joseph was the only one left, silently looking over the ruins of his cardboard stable. Mother Ryan and the bishop were nowhere to be seen. I looked over at Georgia, Beverly and now Meg, who had joined us after Moosey had made his entrance. They were at the balcony rail, holding hands. Tears of joy were running down their faces.

“Now
that’s
preaching,” Georgia said.

Chapter 14

Question: What
’
s the difference between a soprano and a terrorist? Answer: You can negotiate with a terrorist. Isabel Gerhardt wasn
’
t taking “no” for an answer.

Question: What
’
s the difference between an alto and a piranha? Answer: Lipstick. Denver Tweed was 225 pounds of pit bull looking for a poodle fight. I wasn
’
t sure I could take her if the playing field was level. And it wasn
’
t.

Question: What did the Bishop
’
s Personal Trainer get on her SATs? Answer: Fingernail polish. Although she had been a music major, Amber Dawn didn
’
t know much about music. She thought that a sackbut was a choral singer over forty. Still, she was smart enough to land on her feet more often than on her back. At least that
’
s what she wanted me to believe.

Question: What
’
s the ideal weight for a bishop? Answer: About two-and-a-half pounds, including the urn. The Bishop had gotten me into this mess and he wasn
’
t getting off scott free. Sure, he was my employer, but if the only way out of this was to give him up, well, so be it. There were other jobs in this city.

I reached for a book on the upper shelf,

“
Watch it, handsome,” said Amber, pulling out one of her 38
’
s and leveling it at yours truly. “Take it slow and easy.”

• • •

“You won’t believe this,” I told Meg as we stood in the kitchen, facing the open window, each holding a dead mouse. Meg had hers at arms length with a look of disgust on her face as the strains of Hugo Distler’s
Christmas Story
filled the house.

“It’s a great piece, don’t you think?” I asked her, listening to the music and gently conducting with my rodent-baton. “It puts me in the Christmas spirit. I’m reminded of a poem.”

“I hope it’s the one where ‘not a creature was stirring, not even this dead mouse,’” she quipped. “So far, this makes my list of ‘ten worst dates.’”

“How can you possibly say that, standing here in a freezing house, listening to Hugo Distler and dangling a dead mouse by the tail?”

“Gee. I wonder,” she said, shrugging. “This one is slightly worse than my blind date with the four-foot Mexican named Bernardo who didn’t speak any English. As I recall, I ended up in the back seat of the car teaching him to play tic-tac-toe on the steamed-up windows while my roommate made out with her boyfriend in the front seat.”

“And this one is worse?” I asked, somewhat suspiciously.

“Well, at least there weren’t any dead mice involved.”

About two minutes later, with a flash of feathers, the owl appeared on the sill and stepped through the window into the kitchen as if he’d been doing it all his life. I held my mouse out to him first and he took it gently in his beak. Then, as the owl looked expectantly at Meg, she gingerly held out her suspended offering. With his beak full, he balanced on one leg and lifted a talon to take the snack from Meg’s hand. With two mice securely in his possession, he took a little leap to get himself airborne, then disappeared through the open window and into the night.

We just stood there for a few moments, staring out after the wild creature. Meg was stunned into silence. But not for long.

“That was great!” she whispered. “Will he come back?”

“We can’t leave the window open all night. It’s freezing out there. Anyway, he doesn’t usually come back. Not till tomorrow night, around six.”

“OK,” she said. “This has moved way up on the date list. What are you going to name him?”

“Name him?”

“He has to have a name. How ’bout...Blinky?”

“Blinky?” I’m sure my loathing was apparent.

“Hooty?”

“What kind of name is Hooty? I might as well name him Owly. Or Mr. Peepers.”

“Yes, Mr. Peepers.”

“No!” I almost shouted, closing the window. “Not Mr. Peepers!”

“Take it easy,” said Megan, laughing. “I was just kidding. How about that owl in
The Once and Future King
?”

“Archimedes.”

“Yes, that’s it. Archimedes. Will that do?”

“Well, it’s certainly better than Mr. Blinky.”

“You mean Mr. Peepers,” she corrected.

“Archimedes it is,” I said, knowing when to cut my losses. “Archimedes the Owl.”

• • •

We had a breakfast meeting at The Slab. I walked into the restaurant at about 8:30. I didn’t see Pete, but thought he might be in the back cooking. Dave and Nancy had already started. Breakfast, that is, not the meeting.

“What’re you having?” I asked, pulling out my chair, putting my iBook on the table and taking a seat.

“Pahcahds,” mumbled Dave unintelligibly, munching happily, syrup hanging heavily on his chin.

“If I was a detective, I’d deduce that you were having ‘pancakes,’ but it’s hard to tell,” I said and handed him a napkin.

Nancy was having the breakfast special. Country ham, eggs, grits, and biscuits with gravy.

“How do you keep your schoolgirl figure?”

She looked at me over a forkful of eggs mixed with grits. “I work out five days a week. What’s your secret?”