"Good luck with that," muttered Muffy. "There ain't no tune that I can find. Not in this thing."
"I usually sing solos," Goldi Fawn said to Muffy. "You know, with an accompaniment track? My signature song is Christmas Shoes. It's a song about a little boy who wants to buy some shoes for his dyin' momma at Christmas so she can look pretty when she goes to meet Jesus."
"I sing that song, too," said Muffy. "It's beautiful!" She wiped a single tear from her eye. "But Hayden won't let us sing with a track."
Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle gave her a smile and a wink. "That's okay. I'm singing it at the Lion's Club Christmas luncheon in Boone next week. Wanna come?"
"Yeah!" said Muffy. "You think I could sing something, too?"
"Oh, I'm sure you could!" said Goldi Fawn, choosing an empty chair next to her new friend. "I know the program chairman. She comes in every week to get her stars done and her hair colored."
The choir had grown since Sunday, thanks to some heavy handed recruitment by Meg and Bev. I'd also made a few phone calls and now we numbered twenty-five. Codfish Downs had agreed to sing and was a good, if aging, tenor. Codfish made his living selling fresh mountain trout out of the trunk of his '98 Pontiac. Most of the trout farmers in the area thought that he made his living by selling stolen fresh mountain trout out of his trunk. This accusation had never been proven and until I had some evidence to the contrary, I had to view the Codfish's wares as not only legitimately procured, but also very tasty. If he was poaching trout, the farmers couldn't figure out how he was doing it. Fresh fish were a seasonal delicacy, however, and when the temperature dropped into the single digits, the trout became much harder to come by. Hence, when I offered the Codfish a few bucks to sing with us, he jumped at the chance.
Nancy didn't actually jump at the chance, but did agree to join us once Meg asked her nicely. Annie Cooke heard Bev and Elaine talking about the cantata over at the Ginger Cat and was invited to sing when she'd expressed a previously forgotten pleasure in singing Ralph Vaughan Williams' Hodie years ago with her college choir.
Pete and Cynthia, good as their word, were on hand. Pete found a chair in the far back of the choir loft, beside Mark Wells.
A surprise, a pleasant surprise, was Rhiza Walker. As Raymond Chandler so aptly put it, Rhiza was a blonde, a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. She'd been married to St. Barnabas' Senior Warden once removed. Now she was divorced and her ex, Malcolm Walker, was finishing a seven to ten year plea deal at a minimum security facility. Not hurting for money, she'd been living in Europe for the past few years, but I'd seen her in town on Monday, and so invited her to come and sing. She'd been an undergraduate music major at the University of North Carolina when we'd met. I was in graduate school at the time, and we'd dated for a while. When she graduated, though, she married Malcolm. It was Rhiza, in fact, who told me that Pete was looking for a police chief all those many years ago. I remembered her as a wonderful soprano. I was hoping she still was.
"I have an announcement," said Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, standing up. "I'm having a sale on zinks and lysards at the Music Shoppe," he said. "I've gotten a double shipment by mistake. I also have a selection of handmade snoods just in from Luxembourg."
"Hang on," said Marjorie. "You've got skinks and lizards?"
"Zinks and ly-zards," corrected Ian, putting the accent on the final syllable.
"How much?" said Goldi Fawn, obviously never one to pass up a bargain."
"Half price," said Ian.
"Save me one of them skinks, then," said Goldi Fawn. "A green and red one."
Ian looked confused for a moment. "Green and red?" he said.
"Hawk your wares later, Ian," I interrupted. "Did you find out anything about Elle de Fournier?"
"Who's that?" whispered Goldi Fawn to Meg, who was sitting on Goldi Fawn's other side.
"The composer of our cantata," Meg whispered back.
Ian shook his head. "No, I did not, and I'm bound to tell you that if I could not find out anything, there is probably nothing to find." He sat down, then stood back up quickly. "Half price on zinks," he said hurriedly, "sixty percent off the lysards. Snoods are full price." Then he sat again.
"Well, choir," I said, "here's what I know. La Chanson d'Adoration was written by Elle de Fournier and was to be premiered at St. Barnabas on Christmas Eve, 1942. For some reason—and no one seems to know why, at least no one we've found yet—the performance was cancelled. The chances are very good that this cantata has never been performed."
"So this would be the world premiere then?" asked Randy.
"I expect so," I said.
"Cool," said Tiff. "Can I put this on my resumé?"
"Absolutely, you can!" said Goldi Fawn. "I got all kinds of stuff on my resumé. Like this one time, Wynonna Judd came in to get her stars done..."
"What a great story!" I said, cutting her short. "So let's start at the beginning and see if we can get a handle on this thing."
* * *
An hour and a half later, we'd rehearsed all four movements of the cantata and the entire choir was frazzled. I was frazzled, too. Frazzled but determined.
"How about a break?" I suggested. "We could use one."
"Nah," said Bob Solomon. "I'd rather get this over with. Let's just do it."
The other choir members, noticeably frustrated, nodded.
"Okay," I said. "Then close your books. Time to clear your brains."
The books closed.
"Here's the thing," I said. "This is a difficult piece, but it's not that difficult."
"There's no time signature," complained Tiff. "I'm having a tough time counting."
"There are no bar lines," said Georgia. "Just these half lines, and they're different in every part."
"There's no key signature," said Bert. "I don't know where 'tonic' is."
"The words are weird," said Sheila. "The Song of Solomon?"
All this was true, of course. The notation was difficult and not what anyone was used to. In addition, it was handwritten and that took some getting used to as well. The text was not the usual Christmas story.
"Listen," I said. "The Song of Solomon is sometimes viewed as a messianic text, especially during the time that this music was written. In fact, until the middle of the last century, The Song was regarded by theologians as an allegory describing the relationship of Christ and the Church. It's Advent."
"And then there's the whole apple tree/Garden of Eden thing," added Bev. "Okay, I buy it."
"Stand up," I ordered. "Open your scores to the first movement."
The choir complied.
"Relax. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Understand that singing is a gift and you are part of that gift. 'Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.' I don't know who said it, but it's true enough."
I looked across the choir. Surprisingly, all their eyes were closed.
"Now, just listen to each other. Listen to the music. Lose yourself in it, but think. You know the notes. You know how to sing this." I paused for a long moment, then said, "Okay, look at me."
I played their opening phrase, then raised my arms from the organ console and conducted the downbeat. Two measures later I quit conducting and my mouth dropped open.
As the apple tree among the trees of the wood,
so is my beloved among the sons.
I sat down under his shadow with great delight,
and his fruit was sweet to my taste.
He brought me to the banqueting house,
and his banner over me was love.
The choir kept singing (and what singing!), going through the entire movement, beginning to end, without a break. They finished together, looked at me and I cut them off. The final chord echoed through the church, perfectly in tune, perfectly sung. This had never happened, not once in the twenty-odd years I'd been at St. Barnabas. Not once in all my years of conducting. It just hadn't happened. I wasn't sure, until now, that it could happen. Not with a volunteer c
hoir, anyway.
Silence filled the church. No one made a sound, not for a solid minute. It was as if everyone was afraid even to take a deep breath. Then Elaine said in a soft voice, "Holy cow!"
"Was that us?" whispered Georgia.
"It was," Meg whispered back.
"Well, I'll be a three-legged horned-toad," said Pete. "Does this happen all the time? I might just join up."
"Let's sing it again," said Randy. "Maybe it was an accident."
The rest of the choir agreed emphatically. I looked around. Each of them, every single one, had a look of wonder on their faces. I gave them their starting notes and they sang it again.
No mistake.
Silence again, then: "We have got to rehearse tomorrow night!" said Bert Coley, excitedly. "I have a poker game but I'll skip it."
"We have to," agreed Martha. "No way around it. We still have three movements to learn. We can sing this one on Sunday morning, but we've got to have some more rehearsals!"
I was speechless. This was something out of my experience.
"Okay," Meg said decidedly, "a Thursday rehearsal. Who can't come?"
"Oh, man!" said Varmit. "Muffy and me got tickets to the monster truck rally in Bristol. Amy Grant is doing the pre-rally concert."
"We've seen Amy before, Varmit," said Muffy. "And Bigfoot ain't even going to be there. He blew a head gasket or something."
"These tickets are nonrefundable!" Varmit argued.
"We'll scalp 'em on the internet," said Muffy with finality. "I can double our money." Varmit knew when he was licked.
"I have a party I'm supposed to be at," said Steve DeMoss.
"Me, too," said Sheila, looking daggers at Steve, "but we're not going."
"I'm not complaining," said Steve. "I didn't want to go anyway."
"Hey!" said Elaine. "That's my party!"
"Oops," said Sheila with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. We'll be there when the rehearsal is over."
"The party doesn't start till eight," said Elaine. "It's just a little get-together. So what if I get there an hour or so late? Billy can handle it."
"Wow," said Annie. "That's brave."
"Oh, I owe him," said Elaine. "He did the same thing to me last summer. Invited a bunch of his customers over and then got 'held up' at the shop."
"Let's sing it again," said Marjorie. "There's something strange happening. Singing it...singing it just makes me feel good."
"It's euphoric," agreed Rebecca.
"Enchanting," said Bev.
"It's like how I felt when I first saw the Grand Canyon," said Cynthia, trying to find the words. "I can't even catch my breath. I don't know..."
"It's like something unbelievably beautiful," said Rhiza, putting her arm around Cynthia and giving her a hug. "You just don't know how to explain it."
"It's like Christmas," said Meg.
Chapter 8
It wasn't as easy as she remembered. When she'd been immersed in the music, when she'd had two and three lessons a week, when she'd been playing piano at the restaurant, composing had come to her as if it were second nature. Now, four years later, she found that writing music was...difficult. She struggled with themes, she struggled with harmonies, and she couldn't find the voice that she knew was there. She pored over her old compositions and looked for clues, hints on how to tap into her dormant talent. At least she hoped it was only dormant. What if it was gone completely?
She'd been going over Christmas texts, but couldn't find anything that spoke to her. Then, after a month of agonizing, she threw every sketch into the waste bin, sat down at the piano in frustration and placed her hands on the keys. Mozart, she thought. Mozart to clear her mind. It always worked. She began to play.
She wasn't thinking about the cantata at all. She was thinking about Henry, her family, her new church friends, the upcoming holiday, and then she realized what was flowing from her fingers. Not Mozart.
She picked up her pen and started writing.
* * *
The next morning, I drove to the station early, and stopped by the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a box of donuts. Amelia Godshaw was the only checkout girl on duty, even though characterizing her as a "girl" was to overstate her status by about sixty years. Roger Beeson, the manager, was tucked away in his "office," a raised twelve-by-twelve, half-walled cubicle containing a desk, a safe, and a couple of chairs, from which he could survey his domain. Amelia was not known as a "people person," and was most probably packing heat under her checkout counter. It didn't do to irritate Amelia, and Roger might have gotten rid of her except that, for some reason, he couldn't keep any help at the Pig for more than a month or two. Amelia and her friends, Hannah and Grace, were the only employees that he could count on not to rob him blind and to show up for their shifts. There was also a stock-boy named Clem, but no one had ever heard him speak.
I was in line at Amelia's checkout counter. In front of me was a woman I didn't know and in front of her was Elaine Hixon. The woman in front of me looked irritated, tapping a bottle of mouthwash angrily on the conveyor belt. Elaine had half a cartful of groceries and was a few items into her checkout routine.
"I'm having a party this evening," Elaine said to Amelia. "A Christmas party."
"Goody for you," grumped Amelia. She rang up a cheese ball from the deli Christmas end-cap, on sale for $3.95.
"Could we hurry it up?" said the next-in-line woman.
"I'm going as fast as I can," said Amelia. "You wanna do it?"
"Amelia," said Elaine, "are you having your hair done at the Beautifery? It just looks lovely."
Amelia blinked, blinked again, and then smiled. "Well, yes I am," she said. "Noylene's got a new girl. We're trying a reddish blonde with a lemon rinse." She lowered her voice. "She also told me that new opportunities are just around the corner."
"How exciting," Elaine said to Amelia. She spotted me in the back of the line. "Hayden! Good morning!"
"Morning," I said, giving her a wave with my free hand.
"Listen," said the woman, "I've got an appointment in town and I'm already late."
"Who are you meeting?" asked Elaine.
"None of your business!" snapped the woman.
"I only ask," said Elaine, as she pointed to the plate glass windows that comprised the front of the store, "because I think your car slid down the hill and into that ditch."
The woman screamed, dropped her mouthwash, and stared at her car, the front end of which, as Elaine had described, was pointing, headlights down, into the drainage ditch in front of the Piggly Wiggly.
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "How?...What?..."
"You probably just parked on a patch of ice," said Elaine. "Don't worry. Billy's right around the corner with his Bobcat scraping another parking lot. I'll give him a call." She flipped open her phone, punched a button, and a minute later, dropped her phone back into her purse.
"He's on his way. He's got a chain. You'll be out in three shakes."
"How much is this going to cost me?" said the woman, resignation and disgust evident in her voice.
"Why, nothing, dear," said Elaine. "Don't be silly. It's Christmas, after all."
The woman's mouth dropped open. Then, a moment later, she said, "Thank you. Sorry I snapped at you before."
"Oh," said Elaine, waving a hand absently in her direction. "It's nothing."
The woman turned to Amelia. "And I'm sorry I was cross with you." She searched for a compliment. "You're doing a great job there...ringing things up. You're the best grocery checker I've seen in a long while, I can tell you."
"Well..." said Amelia, smiling just a little.
"I'm just on edge," said the woman. "I'm new in town and I'm supposed to meet the president of the library council at eight. Now I'm going to be late. I'm a caterer and I'm trying to get the library patrons' Christmas party job."
"Louise?" said Amelia. "You're meeting Louise Harrison?"
"Why...yes."
"Pfft," said Amelia. "She's my next door neighbor
. We're thick as thieves. Lemme give her a call." Amelia grabbed a phone from under the counter and quickly dialed a number from memory. "Louise? This is Amelia. Yeah...just fine. You know that caterer you're supposed to meet with?" Amelia put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at the woman. "Jacki?" she asked. The woman nodded.
"Well, she's just gonna be a tad late. We've had a little accident down at the Pig. No problem? Great!"
The woman beamed.
"And Louise," said Amelia, "you just might as well go on and hire her. She's a real sweet person and she can cook like nobody's business. Yep...I'll tell her and she'll be there as soon as Billy gets her car out of the ditch."
Amelia clicked the phone off and put it down beside the register.
"No rush," said Amelia with a big smile. "She can't wait to meet you."
"I...I don't know what to say," said Jacki.
"Oh, here's Billy," said Elaine, looking out the window. The other ladies followed her gaze and saw Billy's mini-dozer making its way across the parking lot toward Jacki's car.
"Did I hear that you're having a party tonight?" Jacki asked Elaine.
"Yes, I am," said Elaine.
"I have some cakes in the back seat that I'm going to show to Mrs. Harrison. But after that, may I drop them by your house for your party? No charge." She put a finger to her lips and looked concerned. "That is, if they're still all right."
"Aren't you sweet," said Elaine, with a big smile. "I'll bet they're just fine. Your car was hardly moving and barely bumped into that ditch."
Jacki nodded. "I hope so."
"Thank you," said Elaine. "Having those cakes would save me a good deal of time and I have a choir rehearsal before the party. Here, let me give you my address."
"Do you have some cards?" asked Amelia. "I can put them here by the register. We always have people asking for caterers. Especially during the holidays."
"You bet!" said Jacki. She dug around in her purse and came up with a handful of business cards which she handed to Amelia. Then she turned to Elaine. "What's the tune you're humming? It's beautiful."
"Just something we're singing for the Christmas Eve service at St. Barnabas. You should come."
The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 6