He kept his daily walks a secret for months until one day Doris decided to follow him. Part of him had been hoping for weeks that she would follow him much like she had years earlier with Charles and the Pendennis Club. She followed him around Central Park and eventually to the cathedral, where he’d bounded up the steps with an enthusiasm that had nearly made her nauseous. When he’d exited the cathedral after Mass, she’d stood horrified on the sidewalk, so angry she couldn’t look him in the eyes.
“Hi, Mother,” he’d said, when he found her. They walked home together until Wolfgang finally broke the silence: “I’ve found my calling. I’m going to attend high school at the abbey at Saint Meinrad. I’m going to become a Catholic priest.”
Doris Pike dropped to the sidewalk and wept.
***
So six years later as a twenty-year-old seminary student returning back to those same wooded hills after that confusing summer with Rose, he knelt beside his bed for what seemed like hours, searching for answers and reminiscing. He questioned whether God was still calling him to a life of celibacy and prayer. Had Rose been a test?
He thought back to how nervous he’d been the first week at Saint Meinrad at fourteen and how new it had all been, entering the quiet church every morning to pray before the sun rose, the Liber Usualis heavy like a brick in his hands—never going to prayer or the abbey church without it. But Wolfgang knew the instant he’d arrived at the abbey at Saint Meinrad that it was the place for him, just as the monks had decades before when they’d founded the priory in the hills that reminded them of Switzerland. God had called him to the secluded seminary to pray amid the wooded, rolling landscape with the friars and monks. It was so peaceful, so far removed from a city that was growing louder and more polluted every year. He loved the predictability of the schedule, the simplicity of the lifestyle, and the lack of conflict that he’d been so accustomed to with his mother.
He cherished the memories of his four years in minor seminary, from age fourteen to eighteen. Despite the rigidity of the atmosphere, boys were still boys. They told jokes, they played pranks, they tossed balls on the lawn, and they fished in the lake. He chuckled as he remembered how fast they’d run after Trevor Kane had thrown a rock at the cloister’s front door, and then Trevor, ever the clown, falling in the grass and rolling down the hill to be seen by Friar Bennett moments later.
Wolfgang and his friends would sneak into the church spires and race up the three-story spiral staircase to the top and overlook the grounds. They’d race back down, Wolfgang always coming in last (unless chubby Franklin Ferbough joined them), and all became dizzy by the time they reached the bottom, where they’d stumble out the door and fall in the grass and stare up at the sky. In the winter, when snow covered the grounds, they’d sled down the hills toward the lake. And when the lake was frozen, they’d coast right on out over the ice.
Christopher Schmiltz, a major seminarian who had almost been kicked out twice (once for smoking and another time for having a picture of a woman on his wall), showed Wolfgang’s group of minor seminarians how to make ketchup-flavored alcohol. They added yeast and a little sugar to the monks’ homemade ketchup. Then they pushed the cork in really tight and placed it in the windowsill so the sun could hit it. It would be ready when it popped its cork. And on that day, Christopher Schmiltz, who ended up leaving the seminary a year later and starting a family, was long gone by the time Friar Christian heard the cork pop and confiscated the bottle.
Wolfgang had met Friar Christian the first day at Saint Meinrad and had instantly taken a liking to the man. He taught Latin, and he was Wolfgang’s favorite teacher. He had an appreciation for music and liked to tease Wolfgang, calling him Saint Meinrad’s young doctor, for Wolfgang often found himself playing doctor to his fellow classmates. When Jimmy Hatcher broke his hand in the carpentry shop and when Chester Tankersly sliced his leg open pulling some farm equipment out of one of the barns, Wolfgang had taken care of them, stabilizing and administering to the wounds until Brother Allcut, the seminary’s designated medic, could get there with his wooden container of wraps, gauzes, and creams.
“Latin will be especially important for you,” Friar Christian liked to joke. “You’ll need it to memorize all those medical terms.” He was a stocky man with a head of curly hair, but the hair wasn’t confined to his head. It sprouted from his nostrils and ears with equal zeal, and it was so noticeable that Ronald Middleton had joked one night that Friar Christian had a bird nest inside his skull and the leaves and twigs were growing out his ears and nostrils. You could hear the nest moving like a dry-leaf whistle every time he inhaled and exhaled.
Good old Friar Christian.
As a minor seminarian Wolfgang always looked upon the major seminary students with admiration as they moved across the grounds in their Roman and Jesuit cassocks and the birettas on their heads. So when his time came to enter major seminary, at age eighteen, he was honored to be wearing the cassocks instead of the regular trousers and shirts they wore as high school kids. He’d felt so proud when he’d first walked up the big marble steps that led up to the abbey church, wearing those sacred garments.
After his summer with Rose he questioned whether he was worthy of the cassocks. Twenty now, torn and confused, Wolfgang prayed beside his seminary bed and stared up toward the tall ceiling, remembering all the monks as if he’d made up his mind to leave Saint Meinrad. But he hadn’t made that decision. Not yet. He convinced himself that he was still weighing his options.
But the Spanish flu had come to Camp Zachary Taylor, and they needed help in Louisville. And Rose was back home, waiting. How could he leave her behind when her flesh and her scent had already become so ingrained in his senses that he craved them like a drug?
Chapter 23
Rose rested on the bed, naked, her left leg lost in the sheets, the rest of her backside in perfect view.
Wolfgang emerged from the bathroom and sat next to her on the bed. “Rose, what are you doing?”
“Helping you study, Wolf.”
“Is that so? Looks more like a ploy to convince me not to study.”
She rolled over and handed him a wooden baton Charles Pike had used while conducting his imaginary choirs and orchestras. “Here, it’s the first thing I could find.”
Wolfgang laughed as he took the baton. “And what would you want me to do with this, Rose?”
“Use it as a pointer, Wolf.” She rolled onto her side. “Go on. Review. You have a test in the morning on the human body, do you not?”
He ran the tip of the baton softly along her exposed hip. “Yes, I do.”
“Then what are you waiting for. Start studying.”
As much as Wolfgang wanted the dream to be real, as soon as he blinked the weariness from his eyes, the vision of Rose faded. A cruel trick of memory. And by the time he reached the sanatorium that morning, he could barely remember what his mind’s eye had rehashed during the night. He was in a hurry to see if Dr. Barker had removed the piano. But, no, it was still there. Wolfgang found McVain playing it as if nothing had occurred last night. Lincoln sat in a chair beside the piano with his fedora on, turning pages for McVain.
Shortly after lunchtime, Dr. Barker stopped Wolfgang in the second-floor hallway, his face solemn and his voice surprisingly noncombative. “These are my rules, Dr. Pike, and you will obey them or it’s all over, whether God allows it or not.”
Wolfgang stood with his black bag of instruments and waited.
“You and the choir can meet three times a week,” he said, “but for no longer than an hour. Choir members must sit in chairs—I can’t have them standing that long. And you’re to finish before sundown. I can’t have the children up late.” He sighed. “And we shouldn’t have the colored patients up here. It could anger some of the other patients.”
Wolfgang wondered if Barker had heard about the note stuck to the pig’s head. “Have you heard specific
threats?”
“He’s not supposed to be up here.”
“It can only be complete with Rufus. The healing.”
“You’ve already caused enough tension with your healing, Dr. Pike.”
Wolfgang started to walk away but then stopped. He tempted fate by opening his mouth. “You mentioned my sacramental wine the other day.”
“What of it?”
“You like whiskey, Dr. Barker. That’s no secret, so let’s not deny it because of the times.”
“I like whiskey. I like bourbon.” Dr. Barker checked his wrist watch. “Please tell me you have a point to this.”
“I read that doctors made millions last year writing prescriptions for whiskey to patients.”
“I can assure you that I’m not one of them.”
“And neither am I.”
“Don’t allow the rehearsals to interfere with your work, or I will go over your head. I hear priests can be moved quite easily.”
“I am not yet a priest, Dr. Barker. You know that.”
“Yes, of course I do, and so does the diocese. But wouldn’t they be interested in what you’ve been doing here…unofficially?”
***
For the next few weeks Wolfgang strictly followed Dr. Barker’s rules and met three times a week to practice with his choir and musicians. They gathered typically near the end of the afternoons when the weather was warmest. He was careful with the time, because he knew Barker would be monitoring. The situation with Rufus was not ideal for building chemistry and harmony with McVain and Josef, but Rufus practiced with them from the colored hospital down below while they rehearsed above. It was better than not having a flute at all, at least until Wolfgang could think of an alternative. The chorus came along quickly, most of them memorizing the words and the music on their own so that they could spend every moment of rehearsal on harmony. Wolfgang had almost everything he needed now except that strong bass singer.
They’d been hit by a string of days that refused to climb above twenty degrees, so Wolfgang took it upon himself to cancel five rehearsals. He didn’t want to take any chances in the below-freezing temperatures. He had too many ideas brewing, too many patients who seemed to be responding to his music medicine, and he didn’t want any of it curtailed by Barker.
Mary Sue was now strong enough to walk with baby Fred around the grounds for a half hour, without assistance but supervised. Wolfgang continued to allow her a visit to Frederick every night, and Wolfgang always brought his violin. Frederick’s battle with the disease was growing unpredictable. Some days he could barely move without assistance, and others he could manage to sit up in bed, yet his name always appeared on Wolfgang’s request list.
He’d yet to hold his son.
Wolfgang made his rounds. He heard confessions. He listened to their questions and gave them answers that would ease their passing. While doing so he came up with another idea. On a sunny day near the end of January, he asked Susannah to gather the choir a few minutes early because he had an announcement to make. Even she didn’t know what he had planned.
Wolfgang cleared his throat, stood by McVain at the piano, and faced the choir. “We’ve set a date.”
Abel shouted from the front row. “For what?”
“A date for our first concert, Abel. A little over two weeks from today. On Valentine’s Day.”
Susannah half raised her hand. “Valentine’s Day?”
“You have plans, doll face?” McVain asked.
“No.”
“Well, now you do,” Wolfgang said. “We’ll throw a party better than New Year’s and play for everyone here. From the rooftop.”
McVain coughed. “What about Barker?”
Someone else coughed in the background, and when Wolfgang turned he spotted Susannah covering her mouth. It was so cold. Her cheeks were pink.
“Dr. Barker doesn’t know yet,” Wolfgang said. “But I believe I can convince him. If the temperature is decent and, God willing, it doesn’t snow, we’ll have lawn chairs out on the grounds for all the patients and we’ll play from above.”
Susannah raised her voice above the wind. “What will we perform?”
“A bit of everything. We’ll decide in the coming days.” Wolfgang pointed to the chorus. “With your input, of course.”
Abel raised his hand. “We need a name.”
McVain rolled his eyes. “And what name shall that be?”
Abel shrugged. “I don’t know. The Orchestra of Waverly Hills.”
“Sounds reasonable enough.” Wolfgang surveyed the crowd. “Any objections?” There were none, not even from McVain, who appeared more tired than normal as he slumped lower against the piano. “Very well then. On Valentine’s Day, the Orchestra of Waverly Hills will present its debut performance.”
***
Wolfgang’s enthusiasm about the concert made the night’s work go by much more quickly. When his rounds were finished he searched every floor and solarium porch but couldn’t find Susannah. He couldn’t wait to see what she thought of his surprise announcement. She’d appeared happy, but there was something in her departure after the rehearsal that made Wolfgang think she was preoccupied. Like she was hiding something.
He ran into Nurse Marlene on the third floor thirty minutes before midnight. He was finally able to approach her without feeling uncomfortable. “Have you seen Susannah?”
“She left a few minutes ago,” Nurse Marlene said. “She told me to tell you she’d see you in the morning.”
Wolfgang sighed and walked over toward the porch screen. It didn’t make any sense. They always told the other when they’d be unable to walk the hillside at night. He looked down the slope of the snow-dusted hill below but didn’t see her walking toward their trail in the woods. He breathed in the frigid air and inched closer to the window, the cool screen clipping his nose. Down the hillside to the left some movement caught his eye.
Susannah’s white dress blew behind her as she carefully stepped over the frozen ruts in the muddy road near the sanatorium’s entrance. Her left hand held her white cap pinned to her head while her right arm clutched something against her chest. He strained to see but couldn’t tell what it was. She entered the line of trees on the far side of the road, navigated a grassy downhill toward a narrow footpath, and disappeared under a canopy of low-lying limbs.
Where was she going? He walked down the solarium, his face nearly brushing the screen window as he peered down into the woods. And then he saw the only cottage on that side of the hill about thirty yards deep in the trees. He knew where the footpath would take her.
A light was on in Dr. Barker’s cottage.
Chapter 24
It was the summer of 1918, the summer of Rose, and Friar Christian and Wolfgang sat side by side on a concrete bench outside the monastery. Friar Christian rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, fingers interlocked with his lowered chin resting upon them. Wolfgang attempted to read the face of his favorite monk, but as usual, Friar Christian just looked serene. That was how Friar Christian prayed, eyes open and slightly glazed, staring at something no one else could see. He inhaled deeply, and his squatty face seemed to shrink in upon itself. And of course Wolfgang could hear the dry-leaf whistling sound of his breathing, the air fighting through the hair inside his nose.
Wolfgang smiled inside.
A breeze ruffled Friar Christian’s unruly hair. The grass on the hillside was growing brown in spots from the heat of the summer and lack of rainfall. Many of the leaves on the surrounding trees had turned colors early. Wolfgang found himself staring at them when Friar Christian finally spoke.
“Would you believe me if I told you I was once in love, Wolfgang?”
“I would,” said Wolfgang.
Friar Christian smiled. “Her name was Julie. She had brown hair and freckles, and she lived next door to me when I was a tee
nager.”
“Was she in love with you?”
“Oh, yes.” Father Christian’s façade thawed. “She wanted to get married. And she was a delightful girl. I did love her. But the spark for me was not as great as my love for God. Or this place.”
Wolfgang looked down. “I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do, Wolfgang.” He was teacher again. “Distancing myself from her was the test for me. I proved my love for God by doing so, and I don’t regret it. Not once did I think I’d made the wrong decision. But that was my greatest hurdle. It eventually faded away. Julie married another man, who made her much happier than I ever would have.” He patted Wolfgang on the shoulder. “But we all are different, are we not?”
“Yes, Father.”
“I am not you, and you are not me,” said Friar Christian. “And Julie was not Rose. She sounds like a truly remarkable woman.”
Wolfgang looked up. “She is. Unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”
Friar Christian laughed. “How old are you, Wolfgang?”
“Twenty.”
“Go to her. You’ve been back in classes for two weeks now. Clearly not yourself, though. The Wolfgang I know doesn’t mope about or doubt.” He watched two squirrels scamper across the lawn. “I hear the Spanish flu has hit Camp Taylor very hard. I’ve seen you with the others here. You have a good bedside manner, Wolfgang. Go back to Rose and help the soldiers defeat this illness before it spreads throughout the city.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“You see, you didn’t need my advice,” said Friar Christian. “You knew in your heart what you were going to do. You only needed my permission.” Friar Christian stood. “But you didn’t even need that, Wolfgang. Not really. I’m certain you would have made a wonderful priest, and the doors here are always open for you. But I think you have another calling.”
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