by Leslie Karst
Avoiding all eye contact—for I knew every pair in the room was surely on me and Claire—I slunk back to my chair. My response to Allison’s supportive squeeze of the leg no doubt came off more as a grimace than the grin I tried to muster.
You can read countless accounts of people turning “beet red” or having their faces “burn in shame,” but until you’ve actually experienced it, you will never truly understand the overwhelming transformation a body undergoes on being publicly humiliated. My cheeks were hot and flushed as if I had a high fever, and the pounding in my temples was so severe, I was afraid I might suffer a stroke right there in the church hall.
The octets continued on unabated, and through it all, I stared unblinking at the groups as they took their turns singing the fugue. But my focus was blurred, and the music that washed over me had a distorted and dissonant quality. Like one of those disturbing dream sequences in a Fellini film. Except this was real.
When break time finally came, I stumbled outside to a sunny spot at the railing and stood gazing across the parking lot toward the grove of redwood trees. I was soon joined by someone else. Without looking, I knew it was Eric. “Go away,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine. So don’t talk,” he replied, turning to lean his backside against the metal railing. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t. Hungry?”
When I shook off his offer of a chocolate chip cookie—store bought, by the look of it—he just shrugged and bit into one of the stack he had nestled in a paper napkin.
“Look,” he said, licking melted chocolate from his thumb, “you just need to think of this as your initiation. The same thing has happened to lots of us over the years, so no one’s gonna think badly of you ’cause you didn’t know your part perfectly.”
“But the thing is, I did know the part. That’s what’s so frustrating.” I was about to give the railing post a stiff kick but then remembered I’d removed my cycling cleats when I got to rehearsal. So I had to make do with an indignant stamp of my sock-clad foot instead. “It’s all because she stopped us midstream, and then I didn’t get my note when Nadia pitched us again. If we’d started again at the beginning of the fugue and gone straight through, I wouldn’t have had any problem.”
“Yeah, that does sound frustrating.” He studied the remaining cookies in his hand. “But really, it’s happened to some of our best singers. You should have seen how Marta absolutely reamed Jill a few months back during an octet. Ouch! This was nothin’ in comparison.” He popped the rest of his cookie into his mouth and then offered the last one to me. When I once more refused, he stuffed it too into his mouth, crumpled up the napkin, and tossed it free-throw style into a nearby trash can.
“But when you think about it,” Eric went on, wiping his fingers on his board shorts, “that passion that makes her so demanding with her singers? It’s what makes her such an amazing director. She’s obsessed with the music, with making it perfect. So when she gets on someone’s case for not meeting her standards, it’s not about the person, it’s about the music.” It had gotten warm standing there in the full sun, and he paused to pull his hoodie off over his head. “So I guess what I’m saying is you’ve got to try not to take it too personally.”
“Yeah, well . . . easier said than done.” I pushed off from the railing and started back inside.
“How ’bout we go out to dinner tonight? My treat. Would that make you feel better?”
“It might. And at least it would prevent me from sitting at home all night stewing about . . .” I nodded toward the rehearsal hall. “It.”
“Good. It’s a date.” He gave me an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder. “You’re going to Kyle’s memorial service this afternoon, right? Think about where you want to go, and you can let me know then.”
We went back inside. I had intended to head straight for my seat, since I still didn’t feel like talking to anybody. But Marta was coming my way, and I really didn’t want to talk to her, so I took a hard right instead and headed for the dessert table.
Taking one of the last cookies, I turned from the table and nearly collided with the director. “Sally,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you.”
Here it comes. I clenched my teeth and waited for the tongue-lashing.
“I was wondering if you would like to go for a bike ride together sometime,” she said. “The only other bicyclists I know here are these men who are all super competitive. Always trying to push the gruppo faster and faster. So I’ve been thinking maybe to try riding with some women, who might be interested in also having fun instead of just showing off, you know?” Marta smiled. “I was thinking maybe even tomorrow, if you’re free?”
I was too stunned to do anything but gape at her.
Chapter Ten
Several hours later, Buster and I were making our leisurely way down West Cliff Drive, him stopping every few yards to cop a sniff off a shrub or rock or another dog’s butt, and me gazing out at the pelicans and sea lions lounging on Seal Rock as I contemplated the strange morning I’d had.
As soon as I’d gotten home from chorus, I’d turned on the TV to watch the first mountain stage of this year’s Tour in the hopes it would cheer me up—or at least take my mind off what had happened during the octets. But no cigar: vestiges of the nasty chemicals that had shot through my body as a result of Marta’s verbal pummeling were still swimming about, and I couldn’t get past the feeling that everybody I passed was staring at me—that they somehow knew.
And how weird was that about Marta? How she’d acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to invite me cycling mere minutes after punching my guts out?
Of course, I too had not acted in any kind of normal manner, finally mumbling, “Sure, that sounds fun,” when I was in fact thinking the exact opposite. We’d arranged to meet at my place at nine the next morning for a ride up the hill to the university.
As Buster and I continued along West Cliff, I used my free hand to massage my neck and shoulders. At least the bike ride should help work out some of the muscle knots that had popped out all over my body.
A shout of “Dolphins!” jolted me from my bout of self-pity. Several people were leaning on the railing along the pathway, one pointing out to sea and the others screening their eyes from the sun, trying to spot the marine mammals. I too stopped to scan the bay and was quickly joined by a group of others out for a Saturday walk along the cliffs.
“There they are!” the original pointer yelled. We all turned in the direction indicated, and sure enough, a pod of three or maybe four dolphins could be seen just beyond the breakers. The sleek animals glistened in the afternoon sun as they leapt from the water and dove for fish. As I stood and watched them cavort, I eavesdropped on the conversations around me, one of my favorite activities along West Cliff Drive.
“It’s the anchovies,” a woman in a Giants baseball cap proclaimed to her fellow walkers. “That’s why there’ve been so many seabirds the past week. There’s a huge run of ’em right now, attracting scads of marine life.”
On my other side, a man and a woman appeared to be having some kind of a spat. “Look, I hear ya,” the man said. He was tall and gangly, with a bushy beard and baggy drawstring pants.
“No,” the woman responded. “You may hear what I’m saying, but you’re not listening. You totally missed what I mean.”
I leaned in a little closer to try to discover what she did mean, but the woman glanced my way and then lowered her voice, making further eavesdropping impossible.
I stood there for a few more minutes and watched the dolphins as they made their slow way north and then, taking pity on the patient dog at my feet—who had long since finished investigating all the interesting smells within reach—continued on my way.
When we passed by the entrance to Its Beach, Buster strained at his leash, not understanding why I wasn’t releasing him to bound down the stairs so he could join his pack of friends cha
sing each other across the sand and into the surf.
“Sorry, but not today,” I said, reeling the panting dog back in. “We’ve got a memorial to attend. And you’re going to be a good boy and lie down and be quiet during the service, right?”
Rounding the corner to Lighthouse Point, I saw that eight neat rows of white plastic folding chairs had been set up on the half-dead grass for Kyle’s memorial service. Several dozen people were milling about in front of the tiny lighthouse that gives its name to the promontory, now home to the Santa Cruz Surfing Museum.
Eric was already there, chatting with some of his fellow basses. “Not a bad turnout,” I observed as I joined them. “And you sure couldn’t ask for better weather.”
“Perhaps it’s some sort of a sign,” said one of the men, unbuttoning his pink-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt.
Eric flashed an evil grin. “That the gods are particularly happy today?”
I gave him a light kick in the calf but then noticed that the other basses were all chuckling too. “So, you guys going to sing at the service?”
They all nodded their heads. “‘Locus iste,’” said a big guy with a thick black beard. “We always sing at chorus members’ memorials. And everyone’s gotta know that piece by heart by now, given how often we sang it on tour last summer.”
“What’s it mean, locus iste?”
“The whole phrase is Locus iste a Deo factus est,” Eric answered me, “which means ‘this place was made by God.’”
Like me, Eric is a lapsed Catholic, but he’s still fascinated by all its history and rituals. And, of course, he’ll jump at any chance to show off his knowledge regarding any given subject. “The piece is traditionally sung in churches,” he went on, “which is why we performed it so often on tour last summer. Every time we’d pass a church, Marta would tell the driver to stop, and we’d all pour out of the bus into the nave to do a ‘drive-by,’ singing a couple quick numbers before continuing along our way.”
“Was Kyle religious? Is that why you’re singing it today?”
The bearded guy snorted. “Not. But I gather he really did like the piece. And besides, it’s one we could do today without having to rehearse first.” He knelt down to give Buster a hearty scratch behind the ears. “So what’s your dog’s name?”
“That’s Buster. I hope it’s okay I brought him.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Eric. “As long as he doesn’t howl during our performance. Anyhow, you’re not alone. He’s not the only dog here.” Eric nodded toward a small girl tossing a Frisbee for a high-leaping border collie at the far side of the lawn. As we watched, the kid’s throw went way wide, coming perilously close to several memorial service attendees.
Swiveling around, I searched the now rather large crowd to see if I could spot my new Gauguin cook. “I don’t see Brian. You think he’s coming?”
The bass in the Hawaiian shirt shook his head. “No way. He and Kyle did not get along. I’d be amazed to see him anywhere near here today.”
“You know why?” I asked. “The reason he didn’t like Kyle?”
“Nope. I never talked to him about it. But it was pretty obvious from how they acted around each other. It’s hard to hide something like that when you’re in such a close-knit group as our chorus.”
“Huh.” I continued to scan the crowd. There was Jill, draping her jacket over the back of a seat in the front row. But Roxanne didn’t appear to be here, either.
A man walked to the front of the chairs and, after getting everyone’s attention, asked us to please sit down, as the service was about to begin. I took the aisle seat next to Eric and told Buster to lie down in the shade under my chair. After circling several times, in the process managing to get his leash completely tangled in the chair legs, he finally settled down, head between his forepaws, and closed his eyes. Within seconds, his breathing was rhythmic and heavy. If only I could fall asleep so easily.
My eye was caught by a movement from behind, and I turned to see Marta come running up from the parking lot, slightly out of breath, and take a seat someone had saved near the front. At the sight of her, I experienced a tightening of the chest, and a flash of the nausea I’d felt this morning washed over me once more. But as I stared at the choral director’s profile and watched her turn to speak with the woman next to her, it came to me that it wasn’t just the embarrassment of being publicly shamed that had affected me so. There was something else, too: I realized just how much I’d hated disappointing her.
The man who’d asked us all to sit now began to speak, and I wrested my gaze from Marta back to him.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to thank you all on behalf of my family for coming out here today, as we celebrate the life of Kyle Joseph Copman.” He gestured to the front row of chairs, where I could see an older couple—Kyle’s parents, no doubt—sitting. The mother was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, and the father was looking down, his face drawn. “My name is Robert Copman,” the man before us went on, “and Kyle was my big brother.” His voice cracked slightly on these last few words, and he paused a moment to clear his throat.
I felt for him. Having someone close to you unexpectedly die is not easy. And then to stand up in public and talk about them, so soon after their death? I couldn’t even imagine such a thing. When I’d been asked if I wanted to speak at my Aunt Letta’s funeral, I’d said no way; I knew I couldn’t possibly do so without completely losing it.
But Robert was obviously made of sterner stuff than I. He spoke for a few minutes about Kyle’s life, reminisced about their growing up together in the Berkeley Hills, and then concluded by reading the opening passage from T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. Kyle’s favorite poem, he told us.
“And now,” Robert said, laying down the book of poetry, “Kyle’s son, Jeremy, is going to sing a song for you.”
What? Kyle has a son? Does Jill know?
Sitting as tall as possible in my seat, I craned my neck to get a glimpse of Kyle’s girlfriend. Her wide eyes and agape mouth told me that this had been news to her as well. Oh boy . . .
Robert had his hand outstretched, and a young boy who looked to be no more than four or five came to stand by his side. His uncle leaned down to whisper something encouraging in his ear, and after a moment, the boy began to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
His voice was soft and hesitant, and he didn’t quite make it all the way up to that first octave, but as the song progressed, he seemed to gain confidence. At the end, as his tiny voice died out, I had to wipe my eyes. Pesky hormones. But it was a moving performance, and we all had to hold back our inclination to applaud—which of course just isn’t done at a memorial service.
Next, Robert introduced the “Locus iste,” and about twenty members of the chorus—Eric included—shuffled out of their seats and made their way up to the front. A few clutched single sheets of music, but most clearly knew the music by heart, as they were empty-handed. Coming to stand before them, Marta took hold of the tuning fork she wore about her neck, tapped it against her wrist and set the ball to the base of her ear, and then gave the opening pitches for all four parts.
The piece was just a few minutes long, but by the time the chorus had finished singing, every person there at Lighthouse Point was listening in rapt attention. And not just those present for the memorial service. Surfers, dog-walkers, European tourists, even the Frisbee-throwing girl had all ceased their activities in response to the deceptively simple, pure, soaring harmonies of Bruckner’s Renaissance-inspired motet.
Once Marta and the singers had taken their seats again, the brother invited anyone who so wished to come up and say a few words about Kyle. Jill, Kyle’s cousin, a couple of school friends, and several members of the chorus all spoke, each one saying pretty much the same thing: that Kyle was smart, witty, and a terrific singer, and that “he would be greatly missed.”
“Anyone else?” Robert asked after one of Kyle’s fellow tenors had finished talking.
This was met by s
ilence, and he was about to move on to his closing remarks when a woman in the front row stood and turned to face us.
“Hi, my name is Lydia,” she said. “I hadn’t planned on saying anything today, but now that I’m here, I feel as if I should. At least for our son.”
She laid her hand on the head of the boy who’d sung “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and I realized this must be Kyle’s ex.
“As many of you know, my relationship with Kyle was, uh . . . complicated, and ultimately we ended up going our separate ways. But even though we might have had our differences, he was always a good father to Jeremy. So I guess I just wanted to say how sorry I am that Jeremy has lost his dad.” Sitting down abruptly, she turned to give the boy a hug.
Jill, I observed, was not watching this display of motherly love but had instead turned to stare out at the ocean. I couldn’t see her face, but her body was rigid and unmoving.
After a few last words by Robert, we were directed to a table that had been set up with refreshments. Letting the impatient Eric out first, I leaned over to untangle Buster’s leash. By the time I got to the table, Eric already had a cup in one hand and a turkey-and-cheese croissant sandwich in the other.
“I’d tell you not to spoil your dinner for tonight,” I said, “but I guess that would be impossible. How does sushi sound?”
“I’m always up for sushi. You wanna meet at seven at Genki Desu?”
“Sounds good. What’cha drinking?” I nodded at Eric’s plastic tumbler.
“Martinelli’s. No alcohol allowed in state parks.”
“Fine by me. I’d just have to go home and take a nap if I had any wine this afternoon.”
I helped myself to a cup of the sparkling cider and a large macadamia nut and white chocolate chip cookie and then tugged Buster, who had discovered a treasure trove of spilled crumbs on the ground, back to where Eric was standing.
“You feeling any better?” he asked between bites of his sandwich. “You know, after this morning?”
“I guess. Nothing like a memorial service to put one’s minor tragedies into perspective.” I then told him about Marta inviting me to go cycling the next morning. “So at least she doesn’t appear to be holding any kind of grudge.”