Death in the Choir

by Lorraine V. Murray

  If a man can’t have sex, he reflected sourly, at least allow him to smoke himself to death. Doctors shouldn’t be allowed to banish any simple pleasures from the lives of celibates. Sex. Oh, no, why did I even bring the word to consciousness? Now I’ll be pursued all day by images of voluptuous women striking lurid poses.

  He had entered the priesthood late, at age 45, after a series of failed relationships with women. In his twenties, he’d felt keenly drawn to the priesthood, but the notion of living without a woman had seemed an insurmountable obstacle. He had wanted a wife and family, and he couldn’t imagine himself living alone. But, as he’d neared 40, he’d faced the facts. The chances of finding a wife and having a family were growing increasingly dim, while his attraction to the priesthood seemed to be gaining steam.

  He knew that he was generally considered good-looking, maybe because he had a full head of black hair and dark green eyes. He’d had no problems attracting women in his twenties and thirties, but had been unable actually to sustain a romantic relationship. It was always the same scenario. The woman would demand more and more of his time, and he would find himself withdrawing. He needed a certain amount of solitude to keep his sanity. There would be recriminations, tearful accusations, and finally the inevitable break-up.

  He sighed. The irony was that now that he was a priest, everyone demanded his time. But of course it was different because he didn’t have to succumb to the emotional roller-coaster ride of romantic relationships. Plus, he was doing the work the Lord had called him to. But what he hadn’t realized, until he started wearing the white collar, was that women who would never have given him a second glance when he was a layman now found him attractive beyond belief. And there seemed to be some unspoken rule that spurred some women to hug and kiss priests until the poor men were driven to distraction.

  These same women, who’d never have dreamt of revealing the intimate details of their sex lives to, say, their medical doctor or even their best friend, also felt compelled to unload themselves to him in the confessional. One parishioner in particular came to mind because he had been unprepared to defend himself the first time she confessed.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began in a breathy voice. Then, before he could stop her, she had launched into a truly lascivious stream of details about her sex life that made him cringe with embarrassment. When she next showed up, he was ready to interrupt her the moment she began her description: “And then he pulled me closer and wrapped his arms around me, and…”

  “Just a moment, my dear.” He cleared his throat to stall for time. “There’s really no need to give all the details of your sins. Just a general, uh, sense of what is involved is fine.”

  This anonymous woman came to confession about twice monthly. She always hid behind the privacy screen, so he couldn’t see her face, and she seemed to be struggling primarily with the sins of the flesh. He thought of her privately as Lady Chatterly.

  If it weren’t for sex, he thought darkly, the confessional would be filled with cobwebs. In his estimation, one of the seven deadly sins – lust — was getting far too much air time in the 21st century. Envy, pride, gluttony, sloth, anger, and despair have just about been forgotten.

  Suddenly, the image of a cigarette with a beautifully glowing red tip loomed in Father John’s mind. His mouth was dry and tasted vile. Wondering if there might be a forgotten cigarette in the drawer of his bedside table, he hopefully rummaged through the pencils, coins, and holy cards. But he’d been very thorough with his earlier search-and-destroy mission. He started saying a “Hail, Mary,” which always calmed him.

  Then he sat up in bed with a start. There was someone – or something – in the hall right outside his door. A loud scratching sound assailed his ears, making him suddenly recall the rumor that had long circulated at St. Rita’s church. The rectory was said to be haunted. Supposedly the ghost of the church’s first pastor paced the halls now and again, although Father John had never encountered him, and certainly didn’t believe in ghosts. “The poor old pastor was probably so worked to death in life,” Father John was fond of saying, “that he wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of full retirement even after death.”

  The scratching sound stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Father John picked up his rosary beads. As he began praying, his mind strayed. He loved the priesthood, but sometimes he fantasized about cloning himself. With the number of Catholic priests dwindling to an alarmingly small number, a pastor’s list of duties could be overwhelming. There were funerals, weddings, and baptisms, in addition to visiting the sick and hearing confessions. Many parishioners were of the opinion that if the Vatican would just change the celibacy requirement, the priesthood would again flourish. But he disagreed. It seemed to him that the worldly lure of having a well-paying job with all the trimmings might play a bigger part in keeping men out of God’s vineyard than the celibacy rule.

  The vineyard. That reminds me: I’m also supposed to cut down on my drinking. Either that or find a new doctor.

  The scratching noise started up again. Whatever it was, it was drawing nearer and nearer to his room. Suddenly the image of a drooling satanic being, complete with horns and hoofs, galloped into his mind. He was sure he detected a sudden chill in the room, even though the heat was on full force.

  He continued praying the rosary, and soon the noise stopped. It would be just his luck to be visited by an apparition of the devil, when thousands of others in the nearby town of Conyers were claiming they’d seen the Blessed Virgin Mary. And since sites where Mary was presumed to have appeared tended to attract millions of religious seekers a year, he had to wonder: Would a site rumored to be darkened by the presence of the Evil One attract hordes of perverse pilgrims?

  The door to his room now shuddered, and the scrabbling noise grew louder. Silence emanated from the assistant pastor’s room down the hall. Father John realized he’d have to deal with the situation himself. That’s the way it always is, he reflected bitterly. If there’s a dragon, get the pastor to slay it.

  “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have mercy on me,” he prayed, while crossing himself and reaching for the crucifix next to the alarm clock. Next he grabbed his bathrobe from the floor and wrapped it around him.

  “May the forces of Heaven prevail against the powers of darkness,” he implored, throwing open the door.

  A black blur leapt at him, nearly knocking him to the floor. He caught himself just in time, sinking down on his knees. He shut his eyes as his face was covered with moisture and a rank odor filled the room. Time to face the demon, he thought. Still clutching the crucifix, he opened his eyes.

  “Spot!”

  The big drooling mongrel was sitting inches away from him, expelling clouds of bad breath into his face. “You’re supposed to stay downstairs. How in blazes did you get up here?”

  The ungainly mutt had shown up about a week ago on the rectory steps with a small nametag dangling from his leather collar. The word “Spot” was engraved on the tag, although the animal was solid black. Spot was still teething and, judging by the hunk of wood lying on the carpet inches from his gaping mouth, he had recently ripped off a piece of molding to munch on. Spot panted, his tail wagging joyfully.

  “Bad dog, Spot! You know you’re not supposed to chew on the walls.”

  But then the humor of the situation struck him as he lay back on the floor with Spot’s face inches away and the dog’s wet nose glistening in the morning light. As the priest started laughing, Spot eagerly nosed him under the chin. Father John stood up and brushed bits of dust from his clothing.

  “Let’s get you some breakfast, boy. It is going to take divine inspiration to find a way to stop you from eating the rectory, piece by piece.”

  As he started downstairs, Father John heard the sounds of the computer keyboard emanating from the assistant pastor’s room. William’s getting an early start on his homily. Then he blanched. “Homily,” he thought crossly, it sounds so frilly. Why
can’t we just say “sermon” like we used to? It was hard for him to swallow all the changes the Church had gone through in the 1960s. After all, Christ didn’t give the “Homily on the Mount.”

  The clicking sounds sped up. William must be on a roll. I just hope this week’s gem doesn’t alienate as many people as last week.

  He was fond of Father William Snortland, who was 30 and a newly ordained priest. Father John knew the young man rose in the dark each day to work on sermons that would be, in the young priest’s estimation, inspiring, educational, and reflective. He was a pudgy, balding man with a trusting expression that matched his childlike faith. And he was known at St. Rita’s for responding with deep love and compassion to the sick and dying. Father John sighed again. There was really only one big problem. According to many parishioners, sermons were Father William’s Achilles’ heel.

  Although Father William dutifully spent hours in preparation, he somehow managed to annoy the majority of his listeners when he stood up to preach. One Sunday, Father William had mentioned that animals definitely didn’t go to heaven. His statement had prompted a flurry of e-mails to Father John from all the animal lovers in the parish. Another time, he had suggested that spending too much time at the gym could be a sign of vanity, and therefore a sin. The joggers, bicyclists, and weight lifters had headed to their computers that time.

  *

  Down the hall, Father William yawned widely. Today he was outlining the various ways that parishioners could prepare themselves for Christmas. There are far too many parties during Advent, he reflected. People should wait to celebrate on Christmas Day.

  As he deleted a few lines, and then inserted a nice quote from St. Augustine, he glanced across the room, where he was met by a pair of dark-brown beady eyes. His hamster, Ignatius, had been running on the wheel most of the night and now seemed ready for a treat. Father William reached into a nearby bag of sunflower seeds and handed a few to the little animal, who sequestered them in his cheeks for later.

  The wheel, that’s it! he thought. I’ll mention the wheel of the liturgical year and the relationship between Advent and Lent.

  *

  In the kitchen downstairs, with Spot watching his every move, Father John started the coffee and threw two pieces of bread into the toaster. It was too early for the cook to show up, and he was glad. He needed some time to pray in silence. As the scent of coffee started to fill the room, his craving for a cigarette skyrocketed. He opened a can of food for Spot, and then sat down at the rather rickety kitchen table, where he read morning prayers from a small, well-worn book.

  “Come let us worship the Lord with joy.” As he poured himself a cup of coffee, he heard strains of organ music drifting over from the church.

  Barely six o’clock. Randall’s also getting an early start today.

  He frowned. It hadn’t been easy telling Randall there was no money to buy a new organ. But he’d learned over the years that if he said “yes” to every parishioner’s request, St. Rita’s would soon be bankrupt.

  *

  An hour later, Randall was still at the organ. Music was the only thing that blocked out his troubles. He had come to St. Rita’s eager to bring dignified, beautiful music to the congregation. It wasn’t just altruism; music kept him from dying of boredom in his accounting job.

  “Call to Remembrance” could be a really beautiful piece of choral music, he reflected, if the choir just had the manpower to pull it off.

  “Remember not the sins and offenses of my youth,” he sang under his breath. In his estimation, the problem with an all-volunteer choir was that only some of the members could sing worth a damn. He’d tried his best to shame away the lousy singers with very broad and sarcastic hints, but it didn’t always work. He stopped playing. How am I going to rein in Patricia? Why did I promise her that solo at Christmas?

  At the time, he recalled, he’d hoped to get a start-up donation toward the organ fund. Surely that would be worth it. Maybe it looked like he was compromising his principles, but he was doing it for the good of the whole congregation. At that moment, as if on cue, the organ let out a bleat that he privately thought of as its dying moose call. Frustrated, he jiggled a few of the stops and tried the measure again.

  Better this time, he thought, but who knows when it will happen again?

  Absently, he reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a white pill. For his nerves, the doctor had said, and to keep anxiety and depression at bay. He picked up the cup of water nearby. He usually had trouble swallowing pills, but he had cut this one in half earlier, so it went down easily.

  *

  A few miles away, Francesca was dismally surveying the contents of her closet.

  Why in the world did I agree to a date? I’m really not ready. Oh, aren’t you, answered another voice in her head, then why did you join the choir in the first place? Wasn’t it to meet men?

  She sometimes wondered if everyone had a series of voices in their heads that seemed to hold conversations of their own. Whenever she read about saints heeding the voice of God, she wondered how they could tell which voice it was. She pulled out a purple sweater and a black skirt from the closet. With some silver earrings and a silver necklace, she’d look fine. Keep it simple, she reminded herself. And maybe if she skipped lunch, she’d feel less guilty about eating Italian food tonight.

  Sitting in the Italian restaurant that evening, Francesca wondered why she had gone to such trouble. She had dressed carefully, surveying herself countless times in her full-length mirror and wishing for the millionth time that she weighed less. She had also applied a coat of “Purple Passion” lipstick, chuckling again at the name.

  The restaurant was cozy enough with tiny tables lit by candles and swathed in snowy linen cloths, but at first Randall seemed ill at ease.

  Maybe he really isn’t interested in women, she worried – or he’s trying to butter me up for a contribution to the organ fund – or both. Oh, why can’t I just relax and enjoy myself?

  As they began eating their appetizers, Randall, much to her relief, never broached the topic of money. And after he had poured them each a glass of wine, he started to relax. He looked at her earnestly.

  “You know, I sometimes wonder if I’m totally insane, spending as much time as I do on the music for St. Rita’s. I mean, do you think people really care whether they sing one of the grand old hymns like ‘Holy God, We Praise Thy Name’ or something like ‘We Are Many Parts’ by whatshisname…that Marty guy?”

  She laughed. “I think I remember singing that one at a church I went to in Florida. Doesn’t it have lyrics that go, ‘We are many parts. We are all one body?’”

  “That’s it! That’s the very tune.” Now he began to sing, and she joined in: “May the Spirit of love make us one indeed.”

  He took a sip of wine. “It’s revolting, but very popular. Songs like that are making big money, even though they’re incredibly trite. And, frankly, they remind me of some of the hippie stuff from the sixties!”

  He paused to refill their glasses from the carafe on the table. He comes to life when he talks about music, she thought. He’s really fun. But when the entrees arrived, he ate silently, looking pensive. She downed three glasses of Chianti and ate every bite of manicotti. Once their plates were removed, he cleared his throat in a particularly officious way. And then, much to her horror, he extracted a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “These are my ideas for the organ fundraising drive. What do you think? Would this letter inspire someone to contribute?”

  She looked the letter over quickly. He’s outlined the costs and explained the benefits, she thought. He’s certainly made it look like a worthy cause.

  “Well done,” she smiled, and he brightened considerably. Then there was a long pause as the waitress brought desserts. At the precise moment that her fork shattered the tender shell of the cannolli, he leaned a bit closer to her.

  “Would my words inspire you personally to, uh, contrib
ute?”

  She dabbed at her lips with the linen napkin. “I, er, think so. If I had the money, that is…”

  “That’s good to know.” Now he folded his dinner napkin carefully by his plate. “Look, don’t get the wrong idea. I just wanted your advice on the letter; I’m not hitting you up for money. And to tell you the truth, I really hate going after money at all. But I want the music at Mass to be really good — and that organ…” His voice trailed off.

  “Please, Randall, you don’t have to explain. I think what you’re doing – trying to raise money —which I know you hate – well, it’s rather noble in a way.”

  He raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated double-take. “Noble? What on earth do you mean?”

  She could feel the blood warming her cheeks. Am I making a total fool of myself here? But she had to tell him how she felt.

  “You’re doing it for the good of the congregation. You’re doing it so the music at Mass will be the best quality. So…I guess I see that as noble.”

  He smiled at her. “Listen, don’t nominate me for sainthood. Let’s face it: I have some selfish motives here. Every choir director wants the latest and greatest instruments.”

  “More coffee?” The waitress’ tone of voice indicated dread. Francesca glanced around and realized she and Randall were the only diners left. The waitress clearly wanted to go home.

  “No, thanks,” Randall said. “Just the bill will be fine.”

  They drove in silence back to her house. As he parked the car, she asked, “Do you want to come in for another cup of coffee or an after-dinner drink?”

  “That sounds wonderful, it really does, but I have to get up early tomorrow to get ready for Mass.”

  Oh, Lord, I hope I don’t look too disappointed. It’s not that I want a relationship with him, but I would love to feel attractive – and desirable – again. The other voice chimed in quickly: Shut up! Don’t make this into a big dramatic event. He turned down coffee, not a marriage proposal.