The Night Singers (2 page)

I smile. “See on the phone, when you suggested a priest, I figured you had gone back. I guess we don't know each other all that well.” This is out of my mouth before I have a chance to regret it.

“We all do our best,” he says. Another of Momma's maxims, but laced with an irony Momma wouldn't have recognised, let alone appreciated.

Ashamed for forcing this intimacy, always the loudmouth among my more cautious siblings, I study the cemetery map carefully. “Over there,” I point to a section on the left. “We're here—in Cl. And he's in K4.” He. Our father. Dad. The priest.

He is a tall, balding, paunchy man in a wrinkled black suit and a yellowing roman collar. Patrick knew what he was doing. Dad wouldn't have wanted a trendy cleric in a Central American poncho. The priest waves to us, then checks his watch. Patrick walks forward, hand extended.

“Father Jameson?”

“Yes. And you're Patrick Moody?”

“Yes, Father. And this is my sister, Meg.”

“Whew, I'm glad I have the right grave.” The priest shakes my hand. “It's hot today, isn't it?”

Our surrogate father is too human with his sweaty palms and painfully maroon socks.

“Yes, well, this is it,” Patrick kicks freshly mown grass off the small stone slab.

I wonder how long Dad's marker will stay visible in this enormous cemetery, the grave untended because his children are scattered in Massachusetts and New Mexico and Idaho and Nebraska. Kneeling down for a closer look, I read,
Daniel Moody, 1917–1991, Served in the US Army, 1941–1945
. It says nothing about his forty years of driving trucks around the country. Nothing about Momma. About us. Just Dad and the US Army, 1941–1945. Before any of his children were born; maybe in exchange for a free grave, the army reserves the right to edit your life.

“Patrick, Meg, shall we begin?”

Giddy nervousness looms; I feel as if we are getting married.

“Yes,” Patrick nods with appropriate seriousness.

The priest keeps his eyes on my brother, “I've marked the passages you selected, Patrick, from John. From Matthew. Ecclesiastes.”

Words ascend from the frail pages in Father Jameson's hardy voice. I am sorry that Patrick had to go to the library. Maybe I should send him a Bible for Christmas. On the other hand, he might misconstrue that and drag a priest to my funeral.

Drops on the grave. Dark circles on the dusty white granite. Finally it is raining in Seattle. Above, the sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue.

The priest's resonant tone would be perfect for singing High Mass. Do they still have High Mass? Concentrate, I tell myself. This is your father's memorial.

The sun is relentless. Reality closes in. He has died. Left again. Without saying good-bye.

Patrick's eyelids are lowered. “Amen,” he responds attentively at the end of the Hail Mary.

“Now, perhaps,” the priest is saying, “you would like to share some memories of your father.”

We are silent. I am stunned. Appalled. Even in death, my father is making me choose between loyalty and honesty.

He tries again. “A story from your childhood. A reflection on his life.”

Time passes: seconds, decades.

Patrick tries, “He worked very hard. He was still driving truck until just three years ago. He …”

What can I say? He left my mother with four children and no child support. He beat my baby brother regularly. He only contacted me when he was low on cash. He supported George Wallace for President. He ate too much; drank himself sick every weekend. This is not appropriate. I hope Patrick has a long list in his repertoire of kindness.

“And you, Meg?” That rich, incantatory voice. My turn to enter the confessional. I panic, desperate to say something positive. I want to have a loving, responsible father. I want a headstone for the grave. I want the rest of the family here. Looking up, I notice the priest is shifting, uncomfortable in the heat. Patrick waits expectantly. But I cannot lie. What is to be honoured about my father can only be honoured by truth.

“He had a tough life,” I say, instructing the strange priest, reminding Patrick and myself. “His father died when he was fifteen and his mother was in and out of mental institutions. He never made much money, never seemed to get what he wanted, needed.”

Patrick and the priest are leaning forward, straining to hear.

Suddenly I add, “I always admired his irascibility.” My voice gains volume. “Maybe I inherited some of it. I mean I'm a crank. I mean I'm grateful for that.”

Truth. This is enough. Traffic noise from the highway roars in to fill the spaces between us.

Patrick avoids my eyes.

Father Jameson is clearing his throat. “Before we close, is there anything else?”

Before we close, what is he talking about? We just got here. Is this all there is after a whole life? This tiny slab obscured by overeager grass, an eerily cheerful priest and two drooping members of a family. Dad was right about not wanting a funeral. We shouldn't have come.

“I guess so,” Patrick answers. “Unless you wanted to say something else, Meg.”

“Yes, I'd like to say the ‘Our Father.'”

Patrick tries to conceal his surprise. The priest bows his head. Together we recite our childhood prayer.

The three of us are walking to the parking lot. “Give yourselves time to grieve,” Father Jameson is saying. “Feelings will come up. Let yourselves experience them.”

We are both silent, embarrassed by the usefulness of his self-help rhetoric, sad the memorial is over.

He tries again. “You live in Idaho?”

“Yes,” Patrick says. “In the mountains.”

“Great skiing,” Father Jameson proclaims. “I used to ski in the late seventies, when I was in college.”

I notice for the first time that the priest is younger than Patrick and I. By maybe ten years. I want to know his given name. I want to call him “George” or “Charlie” instead of “Father.”

“Downhill or cross-country?” Patrick, who was never a skier, asks courteously.

“Both. More downhill. I love the exhilaration of the slopes. On July days like this, I dream of being in Chile or New Zealand, where it's cold and snowy now.”

We have arrived at the Ford Falcon. Father Jameson owns the silver Honda hatchback three cars away.

We stand awkwardly, silently. Patrick pulls a bent white envelope from his pocket. “Thank you, Father.”

“Take care.” Once again he is an ageless cleric. “God bless you. Be kind to yourselves.”

“Happy skiing,” Patrick smiles.

The traffic is heavier now. Patrick strains to follow the local automotive choreography. I think about the fact that neither of us has remembered to bring flowers. That we haven't talked about the way Dad died, alone in the hospital, refusing to let any of us know he was sick. We are an accidental family, each of us surviving the accident with different scars. My eyes fill and, fearful of this grief, I grow angry. How foolish to wait all these years for people to come home. I am lucky Patrick and I are still talking, still fond of each other even if we don't know religious affiliations and clothing preferences.

There is something between us. A kind of grace.

“So what time is your flight?”

We are almost at the motel. I compose my voice. “Eight a.m. There was nothing before tomorrow.”

“Wish we could have dinner.” Patrick pulls over to the curb. “But I told Cynthia I'd be back tonight. I'll just about make it, leaving now.” He regards the traffic dubiously.

“Don't worry,” I say. “I've got a lot of reading to do. I guess I didn't tell you I'm taking a course this summer. Astronomy.”

“That's nice.” He is distracted, clearly anxious to get on the road.

“I'd like to help with the priest's gift. How much did you give him?”

“No, that's all right. It was my idea. You don't even go to church.”

“Neither do you. Come on.” I pull out my cheque book.

“OK. I guess. I gave him $100.”

I write a cheque. “Thanks for doing all this.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “I'm not clear it's what he would have liked. He was always so hard to figure out, you know?”

“I know.” I hesitate, not wanting to crowd him. “But I'm glad we did it. I'm glad to see you.”

“Yeah.” He is caught between pleasure and embarrassment.

“Next time you're out West, save some time to visit me in Idaho. “It's a beautiful state.”

“Great skiing,” I offer.

Laughing, we both grow looser.

He kisses my cheek.

“Next time,” I say.

Appoggiatura

From time to time during his open studio, Paul noticed her sitting in the wooden rocker; a small woman, late fifties, greying, attractive. Then someone would ask a question about his music. Or congratulate him on the concert, one of two he would have performed here at the Chester Resident Composers' Festival this spring.

“Yes, yes, I often use percussion,” Paul answered the tall, thin man who had introduced himself as Thaddeus, “the music director” of a local elementary school.

Gay. Paul could tell the teacher also thought
he
was gay—by the way Thaddeus touched his arm and gazed into his eyes. Paul got this often because of his trim build, fine features, curly black hair. When they were kids, his sister used to say he had a very beautiful face, kept saying it, even after a hard punch in her twelve-year-old stomach. He wasn't gay. Not even bi or latent. He loved women. Found them fascinating, arousing. The
idea
of women, anyway. And this last relationship with Muriel had continued over a year. They were talking of moving in together. He still wasn't sure why he broke it off.

“I admired the vibraphone in your second piece,” the teacher was saying.

Paul smiled, “Thanks.”

A young, blond family entered his Open Studio.

“Welcome, I'm Paul Timmins, a composer, and you'll see examples of my work in sheet music over by the piano. Let me know if you have any questions.” He and the other resident composers were holding “office hours” all day. Some composers were playing CDs of their work, but Paul agreed with Copland that background music was blasphemous, like melodic wallpaper.

The kids followed their parents to the Steinway.

“Thanks,” called the father. “I'm sure we will.”

These Vermonters were full of questions. Doctors. Cab drivers. Lawyers. Teachers. Waiters. It seemed as if the state bred inquisitive, music-loving people. So different from South Dakota where he'd been teaching at Clarksdale College for fifteen years. Where his notes seemed to vanish into prairie winds.

An Asian couple walked in. “Is this the composer's studio?” asked the tall woman.

“Yes, welcome. I'm Paul Timmins.”

“Great concert last night,” declared the man, extending his palm.

They shook hands.

“You're generous to say so,” said Paul.

The schoolteacher cleared his throat. “I should make room for your other fans,” he placed a brotherly hand on Paul's shoulder. “But, hey, you're in residence on the Festival Grounds for six weeks. Maybe we could have a drink sometime.” He offered Paul a card in the shape of a harp. “Thaddeus Wilson, Maestro.”

Paul nodded. “Thanks.” He didn't want to offend the guy
or
lead him on.

“The card design wasn't my idea. One of my friends made it, an art teacher. I can't decide if it's too kitschy, you know?”

“Nice card,” asserted Paul. His eyes were drawn to the sad woman in the rocker, who had struck up a conversation with the young family.

“See you around,” Thaddeus said reluctantly.

“Yes, see you!” Paul aimed for a low-key geniality.

He heard a long sigh run through the guy's diaphragm. Well, other people's fantasies weren't
his
responsibility. That's what his outrageous diva friend Marco had advised. Paul reminded himself he was a stranger in this little town and he'd be passing through in six weeks.

Last fall, he'd been perplexed, yet thrilled, by an out-of-the-blue invitation to the prestigious Chester Composers' Festival in Southern Vermont. The artistic director admired three of his CDs. Simple as that. Paul's life was not simple, had never been simple, so he actually thought they were phoning the wrong Paul Timmins.

Born in New York, raised across the Hudson in urban New Jersey, he took the unlikely major of music at a nearby state college and then—what was even more improbable—he won a full graduate fellowship to Northwestern. Since then, he'd belonged to the plains and the prairies. The Chester Festival Residency was his first extended visit to the East Coast in 20 years.

Long ago, his father, a devoted, but practical man, asked, “They pay you a wage to write music? Music without words?” Mr Timmins was proud of his college-educated children who would not follow him into the ranks of night cleaners. He hadn't asked such questions of Paul's sister, the lawyer, or their accountant brother.

“Absolutely, Dad,” he said with the unsure sure-ness of youth. “They'll be performing my work at Carnegie Hall in no time.”

The small, fit man shrugged and smiled, “OK, I'll by a fancy new tie to wear on opening night.”

Opening night! Maybe he thought Paul would write Broadway musicals. But who was he to tell his Manhattan bred father that West 57th Street was a world apart from the theatre district?

As yet, Dad hadn't had the occasion for a fancy tie because Paul's muse drew him to “new music” played in alternative venues, especially on the West Coast. And he was grateful to find a job—even if it took him to South Dakota and a small, formerly Lutheran school which prided itself on intense student-teacher collaboration and lots of “community building” via campus social events. The dean who hired him for his classy degree expected Paul to write music in his “spare time.”