[Pause whilst everyone repositions.]
During this semester we shall be following the course of contemporary music, by which I mean those composers who flourished from, roughly, the turn of the century to this one’s belly-button, which, if you haven’t forgotten, is halfway.
Someone tittered. Good. Who? it wasn’t the youngster with the pageboy haircut; it wasn’t the medallion examiner; and ankle bracelet hadn’t missed a jink. He had committed a stupid bit of high school humor. It was a measure of his nervousness.
He suddenly recalled a ramshackle London classroom where everyone sat in all kinds of chairs the teacher had collected, each with a name pasted on it. Why had he not remembered this experience earlier, when he was contemplating the installation of a similar kindergarten regimen?
Those who like to christen schools of literature, art, and music often overlook differences in order to hang their chosen clothes in the same closet, but we shall pay particular attention to them. To differences, I mean. Not only do many streams feed our river, it, in turn, forks as often as you do at dinner. From the Boy a smile—beatific. Joseph was so lacking in confidence by this time, small gratuities were gratefully received.
Where had the clothes and the closet come from? Joseph thought he had worried about every eventuality, but lecturing had dangers he had not anticipated. You might fail for words or lose the thread or express yourself poorly. Now he knew that you might also run on, revealing yourself not your subject as you rambled. Because, when a house had been found for Miriam and Deborah, he had wanted his clothes to hang in the same closet as his sister’s and had a tantrum when his wish was laughingly denied.
He proceeded to explain the mechanics of the course and hand out a sheet on which texts and assignments, as well as points of examination, were listed. Then he realized that he had already placed one on each chair’s swollen arm. To signify where he wanted them to sit. So he waved his extras as if at a gnat. Of particular concern were the pieces he expected the students to listen (even attend) to. These were listed beneath each reading and were starred: essential, three, suggested, two, additional, one. By asterisks. Find them? … the asterisks? His tongue was as furry as a sheep is … furry. Okay.
Occasionally, a particular recording was insisted upon, though he could not guarantee its availability. Did they find that information? Also asterisked … Okay. His hands were trembling, so he placed them on the lectern from which his own copy of the assignment sheet was … flackering to the floor near the ankle bracelet. Thus irretrievable.
He saw it. He tried not to see it. He moved. He tried not to move. Never clear your throat at any time that can be given significance. Miss Jangle knew what to do. She crossed her legs.
When Joseph had the second interview for his present position, he had shocked the committee by insisting that a satisfactory selection of contemporary compositions should be available for individual student or classroom listening. The committee didn’t know the state the record library was in (nor did he), but they assured him funds would be forthcoming to remedy gaps as he discovered them. Once on the scene, Joseph saw more holes than cheese, so he made his requests, along with those promises politely remembered. Money was no more forthcoming than the committee, which failed to take the problem up, forgot its former assurances, and neglected to reply when opportuned. Nevertheless, its members had been impressed in spite of themselves by his demands and even more by his forceful follow-ups (rare in this atmosphere), so his little bit of youthful arrogance had helped his case to begin with, and his diligence brought to his otherwise out-of-joint nose a whiff of esteem.
Thank God this rinky-dink college behaved like a high school: classes were ended through the din of a buzzer, books were gathered up by eager arms in the single unified deed of the day, and bottoms began to rise before ears could rid themselves of the bell. So Joseph never had to hunt for an ending. Still he would always want to add a word … just a word … only one. But the annoyance that crossed those faces as their rumps reluctantly returned to zero convinced him of the unwisdom of any additions, and he learned to snap his jaw shut like a parsimonious purse. Let them wonder what that word would have been. Though they wouldn’t. Wonder. Ever. When the room was empty of them, he picked up the errant assignment sheet. One corner had a gray shoeprint on it.
20
The First Baptist Church had an upright in its basement that Joseph might be allowed to use if he would play for a few social occasions. This opportunity had come about through Marjorie’s intervention, but how his benefactress had managed it he did not know, because the congregation was mostly black as was the minister. The basement walls were cinder block painted a kind of cream, and the floor was covered with shiny haphazardly dented linoleum. One wall gave way to a windowlike opening through which the rudiments of a kitchen could be seen. There were paper-covered trestle tables and folding chairs sitting about in creative confusion. None was friendly to his sounds. Joseph tried to avoid busy times, but occasionally he’d be practicing when the sound of a rehearsal or a service would sink down the stairs. Then he would cease his own feeble plunks to listen to dozens of deep voices singing something he couldn’t make out except that it was wildly rhythmic and sounded ecstatic. He’d hear clapping, too, and, good heavens, “amens” made as though they meant something. Ultimately a contralto would break through the sunshine like wanted rain. Her voice, and the interfering floor and ceiling pipes, reminded him of Mr. Hirk’s pitiful Victrola and its statically clouded recordings.
Finally, during one such interruption, Joseph sidled quietly up the basement stairs until, from its landing, he heard a single voice singing in dark supple hues:
One more valiant soul right here,
One more valiant soul,
One more valiant soul right here,
To help me bear this cross.
Then ten or twelve voices joined for the chorus:
O hail, Mary, hail!
Hail, Mary, hail!
Hail, Mary, hail!
To help me bear this cross.
Joseph strained to catch complexities. He’d never heard what he presumed was gospel before. The music could make a sewing circle out of a howling mob. He could hear it knitting the singers together the way a hallelujah did. Soon the chanting and the clapping and the singing stopped. Joseph interpreted footsteps and murmured talk as an approach, so he retreated to his piano and pretended his fingers were busy.
Indeed, in a moment, a large red figure rocked her bulk down the steps and emerged from the darkness of the hall. To Joseph’s astonishment it was Miss Spiky who threw up her arms to see him at the piano, actually striking keys with his fingers as he had hurried to do. You, boy? Glory. What you doin here, Mr. Rambler? You realize we kin hear you down here? I can hear you, too, Joseph said before he realized that he was the guest. I’m sorry. I try to keep out of the way. You weren’t in no way. We could hear you, but we dint mind cause we sing loud. You do, Joseph said, and nicely, too. And nicely, too, yes, Miss Spiky agreed. You play better than you drive? A bit. Anyway down here you dont endanger folks. Joseph ruefully touched a key. What you were singing sounded Catholic, he said. What did? Hail … you know … the Hail Marys. Thas Catholic? Miss Spiky’s great red storefront shook its signs. Well, we aint particlar. A hymn to him—Adam man—is a hymn to him, and thas what we’re about. Adam man? Joseph wondered, who’s that? Sumbuddy dont know the score, Miss Spiky said with a laugh. There is religion, Joseph thought, and then there is religion.
Who was the contralto? She has a wonderful voice.
I sure am sprized to see you.
Ditto. Ah … me too. I work at the library. I catalog books. And oversee purchases. So … Marjorie Bruss—she’s the head of the library—persuaded your church to let me practice on this piano since I … since my piano is home in Woodbine where my mother is.
Howd she do that? I couldn’t beat on the back of our munny-pinchin pastor enuf he buy his truck from me.
I don’t know how
she did it. I didn’t know she knew any …
For free?
For … well, if I play a little for … some ceremonies.
Chile stuff. You’ll look suity. The little giggles’ll be in white, too. For confirmation an ring-aroun-the-rosy.
You live here, too?
I church here. My husband leff me these three-town lots. He was used up, and in pieces, too, by the end. My voice was always mine.
So that was you? you singing? I mean, the solo part?
Miss Spiky opened a very wide mouth. I know moon-rise, I know star-rise,
Lay dis body down.
Oh, that’s—
I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight
To lay dis body down.
I’ll walk in de graveyard, I’ll walk through the graveyard,
To lay dis body down.
Gee—There was no stopping her. She sang with a full throat and without embarrassment. Gee—he’d said gee.
I’ll lie in de grave and stretch out my arms;
Lay dis body down.
I go to de judgment in de evening of de day,
When I lay dis body down;
And my soul and your soul will meet in de day
When I lay dis body down.
Joseph dared to applaud. Miss Spiky’s voice rocketed about the basement so rapidly and with such a roar it ran over its own echoes.
You can clap, but you can’t applaud. Only the Lord is worthy of that, an he dont need it. He knows he’s good. I beleeve, in the beginin, he sang; he didnt say those first letters, he sang; he sang, Glory glory let there be light.
All that Joseph could manage was: I like the car.
I tole you it’d run all right. So youre a music man not just a Rambler man?
I’m pretty much self-taught … except for a spell when I studied with Professor Hirk. Maybe you’ve heard of him?
About such, I dont hear much, Miss Spiky said, rolling her shoulders.
And how is Billy Bear? Back in Lowell? Still?
Worn out. Worn out from workin charms. Takes his stuffin, pinch by pinch. To do the burn. He is thinnin to match his grinnin.
There’s religion and then there’s religion, Joseph said, where only he could hear. He realized, just as it was now with his mother, that he should not try to extend this conversation by asking, for instance, how business went on. Their talk, even such as it was, would take turns he couldn’t steer through. I don’t remember a smile amid that fur, Joseph said.
He wasnt smilin. I dont think. That day. Sleepy maybe like a baby. You were goin home from Whichstown?
To Woodbine … yes.
But it’s Whichstown now?
Yes … for now. I’m—
In a voice, like herself the size of three divas, she burst into a chorus of “Go Down Moses” as her back began to face him. She stopped abruptly. Spect I’ll see you again then.
Expect so.
Mind the traffic.
Love your voice.
Its what it needs to be. Its loud.
Joseph very much wanted to tell Marjorie about his encounter. He very much wanted to tell Miriam, too. But he didn’t think it wise to try to imitate Miss Spiky’s voice; there were characters in the tale, like Billy Bear, he couldn’t explain; background would need filling in; and he’d sound condescending, however he went about it. And when Miss Spiky disappeared up the stairs she was singing the way people do when they’re happy. That Jordan was a wet river.
Joseph had spent more time than he had ever thought he would in church basements. The library’s basement, in contrast, was lonely dark crowded silent, with floors of cement, racks of steel, and windows of brick, but he was adding up hours in it, too. He was saying to Miss Moss how strange it was that there were people whom you encountered at the edges of your life that you just sort of oozed around, as though they were crumbs on a kitchen counter and you were a little spill. Miss Moss was looking intently at him as if he had given her a crumb’s role when they both jumped at a scream that came from above like a burst pipe. Marjorie, Joseph exclaimed, already trying to bound up the narrow stairs and stumbling so badly he whacked a knee. He hardly felt it happening, though he knew he would suffer later when the joint was swollen and purple as an onion. Despite his awkward fall Joseph reached Marjorie’s desk rather quickly and from there saw her in the reading room being threatened it seemed by Portho who was yelling now loud as a train conductor while gesturing wildly, yet looking somewhat dazed to Joseph as he ran toward them, and his outcries increasingly mechanical. It was he, he would learn, who had screamed. Marjorie was holding her breath and her chest with both hands. Her hair was aloft as if it were momentarily on a cat’s back. She was shrinking against a table with otherwise no good place to go. Portho was yowling more than anything when Joseph came up huffing and said, What’s this?
I’ve asked—I’ve asked this man to leave.
From Portho a grimace as tortured as a shout. My goodness! Joseph said, a little late with his question: Did he just begin to yell like this?
Portho yelled again, but it was the size of a cough.
We can’t have extemporaneous noise like this, sir, not in the library. Readers will be disturbed.
Aint nah peeple, Joseph made out.
Just get this man out of here, Joseph, just get him out. The first thing is out. Out for you, mister, you miserable man! You ungrateful piece of waste!
Unhand this woman at once, you varlet, Joseph half shouted himself.
Gonne donne nonne hands on her.
You shall have to go, varlet sir, at once. Joseph endeavored to push between the two combatants, though without enthusiasm. Portho at that moment seemed vile, composed of filth and froth and frightening behavior. Had it not been Marjorie in this encounter (or maybe his mother or maybe maybe Miss Moss) he might not have had the will. But he did not touch Portho, he was afraid to do that. He slid like a thin book between them.
Don’t touch him, he’ll scream again. I shook him awake, Marjorie said, still out of breath. That’s what set him off. He was snoring so.
Ah, you see, sir, sleep is normally silent, Joseph said in a far-from-resolute voice. If you are going to sleep noisily you’ll have to do it outside. Outside, sir. I believe it’s a nice day. Joseph would try later to forget how fatuous he was being (had been), but the effort would never succeed. The moment became a permanent embarrassment, a scar on life’s skin.
Portho was now still, arms limp, mouth slack. It was Marjorie who was growing shrill. Out, she was repeating. With an elongated O. Portho was passive. He was now an empty bottle in an empty sack. Joseph merely gestured like a waiter, and Portho shuffled away from Marjorie toward the door, allowing Marjorie to lower her voice, though the O remained sizable and replete with huff. Aint nah peeple. Bother nah, Portho managed. But he went. To Joseph’s immense relief, he went meekly out the door, pushing through it himself, and stepping slowly down the front steps in his absurd huge tennis shoes like a figure in a silent movie. Marjorie still leaned back against the rim of the library table as if she were being pushed, her face pale but with a hint of yellow in it like a page from an old book.
You are my hero, she said after Joseph reached her side. Joseph held her then the way Miriam had sometimes held him. His own blood began to return from wherever it had hidden. He thought he was embracing her, but when he relaxed his grip, he realized that Marjorie was enfolding him, cheek to chest, her hair, redolent, no doubt from overheated temples, yet fragrant in a light way like stationery that’s been stored with a sachet, muffling, veiling his face.
Joseph sneezed. So they had to part. Sorry, he said, sneezing again. Tickle …
Bless, Marjorie said, even more briefly than spelled.
Ah …
Allergic. You’re allergic to me.
No … ah … no … He sneezed. Your hair … my nose … tickled.
Well, back to your basement or wherever you were, she said. Our little excitement is concluded. He won’t be back, I’m s
ure. Thank you for your help.
Oh no. I did nothing. You had matters in hand. He—
Screamed. It wasn’t I who screamed like that, I can tell you. I shook him a mite. Put a hand I need to wash, oh dear yes, on an arm—his arm—and shook him just a little, he was snoring so, I never heard the like. And he screamed like a bird in the night. He—
Inspired, Joseph took her in his arms again. Poor dear, he said, moving his head out of the way of her hair, which wasn’t easy. He felt her soften. My hero, my young hero, she said.
They stood together until they both became aware that Miss Moss was nearby. You screamed. I heard a scream, Joseph and I heard it. Joseph, you left me like an antelope from a lion. A scream like that—in a library—quite curdles the blood.
I did not scream.
I heard one.
It was Portho, Joseph said. His knee was beginning to hurt.
It was a woman’s scream.
Yes, but Portho made it. Marjorie hardly raised her voice. Joseph’s knee was throbbing like a thrummed bass.
Miss Moss was sure she had heard the Major playing Lady Macbeth. What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? she said in a firm theatrical tone, as if in character.
Joseph was nonplussed. His knee was speaking to him in Dutch. That was how his mother described her aches and pains: her joints were jabbering in Dutch, a tooth was yelling in Dutch, her stomach was mumbling in Dutch. Marjorie had clearly reentered her cool mood, a mood that hadn’t been far away. Joseph was as silent as anyone who knows they are socially inept, but he felt gratitude when Miss Moss receded. Marjorie walked briskly by to reach her desk, where she was immediately busy, stirring her affairs; these were apparently steaming like a pot. Joseph looked around at table, chair, and radiator in case something required a tidy; however, all was as much in order as ever. He tried to pull a pant leg past his knee but couldn’t, and the cloth when it rubbed over the spot where he’d had it knocked was excruciating. Despite the pain he limped from the library without a word of triumph, need, or farewell, except that he could still hear Marjorie through the open entry. She had recovered her aplomb but now was losing it again. Var let, she managed between fresh hilarities. Var-let, oh my, oh me, un-hand, oh no, un-un-han … ha ha!
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