The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) (15 page)

I played a few measures with the G-natural, then played them again substituting a G#.

"See what I mean?"

She didn't answer.

"Also," I said, turning a few pages, "the choir's having some difficulty with this canonic section in the third movement." I played through the choral parts.

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth;

the time of the singing of birds is come,

and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.

"See?" I said. "A four part canon at the seventh? That's too hard for us to sing unaccompanied. I'm just going to use the instruments to double the vocal parts. Now here on page 56..."

"Don't you dare!" she hissed, showing me her yellowed teeth. "Don't you dare, Hayden Konig! And don't think I'm fooled for one instant. I know exactly what you're doing!"

I looked at her from the piano, a small smile playing on my lips.

"Very well," she said. "You obviously won't leave. Ask your questions."

Chapter 14

Two men stood at her front door, both in uniform, their hats tucked under their arms. One of them had a letter in his other hand. She knew why they were there just as she knew what the letter said. They declined her wooden invitation to come in, handed her the envelope, but broke the news to her in person. Henry had been killed on the 22nd of December: two days ago in Tunisia at the battle of Longstop Hill. He was a hero, the lieutenant said. A credit to his unit, the 18th division, and his country. She barely heard him. There would be some life insurance, the other one said. She nodded in mute despair.

They asked if she had someone she could call. No, she answered. She had no phone, but if they would give the message to his parents, she would count it as a great kindness. They agreed, and she gave them the address. The two soldiers conveyed their sorrow at her loss once more, left her front porch, got into their car, and drove away down the dusty dirt road.

She closed the front door, walked into her living room, and collapsed.

Her friend Mary Alice was the one who found her. Mary Alice had gotten the news from her mother, who happened to be at the Greenaways' house when the two soldiers arrived. When she heard the terrible account, Mary Alice picked up her skirts and raced to Bessie's house as fast as her sturdy legs would carry her. A glass of water and some smelling salts brought Bessie around, but did nothing to stem her grief. Her sobs echoed through the house.

The cantata was cancelled. Henry Greenaway and his family had been members of the church for years and he was the first of her sons to perish in the Great War. It was a devastating blow. The midnight service that Christmas Eve was conducted as usual, but most of the choir was absent and it was a "said" service. No hymns or carols echoed through that cold, still night. Many of the parishioners, those who had heard the tragic news, chose to stay home, even though they might have found comfort in the priest's message that evening. Mary Alice stayed with Bessie and heard the account of the service from her mother the next day.

* * *

"So there was no performance?" I asked.

"Not then, not ever," answered Bessie Baker, in a clipped, matter-of-fact voice. "The choirmaster and I talked about doing it the following year, but then, in the course of our conversations, he decided that I might be a grieving widow in need of some comfort. He didn't care for my rebuff and that was the end of that. He was called up for service a few months later, and shipped out before Easter. I later heard that he was killed in Germany."

She paused for a long moment. "I have no use for this composing foolishness and I do not appreciate you dragging this thing back out."

"I'm sorry," I said. "Sorry about your husband, but also sorry there was no performance. It's an extraordinary work. If someone had heard it perhaps..."

* * *

Henry's family was supportive, as far as they could be to an unknown daughter-in-law of eight months, but they withdrew into their own grief and gradually pulled away from her. She had Henry's house and the life insurance, but his parents were less generous when it came to their business holdings. She was not considered part of the family. If there had been a child, perhaps, but that hadn't happened. Estranged from the Greenaways, within a year she'd sold the house and moved back to Asheville. She wouldn't touch a piano again for over sixty years.

Bessie took back her maiden name and began teaching English. Twelve years later, her parents were killed in an automobile accident, and when a position opened at St. Germaine High School, she took it. Her friend Mary Alice had left the town years before. The Greenaways were gone as well. No one in town recognized her and she didn't remind them, discouraging friendships, keeping acquaintances at arm's length, choosing instead to keep to herself. She cultivated a caustic wit and used it mercilessly on unprepared students, ill-equipped teachers, and ineffectual administrators. She was feared. Her mouth set itself in a permanent scowl and the lines in her face deepened as she became the crone of the village. The days turned to months, and then to years, and then to scores of years. Now she could see the end.

* * *

"I'm not sorry about dragging your cantata back out, though," I said. "It's changed everyone who's sung it."

Bessie Baker put her ancient hands on the wheels of her chair and rolled it toward the exit.

"What about that G-natural?" I called after her. "Measures 23 to 39?"

"You know perfectly well it's a G-natural," she said, without looking back. "But do what you want. I couldn't care less."

Chapter 15

The Jessetonians had their tree up and decorated by the time the woodpeckers had been captured. As an
homage
, they placed two life-sized papier-mâché woodpeckers at the top of the tree in place of the usual turtledoves and vowed they'd be adorning the tree from henceforth.

Billy Hixon, dressed as Santa and holding the large birdcage aloft to display his two prizes, explained to the children in Sterling Park that the only way to catch woodpeckers was to put a little salt on their tails. He was going to take them back to the North Pole where they'd help in the workshop, drilling holes for wooden puppets' noses. Moosey and his friend Bernadette, finally released from the prison of elementary school, spent the rest of the day chasing birds with a couple of salt shakers they'd purloined from the Slab. Unfortunately, they'd caught one fairly early in the exercise, a robin with a bad wing, and then there was no stopping them.

I was practicing my prelude for Sunday morning when Pauli Girl came up the steps, into the loft and down to the organ console. I saw her and stopped playing.

"I had an idea," she said.

"What?"

"Maybe you could have Miss Baker come and hear the cantata."

"I already thought of that," I said. "I asked her to come to the performance, or even a rehearsal, but she said absolutely not. She's not interested."

"She doesn't like to go out at night," said Pauli Girl. "None of the residents do."

"Makes sense," I said.

"But what about something during the day? I think I could take her out if she thought she were going somewhere else. Maybe to the library. Then I'd wheel her into the church, and there you'd be."

"You might just make her mad," I said. "And Bessie Baker's mad is more mad than I want to see."

"Maybe," said Pauli Girl, "but maybe not. She started playing the piano again after you left. I think there's something there."

* * *

The fourth movement was easier, and was a setting of another poem by Sara Teasdale. The choir, now familiar with the style and the harmonic language, caught on quickly.

Life has loveliness to sell,

All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children's faces looking up

Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,

Music like a curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit's still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.

"Wow!" said Marjorie. "I can't wait until Sunday night! This is going to be great."

"It's going to be sad when it all ends," said Rebecca. "I've been singing this in my head for two weeks straight."

"Is Miss Baker coming to the performance?" asked Martha.

I shook my head. "She doesn't care to attend. She's not exactly thrilled that we're doing it."

"Why not?" asked Muffy. "If someone sang a song I wrote, boy, I'd be happy!"

"Me, too," agreed Goldi Fawn. "I remember when I wrote
Suckin' Christmas Dinner Through a Straw
and Louise Mandrell was gonna sing it. I was all set to go to Dollywood and hear her, but she had to cancel when her pet pig got hit by a car."

"Miss Baker has her reasons," I said. "She's been through a lot."

"Is that the end of the piece?" asked Rhiza Walker, flipping through a couple more blank pages at the end of her score. "It doesn't seem like the end."

"It's not," I said. "The composer gives instructions for the singing of a carol after the last movement.
I Wonder as I Wander
. You'll find the music in the back of your folder."

"Is that a solo?" asked Muffy hopefully.

"No," I said. "Sorry. There
are
a couple of solo parts. I thought that they probably used the choral version that John Jacob Niles wrote. It would have been the right time period."