Liturgical Mysteries 01 The Alto Wore Tweed

by Mark Schweizer

  “Your costume will be here tomorrow,” I told him, as I shut down the beast.

  “Is it a good costume?”

  “The best penguin costume they had.”

  “Momma doesn’t think I should be sangin’ this song in church, ya know,” Moosey said, happily munching on a Zagnut bar I had slipped him as a reward.

  “It’ll be fine. You’re doing a great job.”

  “I like to sing, all right. I shore do.”

  • • •

  Before taking Moosey home for the evening, I stopped by the church office to deliver the hymn numbers for Sunday. Moosey was finishing up his candy bar just as Mother Ryan’s door opened and Rhiza Walker exited her office, closing the door behind her. It didn’t take a detective to tell she had been crying.

  “Oh, hello, Hayden,” she sniffed, rather formally I thought, as she dabbed at her nose with a tissue.

  “Hi, Rhiza. You OK?”

  “I guess. I have to go.”

  Her lilting squeak was gone, replaced by a sadder, older timbre. She was out the office door before I could say anything else. I hoped there wasn’t anything wrong between her and Malcolm. I liked them both.

  • • •

  I had gotten used to seeing the owl sitting on the window sill each night as I returned from town so I was disappointed when I pulled up and my headlights failed to pick up his yellow eyes glowing in the dark. I went inside and dropped a CD of Charpentier’s Midnight Mass for Christmas on the Wave and got a San Miguel Dark out of the beer fridge. It was a Filipino beer, dark and rich and just right, I thought, for drinking while listening to music of the French Baroque and fixing a quick supper. Maybe I was just being a beer snob, but I liked to think of it as getting into the Christmas spirit.

  I opened the window, lifted the screen and was getting the baggie of thawed mouse carcasses out of the refrigerator when, without a sound, the owl appeared at the window. As I watched, not moving, he stepped across the sill just as nicely as you please, shaking his white feathers as if tossing off the dampness of the evening and with his head moving independently of his body, took in the whole of the kitchen decor. Not knowing what else to do, as the creature tentatively strolled the counter, and not wanting to scare him into flying into the interior of the cabin, I opened the baggie and held out an ex-mouse, dangling it by its tail. I moved slowly forward but the owl didn’t react until I was within an arm’s reach. Then he tilted hi head about 45 degrees, opened his beak and took the mouse out of my hand. He hopped back onto the sill, the mouse still in his beak and leaped without a sound into the night. I closed the window behind him, wondering if this was going to be a nightly event or if he just liked the French Baroque.

  • • •

  The Wednesday evening service was in the bulletin as “The Christmas Crib.” I had, graciously I thought, volunteered to play the prelude, the postlude and congregational hymn. Also in the bulletin were the names of the participants. Herself was the narrator. There were two silent roles—Mary and Joseph—played by Gerry and Wilma Fleming, a new young couple in the church, a non-silent screaming baby Jesus role played by the Fleming’s five-month-old baby girl, and a total of six children, including Moosey, portraying the animals coming to the manger. I had made sure that Moosey was last on the program and also that Meg was there to help him with his costume and entrance.

  I started off with an improvisation on Joy to the World and, as I finished up, was surprised to look down and see the church almost full. Mother Ryan must have done some advertising.

  “We welcome you this evening to the manger at Bethlehem,” she began after she took her place at the lectern. “This is a new idea of mine to incorporate the children of St. Barnabas into our Christmas celebration.”

  I snarled. We’d been doing this for years, but we called it the Christmas Pageant.

  “And now let us journey to the manger and join with the children as they offer up their songs and poems to the holy child.”

  The Flemings had taken their places, kneeling and wedging themselves inside the brown refrigerator carton stable before putting their baby into the newly constructed manger which, I hoped, was strong enough to hold a mad, wiggling twenty pounder. I had begun to play the first hymn, Away In A Manger, when baby Jesus let out his first wail.

  Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,

  The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head.

  The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay,

  The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay.

  Each line of the hymn was punctuated by several solos from the baby section of the Holy Family Choir. Bev and Georgia were sitting up in the choir loft balcony, in their usual front-row seats, leaning over the rail and watching the festivities.

  “I thought the baby Jesus was asleep in the hay,” Georgia quipped.

  “Wait till they get to the part about ‘no crying he makes,’” said Beverly.

  We finished the hymn, and not exactly quietly. Everyone, including me, was trying to drown out the sound of Baby Jesus’ vocalizations which, by this time, were stentorian in nature. The performance may have been the most robust version of Away In A Maner that has ever been my pleasure to accompany. By the last stanza, I was using the full organ, including trumpets and 32’ reeds, the wailing baby matching me decibel for decibel. Herself was beginning to seethe.

  At the triumphant finish of the hymn, she was glaring up at me as if this complication was my fault, or at least something that I had control over. I shrugged at her in a very obvious, theatrical fashion, hoping that she would understand that this problem was not my fault and the fiasco thus far was totally on her shoulders. Thus far.

  She walked over to Wilma and said something to her quietly. Previously looking as if she wanted to fall through the floor with embarrassment, Wilma now raised her head defiantly, picked up her screaming child wrapped in swaddling clothes, marched down the center aisle and out the front door, leaving her husband looking confused and not quite sure of his loyalties. Was he to follow his wife and baby out of the church or stay true to his theatrical character and play the role out to the bitter end? He stayed. I suspected that he would find out he had made the wrong choice when he got home.

  Mother Ryan had never been known for her tact and I’m quite sure she had insulted both mother and child. When she suggested that Wilma take up her child and go, she probably meant for her to use the side exit, but it was not to be. You can’t insult a woman’s baby and then expect her to leave by the side door. And since she was leaving by the front door, I decided to “play her out” with a rousing number. The evening was shaping up splendidly.

  Since Joseph, sans Mary, was still stuck in the refrigerator box with an empty manger, Mother Ryan walked into the congregation, pulled a teenaged girl from the front pew and led her up to the steps. The girl was confused at first, letting herself be led like a lamb to the slaughter, but then, realizing what the rector had in mind, pulled away, and went racing back, choosing the safety of her anonymous pew to the sure humiliation of nativic thespianism. All this to Bring A Torch, Jeannette Isabella set in a wonderful carnival-like toccata and improvised beautifully by moi. I hadn’t spent one entire summer of grad school as a theater organist in Minneapolis for nothing.

  Mother Ryan, now short two Marys and one baby, went back to the lectern as I finished up the final grandiose chords.

  “Holy smokes,” whispered Bev. “She’s mad.”

  “I can see her jaw twitching from up here,” agreed Georgia, still whispering.

  Everyone in the audience became very still and a deathly hush fell over the congregation as Herself reached for her sheaf of papers. Joseph had decided it would be best for him to make an unobtrusive exit, but she saw him move and whipped around, pointing a long bony finger in his direction. He froze, eyes wide. Turning back to the lectern, Mother Ryan began her narration in low, measured tones that were unlike anything I’ve ever heard.

  “When Jesus was born in Bethlehem,”
she said in a low, flat voice devoid of all inflection and humanity, “the animals came to the manger to see the newborn Savior.” She spit out the words as if they were poison, then looked up over her half-glasses, her cold eyes narrowing as she surveyed her prey, With a snarl on her lips, she bared her teeth and dared anyone to make a sound. No one moved. No sound was made. The tiger had stepped forth into the forest and all living things were huddled in silent terror. I noticed Bishop Douglas in the third row. He was beginning to squirm uncomfortably.

  This last line by Herself was obviously the cue for the first animal to arrive. In, from the back of the church, came what appeared to be a very frightened sheep wearing a cute little costume made of a fluffy wool-like substance. His mother had begun by urging him forward down the aisle, but it had become apparent that this sheep was no fool and he wasn’t going down to face the tiger without his mommy. His mother looked up at me in desperation and I motioned for her to accompany her little lamb up to the front. While they walked to the front, I played a chorus of the Echo Carol to break the tension. The sheep stood in front of the congregation by the cardboard stable.

  “What do you have to say to the Baby Jesus?” hissed the rector, obviously now playing the well-known part of the Antichrist of Bethlehem.

  “I am the little sheep. I wander day and night,” the sheep said in a quivering voice, still clutching his mother’s hand.

  “I’ve come to see the stable,” he paused, thinking.

  “A great and glorious sight,” his mother whispered to him.

  “A great and glorious sight,” the sheep bleated, now close to panic.

  “Good job,” his mother whispered and led him to an empty pew that was reserved for the animals.

  I expected some applause but there was none. Not a creature was stirring.

  There was no introduction from Mother Ryan for the second animal. A donkey. I played him in with The Friendly Beasts. He was an older child. Third grade I would guess.

  “I am the donkey, shaggy and brown,” he sang in a quavering soprano.

  “I carried the maid, uphill and down.”

  He looked over at Herself and his blood ran cold. I suspect that children can sense evil much like animals can. If there was more to his song, we never heard it. He finished abruptly and moved to the pew.

  The cat never made it to the front. She was halfway down the aisle before screaming and bolting for the front door. It’s too bad too because I had just started playing “Alley Cat” to lighten the mood a little. I stopped halfway through a phrase, letting my fingers drag along the keys for effect.

  Georgia had been watching the proceedings from the stairwell. With a view of both the church and the narthex, she could cue me in on which animals were coming up so I could be prepared. Suddenly she stood up and in a loud stage whisper that I’m afraid, in that deathly quiet, everyone could hear, said “That’s it, Hayden. They’ve all left except Moosey.”

  “Is he ready?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. He’s ready.”

  I looked up at Herself. She was the Ancient Gargoyle of Christmas, still holding the congregation in her Medusa-like thrall from which no one dared escape.

  Then Moosey made his entrance.

  He came down the aisle in his penguin costume. It was black with a white front, two flippers where his arms were, orange high-top tennis shoes, a black hood topped by a red stocking cap and his nose was painted orange. I had vetoed the beak that came with the costume. I wanted everyone to see his face. He waddled down the aisle just as we had rehearsed and took his place on the top step right in front of the stable. I didn’t give him any traveling music. He was on his own.

  He stood there for a moment, perfectly serious, then he pointed a flipper up to the choir loft and said in a loud voice, the way we had rehearsed it, “Maestro, if you please!”

  I played him the introduction and he began to sing in his loudest soprano voice.

  There ain’t no ice in Bethlehem,

  I traveled here you see,

  To greet the Baby Jesus,

  But it’s too dang hot fer me.

  It was an original tune and we had put in a little dance between verses. The stifled laughter from the congregation was now beginning to erupt like the first puffs of ignition from a long-neglected engine. By the time Moosey got to the chorus the engine was at full throttle.

  Oh them floes, them icy floes!

  To see them once again is my goal.

  Oh them floes, them icy floes!

  Just take me back to the South Pole.

  My feathers all are matted now,

  My beak is almost thawed,

  It sure is one big price to pay,

  To greet the little Lord.

  More laughter, as Moosey two-stepped clumsily across the stage, his flippers slapping together in time.

  Oh them floes, them icy floes!

  To see them once again is my goal.

  People were beginning to clap now and sing along with the chorus, ignoring the glaring rector and enjoying themselves immensely.

  Oh them floes, them icy floes!

  Just take me back to the South Pole.

  Moosey headed into the last verses to hushes from the audience so everyone could hear him, although he was singing at the top of his lungs. He was hamming it up now, Gilbert and Sullivan style,ree-feet-six-inches of lovable penguin strutting across the podium, his orange high-tops slapping against the oak floor with every step he took.

  I’m whaling ’cause I’m hungry,

  And there ain’t no fish to find.

  I’m eeling very sharkish,

  Squid this salmon on my mind;

  I flounder ’cause I’m crabby,

  There’s no oysters in this house.

  I’ll give my sole to Jesus,

  ’Cause my bass is headin’ south.

  The hoots and cheers that went up from the congregation at that moment drowned out the beginning of Moosey’s last chorus. They rushed the podium, knocked over the refrigerator box, lifted Moosey to their shoulders and carried him, singing, en masse, out the front door and into the street as I improvised a couple of choruses on the organ, playing with all the gusto I could muster. As I played the final chord, I looked up to the front. Joseph was the only one left, silently looking over the ruins of his cardboard stable. Mother Ryan and the bishop were nowhere to be seen. I looked over at Georgia, Beverly and now Meg, who had joined us after Moosey had made his entrance. They were at the balcony rail, holding hands. Tears of joy were running down their faces.

  “Now that’s preaching,” Georgia said.

  Chapter 14

  Question: What’s the difference between a soprano and a terrorist? Answer: You can negotiate with a terrorist. Isabel Gerhardt wasn’t taking “no” for an answer.

  Question: What’s the difference between an alto and a piranha? Answer: Lipstick. Denver Tweed was 225 pounds of pit bull looking for a poodle fight. I wasn’t sure I could take her if the playing field was level. And it wasn’t.

  Question: What did the Bishop’s Personal Trainer get on her SATs? Answer: Fingernail polish. Although she had been a music major, Amber Dawn didn’t know much about music. She thought that a sackbut was a choral singer over forty. Still, she was smart enough to land on her feet more often than on her back. At least that’s what she wanted me to believe.

  Question: What’s the ideal weight for a bishop? Answer: About two-and-a-half pounds, including the urn. The Bishop had gotten me into this mess and he wasn’t getting off scott free. Sure, he was my employer, but if the only way out of this was to give him up, well, so be it. There were other jobs in this city.

  I reached for a book on the upper shelf,

  “Watch it, handsome,” said Amber, pulling out one of her 38’s and leveling it at yours truly. “Take it slow and easy.”

  • • •

  “You won’t believe this,” I told Meg as we stood in the kitchen, facing the open window, each holding a dead mouse. Meg had hers at
arms length with a look of disgust on her face as the strains of Hugo Distler’s Christmas Story filled the house.

  “It’s a great piece, don’t you think?” I asked her, listening to the music and gently conducting with my rodent-baton. “It puts me in the Christmas spirit. I’m reminded of a poem.”

  “I hope it’s the one where ‘not a creature was stirring, not even this dead mouse,’” she quipped. “So far, this makes my list of ‘ten worst dates.’”

  “How can you possibly say that, standing here in a freezing house, listening to Hugo Distler and dangling a dead mouse by the tail?”

  “Gee. I wonder,” she said, shrugging. “This one is slightly worse than my blind date with the four-foot Mexican named Bernardo who didn’t speak any English. As I recall, I ended up in the back seat of the car teaching him to play tic-tac-toe on the steamed-up windows while my roommate made out with her boyfriend in the front seat.”

  “And this one is worse?” I asked, somewhat suspiciously.

  “Well, at least there weren’t any dead mice involved.”

  About two minutes later, with a flash of feathers, the owl appeared on the sill and stepped through the window into the kitchen as if he’d been doing it all his life. I held my mouse out to him first and he took it gently in his beak. Then, as the owl looked expectantly at Meg, she gingerly held out her suspended offering. With his beak full, he balanced on one leg and lifted a talon to take the snack from Meg’s hand. With two mice securely in his possession, he took a little leap to get himself airborne, then disappeared through the open window and into the night.

  We just stood there for a few moments, staring out after the wild creature. Meg was stunned into silence. But not for long.