ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

“Perhaps I introduce you sometime. Or perhaps not.” He winked.

  Curtis explained, “Yevgeny and Fletcher have been doing the dirty fugue for many years now—I hear he’s clever with his feet. It’s a long, sordid story.”

  “Gosh,” said David, wide-eyed.

  Curtis continued, “And since your forte is not organs, but singing, I assume you’re familiar with Renée Fleming.”

  David gasped so deeply, I thought he might swoon. “I have all of her recordings, but I’ve never seen her perform. Don’t tell me you know her!”

  “Afraid not,” said Curtis, examining his manicured fingernails. “But I do have tickets to a special concert at Carnegie Hall that’s being billed as ‘an historic event.’”

  David gasped again. Flapping his hands, he asked, “The Beethoven? The Ninth. The ‘Choral.’ Featuring a massive chorus assembled for one night only. With that stratospheric roster of soloists—ranging from bass René Pape to soprano Renée Fleming. Oh, my gawd. In my dreams.”

  Curtis pounced: “Would you like to go with me?”

  David fell back in his chair, trying to catch his breath.

  Yevgeny turned to Curtis. “That was supposed to be my ticket.”

  Curtis flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his lapel. “So I’m an Indian giver.” He told David, “It’s a week from Sunday, the twenty-ninth.”

  David reminded him, “But I work on Sundays.”

  “Sunday mornings,” said Curtis. “I’ll book you on a noon flight, have a car meet you at JFK, and get you back to the penthouse in plenty of time to freshen up before the eight-o’clock curtain. Stay a few days, if you like. You can use our guest room and I’ll show you the town.”

  “Curtis!” said his wife, seething. “Must you be so damn obvious? I’ve cut you a lot of slack over the years, but I have a right to a modicum of respect here in Dumont. Think of my position.”

  “We’ll talk about it, Poopsie. But not here, not now.” Curtis then winked at David, as if to say, Pack your bags.

  The table was quiet as Berta and Nancy cleared the main course in anticipation of the fruit trifle. Mary appeared to be deep in thought. She hadn’t said a word since before the flap over Renée Fleming, which she didn’t even seem to notice.

  “Joyce?” she said pensively. We all looked in her direction. Mister Puss sat in her lap, purring, as she stroked the nape of his neck.

  “Yes, Mary?”

  “Earlier, I didn’t mean to cut you off—with my beliefs, or lack of them. As you know, in recent years, I’ve taken great pleasure in making a difference in our lovely little town. I’m also well aware that St. Alban’s has long been a force of good here, regardless of how I may feel about faith issues per se. And I know that you’re facing difficult times with the parish. So what I’m trying to say is: I might be persuaded to consider your needs, but only if Marson deems the project to have sufficient artistic merit. I’m far more interested in your aesthetic impact on the downtown commons than I am in your mission. Fair enough?”

  Joyce Hibbard’s mouth twitched, as if trying to suppress a grin.

  Curtis turned to his wife with a sly smile, as if to say, Reel her in, Poopsie.

  Joyce said, “Of course, Mary. That’s more than fair. And woman to woman, I must say that I appreciate your candor.” She turned to Marson, seated next to her. “Well? Are you willing to—shall we say—intercede in this matter?”

  My husband replied, “For Mary, certainly. I’d be happy to give her my honest assessment of the project’s merits. But first things first—you’ll need to reach a decision on which direction to take. Restore and repair? Or build from scratch?”

  “Exactly,” said Joyce. “If you have some time tomorrow, maybe you could come over to the rectory. We could dig into some files together, then walk through the property and maybe start talking some numbers. Is one-thirty good for you?”

  “Perfect,” said Marson.

  “Perfect,” said Joyce. “I’m feeling better already. Progress!”

  “Perfect,” agreed Mary. Offhandedly, she added, “But it goes without saying that Mister Puss will have the final word on the matter.”

  The cat looked up from Mary’s lap, lavishing his mistress with an adoring gaze. Then his head slowly turned, riveting Mother Hibbard with a cold stare that wiped the grin off her face.

  As the meal concluded, our guests were lavish with their thanks and compliments, even offering Nancy Sanderson and Berta a round of applause for a job well done.

  Glee Savage was first to leave, as she had an early appointment on Wednesday.

  Yevgeny was next. Although he had arrived with the Hibbards, he was not staying with them at the rectory and decided to get some exercise, walking to the Manor House, a posh bed-and-breakfast that had been converted from one of the mansions built by the town’s early elite, a few blocks away on Prairie Street. Watching him leave, I couldn’t help wondering, Why is he here? It seemed odd that he would venture to Dumont merely to keep Curtis company; they could see each other anytime in New York. In addition to this point of curiosity, I also felt an unmistakable twinge of attraction—Yevgeny was one hot man.

  Mary was fussing with Mister Puss, getting him into his harness and leash, while Joyce and Curtis Hibbard lingered near the door. Marson and Curtis engaged in some backslapping and reminiscing, happy to reconnect after so many years, but as far as I was concerned, the sooner Curtis left, the better.

  Mary toddled over with Mister Puss cradled in one arm; he refused, as before, to be walked in that hideous vest. Mary had warmed some to Joyce Hibbard—not much, but a little—so she offered a hug in parting, with the cat as a buffer. Mary said, “Oh, my. I do like your perfume, Joyce. What is it?”

  I thought it was overpowering. I’d had the same reaction the night I met Joyce at the parish meeting.

  She explained, “During my years in the fashion industry, I developed a line of cosmetics, as well as this fragrance. It’s discontinued now, but I’ve always liked it, so I keep a personal stash for my own use.”

  “Ho-ho,” said Curtis. “I call it her ‘secret sauce.’”

  I was getting annoyed by that fake laugh of his. He could leave now.

  And he did, along with Joyce, Mary, and Mister Puss, who retreated into the night.

  David Lovell had hung behind. “Guys,” he said, hands aflutter, “I cannot thank you enough for asking me here tonight. The place is gorgeous, the meal was fabulous, and you two are the best. Plus—” He paused for a deep breath, eyes closed.

  “Let me guess,” said Marson. “Renée Fleming?”

  David squealed. No words were necessary.

  When David arrived, he had greeted us with handshakes. Now though, standing at the door, it was time for hugs. David wasn’t shy about it. He wrapped his arms around Marson and gave him a tight squeeze. Then it was my turn. As I leaned into David’s embrace, cheek to cheek, I noted that Mister Puss had hit the nail on the head.

  David did indeed smell like a fruitcake.

  Chapter 4

  Wednesday, the long streak of bright, lusty May weather was broken by a day that turned gray and muggy, threatening rain. Marson and I had no lunch appointments, so we decided to walk from the office to First Avenue Bistro. Because it was nearby and consistently good, the Bistro had become our default lunch destination when we had no other plans. Plus, we wanted to thank Nancy Sanderson again for stepping in on such short notice to take culinary command of the prior evening’s dinner party, which everyone had agreed was splendid.

  “I was happy to do it,” she said as Marson and I were finishing lunch. With a soft laugh, she leaned low to confide to us, “You two know how to entertain. Most of my customers don’t have a clue.” She gave us a wink and moved to chat with another table.

  I said to Marson, “She seems in good spirits today. Last night—a little moody.”

  Marson reminded me, “We were all a bit stressed. But all’s well that ends well.”

  When we left the r
estaurant and stepped out to the street, I checked my watch. “You’re about due at St. Alban’s. Mind if I tag along?”

  “I was about to make that exact suggestion. This appointment has the markings of a dreary afternoon.”

  “Uh-huh. And misery loves company, right?”

  “In your company,” he said, “I could never be miserable.” As corny as he sounded, I knew he meant it; I felt the same way about him.

  But in truth, I questioned my own motives for wanting to tag along. Certainly, I enjoyed the company of my husband—anywhere, anytime. Equally, I was intrigued by the dilemma faced by Mother Hibbard and her parish, and I wondered how they might resolve it. At another level—and this is what made me uncomfortable—I had been nagged through the night by thoughts of Yevgeny Krymov, by the sense memory of his muscular leg pressed against mine, and while I knew he was forbidden fruit, I was intrigued by the notion that he might be hanging around St. Alban’s with Mother Hibbard’s husband. Shame on me. But underlying all of these considerations, there was something else. There was something in the air. Literally.

  During the time we were at lunch, the iffy weather had worsened. The muggy air had grown sultry. And it smelled. It was not the whiff of approaching rain—not exactly, though that was a fair bet. Rather, the stagnant air hung heavy with the dross of stale breath. The sky seemed to sag and wheeze, bloated by a troubled atmosphere of foreboding and heat.

  As we walked along First Avenue, headed toward the parklike setting of the commons, I took off my sport coat and carried it, draped over an arm.

  Marson left his on.

  Joyce Hibbard greeted us at the rectory door and showed us inside. Standing in the front hall, she said, “I wasn’t expecting both of you, but it’s wonderful you’re here, Brody. Three heads are better than one, considering the challenges ahead…”

  I wasn’t really listening while I scoped out the surroundings. It was a dark old house, dignified but in no sense lavish—lots of wood paneling, stained and waxed, with carved ornamentation along the cornice and below the chair rail. The light fixtures were all fitted with glass tinted a cloudy amber, either by design or by the yellowing passage of many years. All was quiet, the sort of environs in which a grandfather clock might be heard ticking in another room, but no, there was no such clock. I glanced into what appeared to be the main parlor; if I was thinking I might spot Curtis and Yevgeny together in there, reading poetry or playing cribbage or sipping an afternoon espresso, I was wrong.

  “Please,” said Joyce, “come into my office,” and she led us through a carved pair of sliding doors.

  Her office was brighter than the rest of the house, without the antique heaviness. Her sleek Apple computer and minimalist Breuer desk chairs—chrome and black leather—stood in striking contrast to the rectory’s stuffy liturgical ambience. I noticed a small side office through a doorway in a wall of bookcases, where a woman worked at a desk. When she peeped out at us, I recognized Lillie Miller, the parish secretary, who had sat at the vestry table during the prior week’s open meeting.

  Joyce seated herself behind her desk as Marson and I settled into a pair of chairs facing her. She jogged a stack of file folders on the glass desktop, preparing to speak.

  But then Lillie stepped into the room, carrying her purse, her keys, a folding umbrella, and a tidy canvas tote bag stuffed with this and that. “Excuse me, Mother Hibbard—good afternoon, gentlemen—I need to dash out on a few errands, and I also have my practice session with David. I’ll be gone for an hour or so, two at most, unless you need me for anything.” She sounded a bit dotty, but earnest.

  Joyce said, “That’s fine, Lillie. And you’ll stop at the post office?”

  “Oops. Yes, of course.” She skittered back into her office, then returned, stuffing a few envelopes into her tote. With a bob of her head, she turned to leave.

  Curiosity got the better of me. I asked, “Practice with David? You’re in the choir?”

  With a shy laugh, she explained, “Heavens no, sir. I couldn’t carry a tune if my life depended on it. Our organist retired, and David’s filling in for him, but with some of the more involved pieces, he can’t handle both the choir and the organ, so he asked me to help out. I’m not much good at it, but I couldn’t say no—not to David. So he arranges simple accompaniments, then helps me practice, and we sort of muddle through.”

  Joyce assured her, “You do a beautiful job. And we’re all grateful for the effort you put into it.”

  Blushing, Lillie stepped out of the office and left the rectory through the front door.

  Joyce waited until the lock clicked shut in the hall. Through a grossly pained expression, she told us, “She’s a terrible organist. Truly lousy.” Then Joyce’s countenance brightened. “But thanks to the deadline imposed by the city, after two more Sundays we won’t be hearing that wretched organ for a while.”

  Despite Joyce’s attempt to find a silver lining in the city’s ultimatum, it was scant consolation for the looming crisis faced by the parish, so we got to work.

  Joyce reviewed for us the history and condition of each of the parish buildings—church, rectory, school, and the newer gymnasium building now used as the parish hall. She unrolled in front of us a detailed plat map of the parish grounds, showing setbacks and easements, as well as the precise location of existing buildings. She opened her files to show us tax records, property assessments, operating budgets, dwindling membership rolls, and the yearly progression of expenses to cover maintenance and repairs, which was daunting.

  After nearly an hour of focusing on mind-numbing minutiae, Marson stepped back for the bigger picture, telling Joyce, “Any way you slice it, by the end of this month, your existing church is off-limits. Fortunately, you can start holding services in the parish hall. So at least you’re not thrown out on the street or stuck in a tent. But obviously, you need and want a permanent solution, preferably one that’s handsome and inspiring, not just ‘up to code.’ And realistically, there are only two possibilities.”

  Joyce nodded. “Thoroughly restore the old church. Or build a new one—either on the footprint of the old church or elsewhere on the parish property.”

  “Luckily,” I said, “you have some flexibility if you decide to build.” Tapping the plat map on the desk, I pointed out, “You have a lot of land here, and if the school comes down, you’ll have even more.”

  Joyce agreed, “Space isn’t the issue. The issue is money.”

  “Right,” said Marson. “And considering only the cost issue, I think your two options are essentially a wash. Historical restoration, done right, is expensive, but at least you’d already have a building, so you’re not starting from scratch. On the other hand, to my way of thinking, it’s far more satisfying to spend funds designing and building correctly from the outset—from a clean sheet—rather than throwing good money at fixing old problems. Others will disagree. So in this case, it’s not a matter of dollars, but philosophy.”

  “Okay,” she said, “philosophy aside, since the expenses are likely similar—how much? In very round figures.”

  Dazed by the question, Marson replied, “Without a lot more input—without establishing the basic parameters of the project—it’s impossible to say.”

  She reminded him, “Whichever way we go, we already have the land.”

  “Right,” said Marson, “good point. Which ought to leave you on the hook for something in the neighborhood of …” Marson twirled a hand, eyes to the ceiling.

  Then he ballparked the millions.

  Mother Hibbard winced. “God help us,” she muttered.

  Through the office windows, the afternoon sky had darkened.

  Round figures can be sobering, especially in the round millions. Mother Hibbard suggested, “Shall we get a bit of air? Let’s take a tour of the grounds.” She reached for a large ring of keys.

  Saying nothing, Marson and I followed her out of the office, through the entry hall, and out the front door of the rectory.

/>   The air was still. The grounds were quiet. Even the birds were hushed, not bothering to sing for rain; they must have sensed the inevitable. Our shoes crunched the path of pea gravel as we rounded the side of the rectory and skirted the abandoned playground next to the red brick school building. A set of rusted swings hung rigidly vertical, like brittle fossils from some distant culture, long vanished and forgotten.

  Joyce told us, “I can show you inside the school, but I’m warning you—it’s a fright.”

  I stopped in my tracks and cocked my head, away from the school, wondering aloud, “What’s that?”

  “What, kiddo?” asked Marson.

  “That sound. Do you hear it?”

  Joyce’s features wrinkled. “That is odd. A siren somewhere?”

  Now Marson heard it. “Strange. It’s more like … like bagpipes or something.”

  Walking in the general direction of the eerie sound, which intensified, we found ourselves nearing the church from its ungainly rear wall.

  Joyce’s keys rattled as we hustled along the side of the building, moving toward the street. The row of arched Tiffany windows had their bottom ventilator panels flopped open, from which we could hear the sustained, discordant bray of the organ; we also saw smoke and sniffed the piercing licorice smell of myrrh.

  “Jesus,” said Joyce as we scuttled around to the front of the church, facing the commons.

  I led the charge up the worn limestone steps to the crimson doors, asking Joyce over my shoulder, “Do we need the key?”

  “It shouldn’t be locked.”

  But it was.

  We fumbled at the door, got it open, then dashed through the vestibule, through the inside doors, and into the yawning space of the nave.

  Joyce, Marson, and I froze, gaping in disbelief as we took it all in.

  The air was thick with incense and gray with its smoke, which clouded the windows and assaulted my lungs. The bitter smell reminded me of Glee Savage’s patchouli, but far more intense and stinging. The source was shockingly obvious: halfway down the center aisle, the red carpet runner had begun to burn where an ornate brass thurible—the censer with a lid and chains, normally swung during worship services—now lay tossed aside, spewing glowing coals and a grainy mound of myrrh, frankincense, and God knows what else.