Death in the Choir

by Lorraine V. Murray

  “OK, well maybe another time.” As she began fumbling with her seatbelt, he leaned across the seat and undid it for her. Then he quickly took her in his arms and planted a long, succulent kiss on her lips.

  Her heart started beating so quickly she was sure he could hear the knocking sounds. The voices in her head were suddenly silenced. Drawing back, he gently traced the outline of her lips with his finger.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Francesca. And I’ll definitely take a rain check on that coffee.”

  “Thank you. And, yes, we’ll have to…uh…yes, you can have a rain check.” She got out of the car quickly, surprised at the intensity of her reaction. He walked her to the door, and this time she kept her distance from him, bidding him a quick goodnight and then scurrying inside.

  As she locked the door behind her, she realized that she felt guilty. I still think of myself as married. Then she went to the kitchen for a glass of water and saw Tubs sitting by his bowl, staring at her. She gave him a generous supper and headed to bed. Her last thought as she fell asleep that night was: Definitely not gay.

  The next morning she arrived at St. Rita’s promptly at 9:30, since the choir always spent a half hour before the 10 a.m. Mass rehearsing the day’s psalm and the anthem. This morning she was particularly curious to see how Randall might react. Would he act warmly toward her, would he ignore her – or pretend nothing had happened? And she wondered if she’d be able to look at him without blushing.

  There was no choir rehearsal room at St. Rita’s, so the group rehearsed in the back of the church. As Francesca headed for her assigned seat in the alto section, the first person she saw was Patricia, who was draped over the organ with an almost possessive look in her eyes as she gazed at Randall.

  She’s wearing a rather low-cut blouse for church, Francesca noted darkly. And then she remembered her earlier resolution to be kinder to Patricia. I’m going to have to start with my thoughts.

  “You look lovely this morning,” she heard Randall say to Patricia and then Patricia giggled and seemed to puff up like a peacock. Francesca was surprised to feel a hot tide of jealousy surge from somewhere deep within her and settle in her throat.

  “Good morning, Randall, good morning, Patricia,” she said as nonchalantly as she could. Patricia barely looked at her, but Randall smiled.

  She took her seat next to Bertha Chumley, an obese cheery woman in her sixties whose clothes always seemed to need a more thorough washing. Today, she noticed, Bertha was abloom in an expansive flowery print dress with ruffles on the bodice and a skirt that looked like it might provide shelter for a small town. Once again, Francesca realized she was giving hospitality to unkind thoughts. Lord, she prayed, save me from my judgmental mind.

  Bertha looked at Francesca appraisingly. “Are you coming down with something? You’ve got a rash.”

  A rash! Francesca fumbled in her purse for her mirror and scrutinized herself frantically. Her face was covered in bright red splotches. Hives, something she had once been stricken with in college. When she’d left the house, there had been no sign. She quickly hurried downstairs to the ladies room, where she splashed her face with cold water and added a generous layer of foundation.

  While she was making her repairs, she heard someone talking out in the hall. The word “archbishop” floated through the door. Curious, she inched toward the door and stood listening. There was a small group gathered in the hall, talking about signing a petition to send to the archbishop.

  “We’ve put up with these problems long enough,” one man said angrily.

  Randall’s a fast worker, she thought, heading back upstairs. As she stepped into the sanctuary, she saw Father John being engulfed by a female parishioner. The woman planted a firm kiss on his cheek, leaving a scarlet imprint, and then squeezed his bicep appraisingly.

  “Oh, he’s such a darling priest,” the woman gushed to a friend standing nearby.

  Father John, whose face had turned the color of rare roast beef, nodded vaguely and then stuck his hand out to greet the next parishioner.

  “Let’s go over the psalm. Number 652 in your books,” Randall announced, as Francesca took her seat between Bertha and Rebecca.

  “My soul pines for you like a dry, weary land without water,” she read silently from the book. “On my bed at night I remember you.” Hmmm, rather a nice sentiment, she thought, glancing up at Randall, who seemed deeply engrossed in directing the men.

  “Guys, let’s speed it up a little,” he urged, as the tenors and basses sang through the first verse. “This is not a dirge. Let’s put some joy into it.”

  After the women practiced the psalm, it was time to run through the day’s anthem. There were only about ten minutes until Mass started, and Randall seemed nervous. There never was enough time on Sunday mornings.

  “Come on, folks, get out your music and get ready to sing.”

  The choir members all stood up. “What are we singing?” Bertha began shuffling through a nest of sheet music that she’d stuffed into an over-sized floral-print canvas sack.

  Randall took a deep breath before replying. “The same thing we practiced at rehearsal this past Thursday: ‘If Ye Love Me.’”

  As Bertha continued shuffling, he glanced meaningfully at his watch. “Everyone should have a copy,” he said through gritted teeth. Bertha continued riffling through her bag.

  “I wasn’t here, and I don’t have the music either,” came a nervous voice from the tenor section.

  With a dramatic sigh, Randall flipped through a folder and found extra copies of the music.

  “OK, folks, let’s give it a try.” He plunked out the opening notes on the organ.

  Suddenly Father John appeared at the choir director’s side. Francesca noticed that Randall’s eyes had a hunted look now. The priest fidgeted with a page in his hymnal.

  “Look, I don’t want the ‘Lamb of God’ sung in Latin today. Do it in English like the other churches in the archdiocese. The congregation won’t sing if it’s in Latin.”

  Randall didn’t say a word, but Francesca saw the muscles in his cheeks clenching. He had commented time and again to the choir that St. Rita’s parishioners refused to sing, no matter what language the songs were in. They enjoyed sitting snugly in their pews and listening to the choir.

  “Right, Father,” he said quietly, and the priest rushed away. Randall again pounded out the opening notes.

  “If ye love me, keep my commandments,” sang the choir. Randall stopped them dead at the end of the first line.

  “Someone in the soprano section is as flat as the proverbial pancake. If you cannot hit the notes, then please don’t sing.”

  Rebecca lightly poked Francesca in the ribs. “Guess who?”

  They went through the piece again. Patricia, Francesca noted, continued braying flat notes at top volume. Randall cast Patricia a dark look, but she apparently didn’t notice, since her eyes were glued to the music. Mass began promptly at 10 with the choir singing the opening hymn. When it was time for them to sing the psalm with men and women taking turns on the verses, one of the basses, new to the choir, accidentally sang with the women. His mistake prompted a look of unadulterated rage on Randall’s face. The man was elbowed quickly by the men near him and silenced.

  After he read the Gospel, Father William Snortland carefully adjusted the microphone, causing it to emit a string of embarrassing sounds that sent two teen-agers in the back of the church into a fit of hysterics. The main gist of his sermon was about keeping Advent holy. He mentioned the wheel of the liturgical year. He said that Advent and Lent were both times of preparation and penance. The wheel brought to Francesca’s mind the image of a hamster wheel with a little furry creature running on it. Ignatius, she thought, isn’t that the name of Father’s hamster? She tried to keep her mind on the thread of his sermon, but she couldn’t get the image of the hamster out of her head.

  Father William also mentioned a few words about the rules related to genuflecting. Many of St.
Rita’s parishioners, he said, were growing lax in following the Church’s dictates. Francesca remembered that last week he’d talked about the importance of dressing properly in church. Still, as she surveyed the congregation this morning, she noticed that many people were wearing blue jeans and sweatshirts.

  Fifteen minutes later, as Francesca tried to stem her tide of yawns, Father William ended his remarks. Next came the offertory prayers and the hymn, and then, before long, the congregation headed to the altar for Communion. After she had received Communion and completed her prayers, Francesca sat studying the line of parishioners waiting to receive the consecrated Host from the priest. She loved to see the way their expressions softened afterwards.

  When the choir stood up to sing the anthem, Francesca silently said a prayer that it would go well. She knew from past experience that her own actions could help prayers come true, so she decided to sing very softly and let Rebecca take the lead.

  “If ye love me, keep my commandments,” the choir sang, “and I will pray the Father, and he will send you another comforter.”

  Patricia seemed to be going out of her way to pronounce each “r” in spades, but at least she was hitting the notes. And then it happened. Just as the song was drawing to a climax, with the sopranos’ voices soaring delicately skyward with the words “That he may bide with you forever,” the organ emitted an unexpected, very loud noise. It sounded like a cross between a groan and a moo. In the ensuing shock, many of the choir members lost their places in the music. And although it seemed like an eternity, it was only two seconds before Randall leapt from behind the organ and directed the rest of the piece a cappella.

  When it was over, Rebecca whispered to Francesca, “Well, we butchered that one, didn’t we?”

  Randall wasn’t looking at the choir, Francesca noticed. That’s a bad sign, she thought. On the days when it went well, he lavished praise on them. But when there were mistakes, he usually grew silent and moody. Maybe I don’t want to get involved with a temperamental musician, Francesca reflected. I think I’d rather have someone more stable. But at that moment, Patricia rushed up to Randall and gave him a hug, and Francesca felt a surprisingly strong wave of jealously wash over her.

  “You were wonderful, but what happened to the organ?” Patricia queried in a loud voice.

  With what appeared to be a Herculean act of will, Randall replied quietly through clenched teeth, “I have no idea.”

  When Mass was over, as Francesca started gathering up her music, she glanced toward the back door, where she saw Father William being accosted by an angry parishioner.

  “Let me get this straight, Father,” the man growled. “If I genuflect wrong, that’s a sin. If I don’t dress right, that’s a sin. It looks like the church is filled with potential land mines. Wouldn’t it be safer for my soul if I just stayed home?”

  Just then, Francesca saw a little girl — who looked about four years old — running over to Father William, giggling. The child was carrying a wrinkled piece of construction paper on which there were pasted ragged cotton balls.

  “I made this for you,” she said.

  “It’s wonderful!” Father William exclaimed. He accepted the gift and held it as if it were a sacred manuscript from the early centuries of Christianity. Then he turned his attention back to the parishioner.

  “I certainly didn’t mean to imply that, well, that not genuflecting and dressing too casual were sins. What I meant to say was that…”

  But at that minute, the child interrupted him, tugging at his arm and pointing at the paper.

  “Those are LAMBS, Father, like the ones Jesus loves!”

  Both men looked at each other and then at the child, and Francesca saw them smile.

  “The lambs are wonderful! Thank you!” Father William said, reaching down to pat the child on her head.

  Then he extended his hand to the man, who was staring a bit sheepishly at the floor.

  “I’m very glad you’re here at Mass, and I hope to see you next week.”

  “You got it, Father. No worries. And, er, uh, well, I’m sorry if I was a little steamed.”

  Just then the child’s mother swooped down and retrieved her.

  “Come along, now, love,” the mother said. “We’re going to light a candle for granny.”

  The child took her mother’s hand and they rushed away.

  “Well, Father, you have a good week now,” the man said.

  Father William smiled and nodded. He looked down at the clumps of cotton on the paper.

  “You too.”

  *

  Father John came rushing down the aisle. I’m dying for a cigarette, he thought. I’ll give them up as soon as the stress around here dies down. After all, I’ll need my wits about me to handle the barrage of complaints that will probably result from William’s performance today.

  “Father John.” He heard his voice being called rather urgently by Randall. The priest stopped by the organ.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Father,” Randall said in a voice loud enough to startle the parishioners who were still kneeling in the pews, praying. “I warned you about the organ. It’s on its last legs. And the terrible noise it made today is just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Father John, his nerves frayed to the last thread, didn’t appreciate the temper tantrum. He leaned closer to Randall and looked him directly in the eyes.

  “As I told you the other night,” he said slowly and distinctly, “We can’t buy a new one now. So either accept the situation or figure out a way to raise the money.” And then he said something he regretted ten seconds later. “Or it might be time to find another job.”

  Chapter 4

  Francesca ladled a generous helping of punch into her glass and took a sip. Good, she thought, it’s spiked to a razor-sharp edge. She’d spent a few hours preparing for the choir get-together, starting with a long, coconut-scented soak in a bubble bath, while Tubs rested nearby on the bath mat. Still, she felt apprehensive about the gathering, and figured the punch would relax her.

  The choir rehearsal get-together, held each year to prepare for Christmas, followed a fairly predictable format. Thanks to Father William’s efforts, the choir had been made well aware that Advent was a time to prepare spiritually for Christmas, rather than to party, so there was a real effort to focus the get-togethers on the music. Everyone studiously avoided using the word “party,” but there was a thin line that sometimes was crossed. The evening opened with light appetizers and drinks, then moved on to rehearsal at the piano with more food and drinks to follow. Each year, the event was hosted by a volunteer from the choir who happened to have a piano at home. This year, Molly Flowers was the hostess.

  Sipping her punch, Francesca surveyed the room. She glanced surreptitiously at Randall, who was standing in the dining room talking with Thomas White, one of the tenors. They were known to lock horns on musical selections and she had seen them walking to their cars after choir practice, gesturing rather fervently about an apparent disagreement over choral matters she knew little about. Judging by the color of Randall’s face, she thought, he’s probably been dipping somewhat freely into the punch bowl.

  Patricia, her hair freshly streaked with golden highlights,

  was wearing a silky blouse and a snug black designer skirt, short enough to show off her well-toned calves. She was engulfed in her own private cloud of expensive cologne, and her fingernails were gleaming with a blood-red polish that precisely matched her lipstick. As she dipped the ladle into the punch bowl, she gave Francesca a frosty little smile.

  “I see you’ve done something different to your hair.”

  “Yes, a touch of henna.”

  “Hmmmm,” was all Patricia said.

  I’m not going to let her bother me. Francesca helped herself to cheese and crackers. She waved at Molly, who was in the kitchen, replenishing a tray of appetizers. When everyone had first arrived, Molly had given a brief tour of the modest two-bedroom house she’d r
ecently bought, happily pointing out the fireplace and polished hardwood floors. Her 18-pound orange tomcat, Otis, was now stalking through the room searching for cheese crumbs on the floor. Everyone gave him a wide berth, since Otis had a reputation for nipping people that annoyed him.

  Rebecca, arriving late, appeared to be in a gloomy mood. “Another loser blind date last night,” she confided to Francesca. “He turned out to be shorter than me, and he had one thing he wanted to talk about, which was golf.”

  Francesca gave her a hug. “Don’t get discouraged. You know how it goes: ‘You win some, you lose some…’

  Rebecca chimed in: “Yeah — and some bore you to death. But, seriously, my biological clock isn’t just ticking; it’s going into full alarm mode.”

  “Come on, folks, let’s get started,” Randall called out, and the choir members gathered near the piano, taking seats in the chairs Molly had arranged there.

  “Before we start, I have an announcement to make. Francesca Bibbo has agreed to be my assistant. So you can get in touch with her for things like sheet music, programs, and so forth. And if you are going to miss a rehearsal or a Sunday morning, please let her know.”

  Rebecca nudged her and whispered, “Let me know if he asks you to work overtime, OK?”

  The choir rehearsed for two hours, taking breaks only to replenish their drinks. There was a long list of music they had to practice for the upcoming Christmas Eve Mass. Randall seemed somehow subdued since his run-in with Father John, Francesca noted. Even when Thomas White and Gavin Stewart, the lead tenors, botched one of the easier pieces, he didn’t say a word. His mind was apparently elsewhere. Soon they had one piece left to rehearse – and it was then that Patricia dropped the bombshell.

  “Randall, when do I get to practice my solo?”

  There was an almost deafening silence in the soprano section.

  “Patricia has a solo?” Lily Santiago had a look of horror on her pretty face.