"I'm sorry," she said.
I glanced over at Pauli Girl, but there was no change of expression on her face.
"I called you here..." Bessie said. Then her voice softened. "I asked you here...to give you the last movement of the cantata."
"You have it?" I said.
"Yes, I have it. I finished it in early December of 1942. The choir director didn't want to include it."
"Well," I said, "that was a little close for a premiere."
She nodded. "Possibly. Anyway, I want you to have it. You can use it or not. I know it's late."
Bessie got up out of her chair and walked over to the dresser. She saw my look and said, "Oh, I can walk all right. I do have to use a cane. It's just easier at my age to have someone roll me around."
She opened one of the top drawers, rummaged around for a moment, and came out with a sheaf of pages, handwritten music notation on oversized, cream-colored paper. She walked across the room and handed it to me.
"Here it is."
I looked at the music, then back at Bessie. "Why wasn't it with the rest of the score?"
She pursed her lips, as if trying to find the right words. "I..." she started. "I didn't want..." She squared her shoulders and looked me right in the eye. "It was finished too late for the first performance. After Christmas... Well, I guess it never found its way into the score."
"Would you mind if I included it?" I asked, gently.
"It's up to you," she said.
"Well, I'll certainly see what we can do. I don't know for sure, but we might manage it."
Bessie nodded, but didn't say anything.
"Would you like to play through it for me?" I asked.
If this caught her by surprise, she recovered quickly. "I suppose I could do that. "
Pauli Girl pushed Bessie's wheelchair down to the lobby where the upright piano sat, unused, except for Bessie's occasional forays into her musical past. Pauli Girl pushed her up to the keyboard and I placed the score on the music stand. The old woman's fingers were less nimble than they'd been when she'd first composed it, but she played the piece very well. It was a solo. A solo for mezzo-soprano with English horn and organ: a delicious, sensual melody that, along with its haunting accompaniment, brought the entire cantata to its inevitable finish.
She played the last few measures, then let her fingers rest on the piano keys for a few moments before lifting them off the keyboard, and resting them in her lap.
"Wow!" said Pauli Girl.
"It's quite beautiful," I said. "And I wouldn't say that if it wasn't."
"I know you wouldn't," Bessie replied. "That's what I like about you, Hayden Konig."
"That's what you like?" I said with a laugh. "I didn't think you liked anything about me."
"You were a pretentious fool when you first came to St. Barnabas. All that Langlais organ music. The Jonathan Harvey Magnificat? I mean really!"
"Okay, I admit it. But I've gotten better, haven't I?"
"Yes, you have," Bessie said. "You're very good. I should have told you sooner."
"Thank you."
"And I'm deeply grateful that you've revived that old cantata. More than you can appreciate." She smiled. "I've never heard it, you know. Except in my head."
"It's been our pleasure. Do you think you might come to the church to hear the performance?"
"No," she replied. "No, I don't think I'd better. Doctor's orders..."
"I understand," I said. "I'll make sure we get a recording of the service and I'll bring it by on Monday." I suddenly remembered that Monday was the 25th. "A Christmas present," I said.
"I would like that," she said.
* * *
Pauli Girl stayed with Miss Bessie Baker, and I drove back into town, pondering the last movement of her cantata. It was what the work had been missing, and hearing it as she played it, I knew it for what it was. The perfect conclusion to an astonishing composition.
But it was all wrong.
Chapter 17
"I don't get it," I said to Meg. "It's right, but it's all wrong."
Meg and I sat at the Bear and Brew at one of the long tables. The Bear and Brew had an interesting past. It had begun its life as a feed store, been renovated into a great pizza and beer joint, burnt down by the wrath of the Almighty, and now rebuilt to its inglorious splendor using reclaimed, century-old barn wood. It was a concession that the insurance company had made to restore the character of the old place.
Pete and Cynthia sat across from us. Ruby, Meg's mother, joined us as well. Rhiza Walker had the chair at the end. I'd just told them the entire story of Bessie Baker and now I put the manuscript on the table.
"The music is perfect," I said. "But I think she got confused on the text. It's another Sara Teasdale poem, but maybe she's got the wrong one."
"Let me see," said Rhiza, reaching over and picking up the manuscript. She pulled out a pair of zebra-striped reading glasses and put them on the end of her nose.
Pete filled our glasses from the beer pitcher while Rhiza studied the score.
"I think you're right," she said.
"Why don't you read it to us?" suggested Meg.
Rhiza adjusted her reading glasses, and read:
Before you kissed me only winds of heaven
Had kissed me, and the tenderness of rain -
Now you have come, how can I care for kisses
Like theirs again?
I sought the sea, she sent her winds to meet me,
They surged about me singing of the south -
I turned my head away to keep still holy
Your kiss upon my mouth.
I am my love's and he is mine forever,
Sealed with a seal and safe forevermore -
Think you that I could let a beggar enter
Where a king stood before?
Rhiza put down the music and took off her glasses. "I'm not good at sight-reading scores," she admitted. "How does the music sound?"
"It's wonderful," I said. "I'm fairly sure this part was written too late to be included in the original premiere."
"When was it written?" asked Ruby. "Before Christmas?"
I nodded. "Yes. Bessie indicated that she finished it early in December."
"Then it's obvious," said Ruby.
"To you, maybe," said Pete. "Not to me."
"Me, either," said Rhiza.
"Ruby, if you keep solving these mysteries, I'll be putting you on the payroll," I said.
"Well?" said Meg, holding up both hands in a pleading gesture. "Well?"
Ruby savored the moment. "This last poem is called The Kiss," she said. "I remember it well from my youthful days of poetry and wine beneath the bough. There was this one time when this boy, his name was Herc Gabriel, took me out to Winnow's creek..."
"Hey!" said Cynthia. "Back to the poem."
"Fine," huffed Ruby. "If you don't want to hear about Winnow's Creek. It's perfectly clear. Sara Teasdale? The Song of Solomon?"
"Oh, my!" said Meg, understanding registering on her face.
"What?" said Pete.
"It's a love song," said Meg. "La Chanson d'Adoration is a love song."
"For Henry," said Ruby. "It was a love song for Henry."
* * *
"What do we do now?" I asked, once the pizza arrived. "It's a conundrum. Musically, this last movement is what the cantata needs. It's the way that she wrote it and it makes perfect musical sense. But with it, the whole thing is a love song. If we leave it off, there is certainly every argument to be made that it is, or could be, an Advent or even a Christmas piece."
"We could go ahead and finish with I Wonder as I Wander," suggested Pete. "You know, this revelation is last minute and all. No one would blame you."
"I don't think I can do that," I said.
"I don't think you can, either," said Meg. "I think Rhiza has to sing the last movement."
Rhiza's eyes widened. "I don't know..."
"Sure!" said Cynthia. "I've been sitting next to y
ou in the choir. You have a wonderful voice."
"You have to do it," said Meg.
"Agreed," said Pete.
I looked at Rhiza and she shrugged. "Let's make a copy of it at the church when we're done," she said. She pointed her finger at me. "Then you and I are going to go over it. If I'm going to sing it, I'd better learn it first."
Chapter 18
Sunday morning was windy, but not too cold. Christmas Eve. Meg and I drove down the mountain and into town, marveling at the natural beauty that surrounded us: pine and fir trees dotting the otherwise barren hills, frozen waterfalls shimmering on the rocks, even a black bear lumbering across the road ahead of the car. Meg's John Rutter Christmas CD was in her stereo and we Holly and Ivyed it all the way to church.
The morning service was good. The hymns were good, the choir was good, even the sermon was good. Father Ward Shavers had been rising to the occasion as of late. The church was full, but that was normal on any Sunday this close to Christmas. An even larger crowd was expected for the evening service. We sang Niles' Appalachian carol, praised the Lord, and everyone had coffee after and came away refreshed in the faith.
After church on Sunday, I spent an hour recopying the English horn and organ parts into something a bit more readable. Rhiza and Will, the English horn player, met me at the church at 9:30, a half-hour before the choir was due to arrive. Edna Terra-Pocks was already at the organ. Marjorie was upstairs, too, always early, and this night, very excited. She'd brought Henry the bassoon player with her and, by their laughter, it was obvious that they'd been to a few pre-service Christmas Eve soirees.
Rhiza sang through the final movement with the instruments accompanying her. When she finished, none of us said anything. Even Marjorie was silent.
"That's that last thing Bessie was talkin' about yesterday?" Marjorie said finally.
"That's it," I said.
"We're not singing that wandery song again, are we?"
"No, we're not," I said. "We are certainly not."
"Good," said Marjorie.
* * *
At ten o'clock the loft was full and the choir's excitement was palpable. It took several minutes to get them all into their seats, their music into their hands, and their mouths closed. I went over the music for the communion service, just so everyone knew what would be coming next, and then we turned our attention to the cantata.
"Are we singing I Wonder as I Wander?" asked Cynthia. "What's the verdict?"
"We have the final movement from Miss Baker," I announced, "so we're not singing the carol."
"I hope it's easy," said Bob. "We don't have a whole lot of time."
"It's a solo," I said.
"Really? A solo?" said Muffy, hopefully.
"Yep," I said. "Rhiza will be singing it accompanied by Will on the English horn, and Edna."
"Humph," said Muffy, obviously miffed.
"They've already rehearsed," I said. "Everyone will be seated after the fourth movement, and we'll listen to the ending with the congregation."
I hadn't quite finished my announcement when two unexpected figures appeared in the back of the choir loft, standing at the top of the staircase. One was Pauli Girl, and the other, leaning on her arm, was Miss Bessie Baker. I stopped talking and stillness filled the church. One by one, the choir members turned to follow my gaze, and as they did, they saw the old English teacher just inside the doorway.
Pauli Girl, obviously embarrassed at the sudden silence, said, "Miss Baker wanted to come up." She held one of Bessie's hands and her arm was around the fragile woman's shoulders, supporting her as best she could. Bob Solomon jumped up to help.
"Thank you, Robert," Bessie said, motioning him to sit down. "It's nice to see," she paused to catch her breath, "...that you finally learned some manners," she paused again, "...after all these years." She waved him away. "Take your seat. I'm fine."
But she was far from fine. Bessie Baker had made it up the stairs to the choir loft with Pauli Girl's help, but now she was white as a ghost, and struggling to catch her breath. She held up a frail hand, fingers splayed, and took a long moment, waiting for her discomfort to settle.
"I just want to say," she started, but then her voice caught in her throat. She coughed, and began again. "I just want to say that yesterday's rehearsal was the most moving performance I've ever heard. Not because the music is mine, although I am very proud of it, but because you all are performing it so beautifully. Thank you."
We all sat, dumbfounded.
Her tone changed. "I'll be listening in the back. Don't you dare give me any less than you did yesterday!"
"No, ma'am," said Pete.
Chapter 19
There had not been a Christmas Eve service like it in the history of St. Barnabas. Everyone said so. The cantata went as well as it ever had, maybe better. Father Shavers was at the top of his game. The choir sang, the congregation sang, we had communion, lit candles, and joined together singing Silent Night at the end. It was the service of everyone's collective memory, whether they owned that particular memory or not.
When the congregation finally left the church to make their way home, they were greeted by a breathtaking, snow-covered landscape. The flakes had started falling an hour earlier, and they were still coming down. The moon, full and bright, hung above the bare trees of Sterling Park and bounced her light off the alabaster landscape, illuminating the square in a soft, blue-white glow.
"It's beautiful," said Meg, hanging on to my arm as we surveyed the town square from the double doors of the church. "The service was beautiful, too." We walked down the steps and onto the snowy path. "The whole thing. Beautiful and wonderful. I won't ever forget it."
"I won't, either," I said.
Pauli Girl McCollough called to us from across the square. We waved and she came across the park, stepping carefully so as not to slip on some unseen snow-covered ice. She was wearing an old coat, one of Ardine's I thought, and had a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. We waited for her beside Meg's car.
"Merry Christmas!" Meg called to her when Pauli Girl was close enough to acknowledge her greeting. "Did you take Miss Baker back to the nursing home?"
Pauli Girl didn't answer, but walked up to us and threw herself into Meg's arms.
After several minutes, Meg gently pulled Pauli Girl away and looked into her eyes.
"She died," Pauli Girl sniffed. "We stayed and listened to the cantata; then I drove her back and we were sitting in her apartment talking. About fifteen minutes later, she just closed her eyes and stopped breathing. The doctor said that it was her heart."
"Oh," said Meg, obviously startled by the news. "I'm sorry."
"I was hoping she'd make it to Christmas, but she didn't."
"I didn't know she was that sick," I said.
"She never acted like it," said Pauli Girl. "But the doctor told me that he didn't think she had more than a couple of weeks, and that was back at Thanksgiving."
"Well, you took good care of her," I said.
"Know what? Right before she died, she smiled at me and said, 'thank you.' She never did that before."
"Just before midnight," said Meg. "We sang her cantata and she got to hear it. That's what she meant. That's what she thanked you for."
"I don't know if I'm cut out for this nursing stuff," sniffed Pauli Girl. "What if everybody that dies affects me like this?"
"Then you're doing your job," I said.
* * *
She found herself at the top of a mountain, her mountain, standing on the rocky promontory jutting out over the valley, a place she'd been hundreds of times. Snow blanketed the world and was still falling. She noticed that, although she was in her nightgown, she wasn't cold, and she'd been cold for so very long. She looked up at the moon, a shimmering sphere of silver, then let her gaze fall across the ranges that appeared as blue-green silhouettes of varying hues, row upon row, before disappearing into the smoke that gave the mountains their name. She was contemplating the scene beneath he
r when she felt a hand slide into hers.
"Hello, Henry," she said, without looking.
"Hi, Sweetpea. That was something, that music. I always knew you had it in you."
"It took so long," she said. "So many years." She turned to him and smiled. "I've missed you, Henry."
"I've missed you, too."
She was quiet for a minute, then looked back into space and said, "It was for you, you know. That cantata. It was your Christmas present. " She sighed and added softly, "But you never came to get it."
"I know it was, Bessie. A wonderful present. Thank you. I'm glad I got to hear it."
"I'm glad, too."
They stood and looked out over the clouds hanging in the hollows of the hills. A million remembrances raced through her consciousness, but disappeared as quickly as they came. Finally, when the images had passed, and her mind was quiet once more, there were the mountains. The mountains and the moon and the snow and the music—music surrounding her as she hadn't heard it since she was a girl.
It swelled and circled and swept over her like a wind. She closed her eyes and breathed it in.
"Are you ready to go?" he said finally.
"I'm ready."
He kissed her then. "Merry Christmas," he said.
"Merry Christmas."
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The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 10