How Sweet the Sound

by Jacquelin Thomas

  “Despite everything we do, time and again God grants us new mercies, new opportunities to live right, to live just and to give him the praise.”

  “Preach, pastor!” was called out from somewhere. And an amen corner had taken up residence at Thornton’s right.

  Carys listened to him, her eyes wide as she sat riveted.

  “Too often though, just as soon as that valley of experience is over, just as soon as the Lord delivers us out of the wilderness, we forget from whence we’ve come. Just as soon as the tight place gets a little oxygen or those bills are paid or that miracle got worked right in front of your eyes, we are like—” he slapped his hands together “—gone!”

  He paused for a moment, making eye contact with several of the people in the audience. “We forget all about God until the next time when we stand before Him begging and pleading and trying to cop a plea bargain before Judgment Day.”

  Carys realized T.C. had been born to preach. She understood the appeal of his books because she’d read them. Listening to him, though, that was another dimension altogether. He struck a balance between mainline theology and street corner jive that connected with people. But more than that, he’d hit her on the street where she lived. It was as if T.C. had been inside her head, inside her house.

  “God isn’t concerned about deals,” Thornton said. “He wants our whole hearts. The new mercies He grants for each of us over and over and over again is all the proof we need that His mercy does endure forever.”

  How many times had she made deals with God? Insane deals, impossible bargains.

  The biggest one concerned Carl. Before she could follow through, he’d died, leaving her adrift and alone and feeling incredibly guilty.

  They’d grown apart in the last years of their marriage, but the understanding they’d reached the night he proposed stood between them until the day he died.

  He’d left no financial need unmet. And in her own right, Carys had far more money than she’d ever be able to spend. But money couldn’t fill the hollow emptiness in her, the secret longing for something more, something of value that would stand the test of both time and personal regrets.

  In the middle of Thornton’s sermon, Carys found herself crying. It was as if a reservoir of emotion flooded her after a long drought, overflowing the banks of her parched soul, tearing down the walls of her resistance.

  As he continued, she reached for her purse intending to find a hankie. But an older woman, maybe about seventy, passed a tissue to her. Carys nodded her thanks and tried to get herself together.

  Still sniffling, she listened as T.C. concluded and offered the invitation.

  With a pang of both longing and regret, Carys realized she’d missed the nondenominational services she used to attend while in college. But as Carl’s medical practice and clientele list grew ever more exclusive, he insisted they become members of a church that catered to the social set comprised of his patients and their friends.

  Though her husband didn’t know it, Carys maintained her ties with a church she’d found, one that nourished her spirit and operated an outreach ministry to members who’d moved to other areas. Sometimes that covert faith was all that kept her going.

  After attending church with Carl and the children, services that always left her vaguely wanting more, Carys spent an hour or so “napping” each Sunday. Only the children knew that mom’s naps frequently involved a Bible and a handkerchief to dry the tears she dared not let her husband see.

  Now as she watched T.C., all of those things came to mind. Lost opportunities. Abandoned dreams. And most of all, wasted time.

  She hadn’t realized until just now how much she needed new mercy in her own life…or how much that dream of the front porch swing had sustained her through the years.

  Chapter Four

  Thornton found himself in a quandary. Why had Carys cried through the entire sermon? For the first time that he could remember in a long while, he’d been distracted in the pulpit. And it was all because of Carys. Twenty-five years may have passed since graduation, and they’d lived separate lives; yet Carys Chappelle still had the power to make him forget what he wanted to say.

  Focusing on the moment, Thornton offered the invitation. “The Lord wants you just the way you are,” he told the assembled group. “There’s no need to dress up, put on airs or get yourself together before you come. Won’t you come to him now, just as you are?”

  He started singing the familiar hymn, “Just As I Am.” Thornton held out his hands inviting people to step forward. As his gaze scanned the audience, it connected with Carys’s. She was standing, singing along with him. Thornton smiled at her lilting soprano blending with his tenor. He motioned for her to join him.

  A moment later, they stood together at the podium—like old times—each singing from the heart the hymn that Carys had always cherished. The hymn had a special meaning for Thornton, as well. The Peaceful Rest Church choir was singing that song as the invitation when Thornton came forward, giving his heart and his life to the Lord. For many years Peaceful Rest’s choir sang straight from the hymnbook. He liked those hymns. A lot. Thornton closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in sweet communion with God.

  Carys slipped her hand into his. Thornton looked at her and smiled. Together they completed the verses of the beloved hymn.

  “It’s been a long time since I heard that hymn,” Carys told him later. They were walking across campus to the lot where their cars were parked. “What made you sing that?”

  “You did,” Thornton told her.

  “Me?”

  He nodded. “I saw you sitting there and I thought about all those Friday night Vespers services and those Sunday mornings in the chapel. We used to sing and sing and sing. You always loved that song.”

  “And got teased for liking the oldies,” Carys said.

  Thornton chuckled. “I remember that. We were all busy adding intricate hand clapping to the latest gospel tune burning up the radio airwaves, and little Carys Chappelle wanted to sing some dried-up hymn from the national songbook.” He glanced over at her. “For the record, I always preferred the hymns as well. Still do.”

  “I miss those old songs,” Carys said. “My church doesn’t utilize the hymnbooks very much.”

  “Mine, either, though my home church back in Texas did all the time. The director of choirs at the church I pastor writes much of what is sung. He’s very talented and music is important in a ministry. In some cases, it’s what brings people to church.”

  Carys nodded, remembering how a song could lift her heart, soothe her troubled spirit or mirror the joy she felt deep inside.

  They paused for a car to pass on a side street. Thornton steered Carys to the inside walkway as they moved from street to paved sidewalk. She felt his hand at the small of her back. The innocuous connection fueled within her a longing that brought tears to her eyes again.

  She tried to wipe them away, but T.C. noticed.

  He paused, took her hand in his. “Carys, what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Carys knew she was acting like an idiot, a weepy, silly idiot. She couldn’t very well explain to him that she’d teared up for the umpteenth time today simply because he’d guided her along the sidewalk. But that’s just what had happened. His hand at her back was one of the thousand little courtesies that she missed.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  She nodded.

  So instead of heading to their cars, Thornton led her to the campus student center where they ordered coffees and settled at a table away from the heavy flow of student and alumni traffic.

  “Why were you crying in service?”

  She should have expected the question. The answer though, well, that was a tough one. “I’ve been through a lot in the last few years.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head. “Let’s talk about you.”

  Thornton smiled. “My life is an open book. You
know all the backstory. I gave my life to God at Peaceful Rest Church. I came out of Summerset Junior College with an associate’s degree, transferred here, got the B.A. Then kept going to school until somebody called me Doctor and put a bunch of letters after my name.”

  Carys bit back a grin. “Not the résumé. What’s been going on with T.C. the man?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “T.C.,” he said, as if trying the nickname on for size. “No one has called me that for years.”

  “Would you prefer I call you Thornton?”

  He shook his head. “No, Carys. To you, I’ll always just be T.C., a country boy.”

  “You’re a long way from the country today.”

  Reflective, he nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “How many children do you have?” she asked him.

  “Just one. A beautiful daughter, Lydia. She’s responsible for this,” he said, touching the gray hair at his temples.

  Carys laughed. “I have two and a grandchild. But my kids never gave me problems.”

  “You must have raised them right.”

  “I’d like to think so,” she said.

  “Lydia is a good kid. Sassy. Bright. She takes after her mother. This year, she’s a sophomore at the University of Richmond. But she lives on campus, thank goodness.”

  “And your wife?”

  “She died about twelve years ago.”

  Carys reached for his hand, squeezed it. “I didn’t know that, Thornton. I’m so sorry. It must have been difficult for you raising a daughter by yourself.”

  He nodded. “But I had plenty of help. My mother moved in about four months after Deborah died. I’d just been called to pastor New Providence. It was devastating, and I was having a real hard time adjusting.”

  “But you never remarried?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve thought about it a time or two. But it was never right. What about you?”

  “Get remarried? I don’t think so. It’s taken me this long to adjust to being a widow. I’ve always had a rebellious streak. I just didn’t realize how suppressed it was until independence was thrust on me.”

  “How did you lose your husband?”

  She told him about Carlton’s heart attack, the years they spent together. Carys pulled from her purse photos of her children and granddaughter.

  “You barely look old enough to have adult children, let alone a grandchild.”

  Carys laughed, the sound musical. “Well, bless your heart, T.C. Unfortunately, you and everyone else here knows just how old I am. This is our twenty-fifth reunion year.”

  They both fell silent for a moment. Carys stirred her coffee with a plastic stirrer that featured Camden’s logo on the top. “Where did all of that time go?”

  “I think we’re all asking the same question this weekend,” Thornton said.

  “It’s not just about reflecting on the past,” Carys said. “Regret is mixed up in it, too.”

  “What do you regret?”

  Before Carys could answer, a man’s voice boomed over them.

  “Well, look who’s here. Just like old times, chatting up one of the prettiest girls in the room.”

  Carys and Thornton looked up to see a couple standing at their table.

  Thornton’s face broke into a wide grin as he jumped up. “Roscoe Baker! You old reprobate. What are you doing here?”

  Thornton and his old buddy clasped hands then shared a bear hug.

  “Phyllis?” Carys asked the woman.

  The woman’s eyes grew wide and a moment later schoolgirl-style squealing echoed in the food court as the two women hugged each other.

  Thornton pulled two additional chairs over and the four eventually sat down.

  “Carys, this is an old pal of mine from my junior college days at Summerset. He’s a good ol’ Texas boy, Roscoe Baker.”

  “And this,” Carys said after shaking Roscoe’s hand, “is Phyllis Taylor. We lived on the same hall in our freshman and junior years.”

  “What are you doing here, man?” Thornton asked.

  Roscoe draped an arm across Phyllis’s shoulder. “The wife’s twenty-fifth. Couldn’t miss that.”

  Thornton looked at Phyllis. “You married him?”

  She nodded. “Twenty years next month.”

  “You have my sympathy.” Thornton said it with a straight face, but couldn’t maintain the somber look. He and Roscoe chuckled.

  “Men,” Phyllis said shaking her head at Carys. “So, I didn’t know you two hooked up.”

  “We ran into each other at the opening reception,” Carys said, understanding what Phyllis meant and deliberately answering the unspoken question another way. “I hadn’t seen T.C. in years.”

  Phyllis glanced between them. She quickly shielded a vaguely disappointed look. “You know, I always thought you two—”

  “So where do you guys live?” Thornton asked as they all settled at the table.

  Carys saw Phyllis lift a brow at the quickly changed subject.

  “My daughter and I live in Richmond,” Thornton said.

  Roscoe nudged his wife. “Watch what you say around this one, Phyl. He’s posing as a big-time preacher these days.”

  Phyllis rolled her eyes at her husband. “He’s the one who needs to find some church,” she said indicating Roscoe. “I, on the other hand, have two of your books. I wish I’d known you’d be here. I could have gotten an autograph.”

  “Don’t go pestering the man, honey. We’re right outside Dallas,” Roscoe said answering the initial question.

  “So you did go home,” Thornton said to his old friend.

  “Family duty called.”

  “You wouldn’t know it to look at him, Carys, but that’s a bonafide cowboy sitting across from you.”

  “I gave up the spurs a long time ago. Now I’m an innkeeper.”

  Phyllis waved a hand. “Pay him no mind,” she said, leaning forward, her elbows on the table. “We run a small chain of dude ranches. We get a lot of tourist business.”

  While the couples continued to talk, the noise level in the food court area grew louder as more and more returning alumni found their way to the campus student center.

  Several people drifted to the table where Thornton and Carys seemed to be holding court. Stories were swapped about the good old days and then over the sound system that had been piping easy-listening jazz throughout the center, someone recognized a tune that had been a favorite during their college years.

  A woman who’d been a lead alto in the gospel choir started humming, then picked up the lyrics. Someone else joined in and before long, they were all harmonizing.

  “Remember when we did that arrangement of ‘Just A Closer Walk with Thee’?” someone asked.

  “Oh, man. That song just does something to me,” Phyllis said.

  Thornton, who’d been one of the campus choir’s student directors, stood up. “Where are my altos?”

  Several women in the group of about twelve rose their hands.

  “And the sopranos?”

  “Sopranos in the house,” Carys said on a laugh as she got up and joined three other women who sang that part.

  “Men, do we have any bass or is everybody tenor?”

  “I can handle it if you show me the way,” Roscoe said, deliberately deepening his voice.

  “All right, now. On my count,” Thornton said as he tapped out the beat to the jazzed-up arrangement of the standard hymn.

  When he lifted his arms and cued the altos it was like years fell away from each person present. They were no longer middle-aged parents or grandparents back for a weekend to relive their youth. They were young—at heart and in spirit.

  As the impromptu choir sang, people in the student center gathered around them until an audience of about seventy people formed a U around the original table where Carys and Thornton had been sitting.

  Following Thornton’s direction, the choir brought the song to a close. Applause rippled through the food court area and several peop
le high-fived each other.

  “Just like old times!” somebody called out.

  “I think that sounded better than old times,” Carys said.

  Joe Holmes, the former football star, came up and slapped Thornton on the back. “Ya’ll ought to do a concert before we leave.”

  “What a great idea!” Phyllis said. “T.C., you want to direct?”

  He glanced at Carys. “Well, I don’t think…”

  She nodded. “We could sing at the banquet.”

  “Yeah,” Phyllis added. “They said they wanted the classes to participate in the program.”

  Under the force of bobbing heads and enthusiastic smiles, Thornton relented and the Alumni Gospel Choir was born.

  “All right,” he said. “Who’s up for doing a miniconcert, maybe just two or three numbers?”

  All of the hands shot up. Thornton laughed. “Well, it looks like we have an alumni choir.”

  “Do we have to rehearse today? I’m headed out on a tour soon,” somebody called out.

  “Rehearse right now,” Joe said. “This ain’t the Kennedy Center or Carnegie Hall.”

  Applause greeted that suggestion. Thornton looked at his so-called choir, spotted Alatrice who used to bring the house down with her deeply moving rendition of Negro spirituals. “Alatrice, Roscoe and Carys.”

  The two women, knowing exactly what he was thinking, grinned and came forward.

  “Now wait a minute,” Roscoe said, holding his hands up to stave off being volunteered for something. “I didn’t even go to this college. Don’t put me in the middle of this.”

  “Come on, man. Be a sport,” Thornton said. “I can do the tenor part. We need a bass. Besides, you know how to do this. Remember when Brother Jefferson at Peaceful Rest used to testify about growing up as sharecropper? Then he’d break into that deep voice singing about troubled times.”

  Roscoe grinned. Then he did an imitation of the old deacon, lowering his head and stomping his foot while the onlookers smiled.

  “We had a deacon like that at our church,” someone said.

  “Can we count on you?” Thornton asked him.

  In answer, Roscoe sang a verse. The impromptu choir applauded.