She paused for a long moment. "I have no use for this composing foolishness and I do not appreciate you dragging this thing back out."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Sorry about your husband, but also sorry there was no performance. It's an extraordinary work. If someone had heard it perhaps..."
* * *
Henry's family was supportive, as far as they could be to an unknown daughter-in-law of eight months, but they withdrew into their own grief and gradually pulled away from her. She had Henry's house and the life insurance, but his parents were less generous when it came to their business holdings. She was not considered part of the family. If there had been a child, perhaps, but that hadn't happened. Estranged from the Greenaways, within a year she'd sold the house and moved back to Asheville. She wouldn't touch a piano again for over sixty years.
Bessie took back her maiden name and began teaching English. Twelve years later, her parents were killed in an automobile accident, and when a position opened at St. Germaine High School, she took it. Her friend Mary Alice had left the town years before. The Greenaways were gone as well. No one in town recognized her and she didn't remind them, discouraging friendships, keeping acquaintances at arm's length, choosing instead to keep to herself. She cultivated a caustic wit and used it mercilessly on unprepared students, ill-equipped teachers, and ineffectual administrators. She was feared. Her mouth set itself in a permanent scowl and the lines in her face deepened as she became the crone of the village. The days turned to months, and then to years, and then to scores of years. Now she could see the end.
* * *
"I'm not sorry about dragging your cantata back out, though," I said. "It's changed everyone who's sung it."
Bessie Baker put her ancient hands on the wheels of her chair and rolled it toward the exit.
"What about that G-natural?" I called after her. "Measures 23 to 39?"
"You know perfectly well it's a G-natural," she said, without looking back. "But do what you want. I couldn't care less."
Chapter 15
The Jessetonians had their tree up and decorated by the time the woodpeckers had been captured. As an homage, they placed two life-sized papier-mâché woodpeckers at the top of the tree in place of the usual turtledoves and vowed they'd be adorning the tree from henceforth.
Billy Hixon, dressed as Santa and holding the large birdcage aloft to display his two prizes, explained to the children in Sterling Park that the only way to catch woodpeckers was to put a little salt on their tails. He was going to take them back to the North Pole where they'd help in the workshop, drilling holes for wooden puppets' noses. Moosey and his friend Bernadette, finally released from the prison of elementary school, spent the rest of the day chasing birds with a couple of salt shakers they'd purloined from the Slab. Unfortunately, they'd caught one fairly early in the exercise, a robin with a bad wing, and then there was no stopping them.
I was practicing my prelude for Sunday morning when Pauli Girl came up the steps, into the loft and down to the organ console. I saw her and stopped playing.
"I had an idea," she said.
"What?"
"Maybe you could have Miss Baker come and hear the cantata."
"I already thought of that," I said. "I asked her to come to the performance, or even a rehearsal, but she said absolutely not. She's not interested."
"She doesn't like to go out at night," said Pauli Girl. "None of the residents do."
"Makes sense," I said.
"But what about something during the day? I think I could take her out if she thought she were going somewhere else. Maybe to the library. Then I'd wheel her into the church, and there you'd be."
"You might just make her mad," I said. "And Bessie Baker's mad is more mad than I want to see."
"Maybe," said Pauli Girl, "but maybe not. She started playing the piano again after you left. I think there's something there."
* * *
The fourth movement was easier, and was a setting of another poem by Sara Teasdale. The choir, now familiar with the style and the harmonic language, caught on quickly.
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.
Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.
"Wow!" said Marjorie. "I can't wait until Sunday night! This is going to be great."
"It's going to be sad when it all ends," said Rebecca. "I've been singing this in my head for two weeks straight."
"Is Miss Baker coming to the performance?" asked Martha.
I shook my head. "She doesn't care to attend. She's not exactly thrilled that we're doing it."
"Why not?" asked Muffy. "If someone sang a song I wrote, boy, I'd be happy!"
"Me, too," agreed Goldi Fawn. "I remember when I wrote Suckin' Christmas Dinner Through a Straw and Louise Mandrell was gonna sing it. I was all set to go to Dollywood and hear her, but she had to cancel when her pet pig got hit by a car."
"Miss Baker has her reasons," I said. "She's been through a lot."
"Is that the end of the piece?" asked Rhiza Walker, flipping through a couple more blank pages at the end of her score. "It doesn't seem like the end."
"It's not," I said. "The composer gives instructions for the singing of a carol after the last movement. I Wonder as I Wander. You'll find the music in the back of your folder."
"Is that a solo?" asked Muffy hopefully.
"No," I said. "Sorry. There are a couple of solo parts. I thought that they probably used the choral version that John Jacob Niles wrote. It would have been the right time period."
"Did Niles write it?" asked Sheila. "I thought I remembered that it was an Appalachian folk song."
"He 'collected' it," I said. "He heard a fragment and made a carol out of it. That was his story, anyway."
"Can we audition?" asked Muffy.
"Nope," I said. "Tiff's singing the alto solo and Bert's singing the tenor."
"Oh," said Muffy, "that's okay, then. I don't sing alto."
We sang through the anthem, worked on it for twenty minutes or so, and I proclaimed it ready for prime time.
"We'll sing this as the anthem in the morning service on Sunday," I said. "It's not often that Christmas Eve falls on a Sunday. We're also doing the St. James Christmas Service music for both the morning service and the midnight mass. The cantata will be before the service. We'll begin at 10:30."
"Everyone's coming," said Cynthia. "The whole town, I think."
"Probably not the whole town," corrected Pete. "But a mess of people."
"I'll let Billy know," said Elaine. "They're going to have to put up a lot of chairs."
"I've been telling everyone at the Beautifery," said Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle. "As soon as I read their stars, I tell them they should be here on Christmas Eve. It's just good karma."
"What time do we need to be here?" asked Codfish.
"Ten o'clock would be good," I answered. "We can warm up and go over the service. Now about dress rehearsal. I'd like to change it from Saturday afternoon at three to Saturday afternoon at two. All the instrumentalists can be here. Is that okay with everyone?"
"I think most of us were going to be here anyway. We're decorating," said Georgia. "Starting at noon."
"We'll plan on it," I said. "Now let's sing the entire cantata one time through, start to finish, no stopping."
"Including I Wonder as I Wander?" asked Phil.
"Sure," I said.
I began the prelude, covering the instrumental parts as best I could, giving the choir an idea of what would be in store for them when the players arrived. We pushed ahead and sang thr
ough the movements, ending with the carol.
When we finished, a hush fell over the church. No choir member said anything and I could see more than a few glistening eyes. They got up, one by one, and in silence, made their way down the stairs and out of the front doors into the cold, cold, starry night.
Chapter 16
On the Saturday before Christmas, St. Germaine was always packed, and this day was no exception. The hustle and bustle downtown was worthy of any Christmas movie ever staged. The decorations had come out in full force as soon as the Christmas crabbiness had stopped. We'd had some decorating going on previously—decorating the shops on the square was, after all, a town ordinance—but folks had been chintzy. A wreath here, a sad strand of cheap blinking lights there. Now the square was in full Christmas bloom. Lights abounded. Garlands, bows, ribbons, and ornaments were the order of the day. Even Noylene's wreaths made appearances here and there to great acclaim. The Rotary Club's Christmas Crèche was up in the park, the last performance scheduled for this evening. It was a beauty. A stable that would be the envy of any miniature chalet in Switzerland. If Joseph and Mary could have stayed in a stable like this, they wouldn't have been so quick to head to Egypt. Kids were gathered around the stalls, enjoying the farm animals that Seymour Krebbs was always happy to provide and supervise on the last Saturday. A Christmas petting zoo, and it was full, animals and children.
We spent the morning in the town, Nancy, Dave, and I, making our police presence known, although it was hardly necessary. Nancy had to have stern words with a woman who wanted to take a picture of her son sitting on Jeremiah the donkey. When Dave caught a boy eating a candy cane he hadn't paid for, Dave shook his finger sternly at the lad, tousled his hair, and gave the shopkeeper a quarter.
"Dave," said Nancy, "did you just tousle that lad's hair? Tousle?"
"Why, yes," said Dave proudly. "I believe I did."
"Holy smokes," said Nancy. "I think I'm in Bedford Falls."
Meg joined me for lunch in the park, even though it was cold. We enjoyed a thermos of homemade chicken soup and watched the festivities. There was a caroling group, dressed as Dickens characters, making their way around the square, stopping to sing at different shops. A group of teenagers in marching band uniforms were successfully hawking fund-raising candy bars. There was even a Santa Claus making his rounds. The scene was altogether charming.
At one o'clock, I headed to the church, as I felt I should probably make some attempt at preparation. The church was abuzz with people, decorating and preparing the sanctuary for Christmas. At 1:30 the choir began to arrive. At two o'clock, the choir loft was full, and the decorators began to disappear and leave us to our rehearsal.
I had decided not to play, but rather to conduct the small ensemble and the choir. Since there was an organ part, I'd called my friend from Lenoir to play. Edna Terra-Pocks had a Master's degree in organ from Yale and we'd gone over the piece beforehand. She'd also played at St. Barnabas for a number of months as a substitute and knew the organ well. I wasn't worried about her in the least.
I was worried about one of the bassoonists. Henry Iman played very well but had a propensity towards the bottle. If we could get him to the church, it shouldn't be a problem, as he played as well inebriated as the second bassoonist did sober. The trick was making sure he showed up, and showed up with his instrument. I put Marjorie in charge. Not only was she responsible for getting him to the rehearsal, but on Christmas Eve, she was to pick him up at six, take him to her house, and watch him until she brought him to church at 9:45 sharp.
The flute player was a friend of mine from Boone. She'd brought the clarinetist whom I didn't know, but whom she highly recommended. The oboist was Will Purser. Will was the acting teacher at Lees-McRae College in Banner Elk, but was also a fine double-reed player, handling both the oboe and the English horn parts. Five players plus the organ and me as conductor. With chairs, stands, instruments, and our expanded choir, it made for a packed choir loft. Still, after a few minutes of jostling and settling in, we were ready to begin.
In my experience, the first rehearsal with instruments (of any complex piece) is not going to go smoothly. This afternoon was no exception. I had a plan, though, and had met with the players once during the week. They had a good idea of the scope of the piece. The trick was getting the choir to find their entrances and pitches using timbres they weren't accustomed to. It didn't take long, and once the kinks were worked out, everything flowed pretty smoothly. We'd finished the fourth movement, the last that Bessie Baker had written, and I cut the choir off and had them take their seats. Edna, from the organ, looked at me and said, "Who did you say wrote this?"
"Bessie Baker," I said. "She was an English teacher. I'll fill you in later."
"This is...wow...beautiful," said Will Purser, the oboist.
"Are we going to sing the carol?" asked Nancy. "I Wonder as I Wander?"
"No. We're fine on that," I replied. "We'll concentrate on the movements with instruments."
There was a noise in the narthex, and we heard the double doors at the front of the church open, and then bang closed. A moment later Pauli Girl came down the center aisle pushing a wheelchair in front of her, and in that chair was Miss Bessie Baker. How Pauli Girl had talked her into coming to St. Barnabas, I didn't know.
The choir was silent as Pauli Girl rolled the chair all the way to the front steps of the chancel. Then, slowly, she spun the chair around so Miss Baker could see the choir. The old woman appeared much smaller from the balcony than I remembered her just a few days earlier: a small shriveled form bundled in several blankets.
Pete Moss stood up first and started applauding. Meg joined him immediately. It took a long moment for the rest of the choir to understand what was going on, but when they did, they were on their feet, clapping.
"Who is that?" asked Will.
"That's her," I said. "Bessie Baker."
"Wow," said Will, getting to his feet. "Brava!" he yelled.
"Brava," echoed the choir, as the sound swelled. A full five minutes later, the sound started to abate and the choir looked down at the composer in expectation.
"Let's sing it," I said. "Pick up your music."
* * *
It was as good a reading as any dress rehearsal could be. The instrumentalists were wonderfully sensitive. The choir sang as if they were possessed by Lutherans. There were a few bobbles to be sure, but my, what a performance. The fourth movement, in my opinion, was the most enchanting of all:
Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.
We sang the last line, heard the instruments finish as the sound of the choir died away, and then stood in silence, looking down at the old woman.
"Well?" she said. She was frail, but her voice still commanded the room.
The choir looked around at each other.
"Well, what?" I called down to her.
"Well, where's the rest?"
"I Wonder as I Wander?" I said. "We'd be happy to sing it for you."
"Good Lord, no!" she said loudly. "I hate that carol. Where's the rest of the piece?"
"That's all we have," I said. "That's where it ends. There is no more."
"You don't have the last movement?"
"That's all there is," I said.
She turned to Pauli Girl. "Take me home," she said in a hard voice.
"But Miss Baker," said Pauli Girl, "it's not their fault..."
"And you!" Bessie Baker pointed up at me. "I'll expect you at the nursing home in an hour."
* * *
I arrived at the Sunridge Assisted Living facility and was met by Pauli Girl when I entered the lobby.
"Miss Baker's really anxious," Pauli Girl said after I'd greeted her. "I've never seen her like this."
"Well,
let's go and talk to her."
Pauli Girl led the way down the dimly-lit hallway, then stopped and knocked on a nondescript door about halfway down the corridor.
"Come!" barked the voice from the other side.
Pauli Girl opened the door and stood aside as I went into the room ahead of her.
The room had a neatly made bed in one corner covered by a white chenille bedspread. On the opposite wall, there was an antique dresser, and on top of the dresser sat a small TV. Beside the TV, in a silver frame, was a picture of a smiling couple, probably taken sometime in the 1930s or '40s judging by the clothing. The young woman looking back into the room from behind the glass might have been—probably was—Bessie. The man was no one I recognized.
A large hand-made, braided rag rug lay on the floor next to the bed, covering most of the exposed floor area in the room. The parts that weren't covered by the rag rug revealed a worn industrial carpet of no discernible color.
There were two doors and a small window in the room. Pauli Girl was leaning against the door to the hallway where we'd just entered. Hanging on a second door, the door I presumed led to the bathroom, was an old bathrobe.
Bessie Baker was sitting in her wheelchair looking out the window, one hand holding back the tired, blue-checkered curtains. An old, metal Venetian blind had been rattled to the top of the window but was hanging askew. She glanced back at me after a moment and caught me checking out her apartment.
"You're late," she snapped, her disquietude apparent.
"Sorry," I replied. "I had to lock the church up. Put everything away..."
"Yes, yes. I'm sure you have any number of excuses." She waved a thin arm in my direction as if dismissing the notion that anything not directly related to her wants was of any interest. Then, suddenly, her demeanor changed. She took a deep breath, and visibly relaxed.
The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 9