A New Song (43 page)

Man alive, that Casavant was blowing the roof off.

When the music ended, he felt tears on his cheeks. He waited a few moments.

“Morris?” he shouted.

“It’s you, Father.”

“Yes.”

There was a long, oddly comfortable silence.

“I’m going away for a few days and I came to say . . .” There was a sudden lump in his throat. “I came to say I think the music is . . .” The music is what? Moving? Powerful? How did critics manage to make a living with a language that must often fail them?

“Wonderful!” he shouted. Full of wonder! That was the best he could do for the moment.

“Perhaps you’d like to come in . . . and see the Casavant.”

Had he heard right? He wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “Why, yes, thank you, I’d like that.” His wife would be frantic, but this was an extraordinary invitation. He was stunned. . . .

“The door is open. Take the stairs. I’ll meet you on the landing.”

He bolted from the chair, careful not to stumble over the uprooted bricks that once paved the entranceway.

The heavy front door opened easily, and he stepped into a dimly lit foyer. The light appeared to come from a single bulb in a wall sconce, though a large chandelier loomed above his head.

There was definitely a musty smell, but everything looked clean and orderly. Ornately carved armchairs stood on either side of a heavy mirror in which he was startled to see himself. On the floor, a pattern of black and white tiles, and to the right, a curving stairwell and a vast, lighted oil painting on the high wall. The painting was of rolling countryside, somewhere in Europe, perhaps, with a church spire and a procession of people in a lane.

“Father.”

He looked toward the landing and saw Morris standing at the rail.

“Morris!”

“Come up.”

He went up, as if in a dream. There was absolutely no sense of reality about where he suddenly found himself. He knew only that he needed to be here, was supposed to be here. . . .

Morris held his hands behind his back, apparently declining a handshake, as Father Tim looked directly into his eyes. He noted Morris’s prominent forehead and the deep, vertical furrow between his heavy brows.

“You are not surprised,” Morris said flatly.

“No, not at all.”

“Come with me,” said his host.

He was surprised, however, to see that Morris walked with such difficulty. As if sensing his curiosity, Morris turned and said, “Spinal stenosis, aggravated by arthritis. It is not uncommon to my condition. We’re in here.” Morris stood aside so that he might enter first.

As he stepped over the threshold, he drew in his breath. There, in a room illumined by lamplight, stood the Casavant, regal beneath the rank of elaborately stenciled facade pipes. With its ornamented mahogany casework, he thought the organ possessed the aura of a great throne.

He might have gaped interminably, but turned his gaze to the room itself, which was paneled with walnut. His eyes moved along the intricately detailed dentil moldings and carved inlays, to the open window where Morris must stand when talking with him; it was free of draperies, with only a simple pelmet above, perhaps to enhance the acoustics of the room.

Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a bare, polished floor, velvet-covered chairs sagging with use, a love seat in a far corner . . .

“Beautiful!” he said, gawking unashamedly. Yet, a prison, nonetheless. He felt the awful weight of the room on his spirit, as if the only thing that ever stirred the air might be the music.

He sensed Morris’s eyes on him. “Thank you for asking me in. I’m grateful to be here.”

“My housekeeper comes every other day—Mamie has been with me since childhood—and my organ tuner comes as needed. I’m not completely without social intercourse.”

“I’m glad. It’s one of the things that keeps us soldiering on in this life.”

“We strive to keep up appearances in this part of the house, but the grounds are without hope. My grandfather planted a jungle. It cannot be beaten back, and we long ago gave up trying.”

Morris’s head suddenly wrenched toward his right shoulder, jerking in a manner that seemed uncontrollable. “Out!” he growled.
“Out!”

Father Tim walked to the organ, making a conscious effort to appear oblivious to what he’d just seen. “The pedals . . .”

“Yes,” said Morris, as the tic passed. “Casavant provided a second pedal board for me, elevated one position above the standard pedal board.

“I’ve considered what I might play for you . . . the Widor Toccata, perhaps. You may know that the Casavant is designed for French voicing. The company founders spent a great deal of time in France, and scaled the pipes to play French repertoire especially well.”

Morris slid stiffly onto the bench and pulled the chain of a green-shaded lamp over the keyboards. “You’ll find this piece quite vibrant. It demonstrates all the tonal colors of the instrument. Listen to the reed stops, if you will. They’re very distinctive, and altogether different from the more mellow English reed stops.”

Father Tim stood by the organ, enthralled.

“Please sit,” said Morris.

Father Tim hurried to a slipcovered armchair and sat, closing his eyes as the music began. Flashy and flamboyant, upbeat and positive, Widor made the hair stand up along his right arm and leg. Ah, the difference in being in the room with the music rather than sitting outside as a lowly trespasser!

The music so filled him with a nervous and exuberant energy that it flowed out at the climax as laughter.

“Wonderful!” Couldn’t he come up with something less tiresome, for heaven’s sake? “Marvelous! Bravo!”

Morris reflected for a moment. “And now, perhaps Bach’s Great Prelude and Fugue in G Minor. . . .”

As the fugue subject unfolded, he wondered, as he always did when he heard this favorite composition, how a theme in a minor key could express such confident joy and abiding faith. The music soared around the room like a bird set loose from its cage, causing his scalp to prickle.

“Thank you,” he said afterward, supremely happy.

Morris labored to rise from the bench, and stood by his instrument. “Thank you for listening, Father. You have an attentive and sympathetic ear.”

Father Tim rose from the chair, which gave off the faint odor of old tobacco. “How I wish you might share your gift with . . .” It was hardly out of his mouth before he knew he’d said the wrong thing.

Morris’s face grew hard. “Never speak of that again.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You have my word, I’ll never speak of it again.”

“The wine cellars were depleted years ago. I have nothing to offer you.”

“You’ve given me more than I could possibly wish. Thank you, Morris, thank you. I’ll go along, now. My dog will be furious that I’ve come without him.”

Morris did not smile. “I’ll walk you to the landing.”

At the landing, he had a sudden urge to throw his arms around the man, shake his hand, make the sign of the cross over him—something, anything, to express his deep feeling. “You’re faithfully in my prayers,” he said.

His host’s head jerked toward his shoulder. “Out!
Out!
”

Father Tim’s heart pounded as he moved quickly down the stairs, angry with himself for failing to say the right thing, for the terrible alarm those words always ignited in his breast.

In the foyer, he turned briefly to look at Morris, then opened the door of Nouvelle Chanson and stepped into the October night.

 

He went at a trot—down the dark driveway under a hidden moon, over the wall, across the street, through the gate, up the steps to the back porch, and into the kitchen, panting. She probably had that sheriff out searching for him. He dreaded facing her. How could he have been so thoughtless and insensitive?

“Is that you, dearest?” Cynthia came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “I hope you weren’t waiting for me on the porch all this time. I started a new illustration and, well, you know how it is, I forgot.” She looked at the kitchen clock. “Good heavens! Eight-thirty! I hope you haven’t felt neglected.”

“Oh, no, no! Don’t even mention it,” he said.

 

Jonathan was on antibiotics delivered from the pharmacy, and Cynthia would spend the day doctoring him for tomorrow’s journey to Mitford.

He rose at six a.m., dressed more warmly than usual, and set off for Mona’s.

It had definitely been a while since he’d had breakfast like he used to have at the Grill. It gave him a positive thrill to place his order.

“Two medium poached, whole wheat toast, hold the butter, and a side of grits.”

“Do you want coffee?” asked the shy waitress, whom he hadn’t seen before.

“The hard stuff, no cream, no sugar. Are you new?”

“Yessir, this is my first day. I’m kind of . . . nervous.”

“I certainly didn’t notice! I’m Father Kavanagh, glad to see you.”

“I’m Misty Summers. My name tag says Missy, they got it wrong and have to do it over. Glad to meet you.”

“Misty Summers! Now, there’s a name for you. Very pretty name.”

“Thank you,” she said, blushing. “Would you like water? I can get you filtered, Mona serves filtered to special customers, I’m sure you must be special.”

“Why on earth would you think so?”

“Your . . .” She indicated his neck. “You know.”

“Ah. My collar.”

“I’ve hardly ever met any Catholics.”

“I’m Episcopalian.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I’ll be right out with your water and your coffee.”

“Thank you,” he said, pleased to be here with a newspaper and the respite to read it. He really didn’t want to make the Dorchester trek, but intended to get this day behind him, no matter what. Besides, when he called last night to say Cynthia and the boy weren’t coming, Ella told him she was breaking out the damask tablecloth, which she hadn’t used since her mother died and all the neighbors brought food and sat with her.

“There you go!” said Misty, setting a steaming mug before him. She looked like a milkmaid from a storybook, he thought. No makeup, long, chestnut hair caught in a ponytail, and a simple skirt and blouse under the café’s signature green apron.

“Where are you from, Misty? Whitecap?”

“Oh, no, sir, Ocracoke. I just moved here two days ago, and was real blessed to get this job right off.”

“I’m sure you’ll do well. I believe you’ll like Whitecap.”

“Yessir,” she said, pouring his coffee. He couldn’t help but notice that her hand shook slightly.

“Try not to worry about getting everything right today,” he said.

She lifted her gaze and he noticed her eyes for the first time. Warm. Trusting.

“I’ll pray for you.”

“Thank you, I really appreciate it. We’ll have your order right out. Did you want ketchup?”

“Ketchup?”

“For your hash browns.”

“Hash browns?”

She clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, gosh, I forgot, you’re having grits!”

She fled to the kitchen, flustered.

As relaxed as if he had the whole day in which to do nothing, he opened his newspaper to the editorial page and settled happily into the green vinyl-covered seat of Mona’s rear booth.

“Look here!” said Roanoke.

“Look here what?”

“Your hair’s growed a good bit more’n I’d expect.”

“Olive oil,” said Father Tim, propped on the stool like a schoolboy.

“You rub olive oil on your head? I never heard of that one.”

“Eat a lot of it on salads.”

“Seems like God would’ve let a man have some say in where ’is hair grows, don’t it? I mean, here you got all this hangin’ down in back, an’ not that much on top.”

“Tell me about it.”

“They say we’ll prob’ly get a bad storm tonight,” said Roanoke.

“I’m running up to Dor’ster. I hope it holds off ’til I get back.”

“Temperature’s droppin’ pretty steady, too.”

There was Elmo, sitting in the doorway to the book room and scowling at him as if he were a mangy hound. “Yo, Elmo!” he said.

 

At 9:25, according to the clock over Ernie’s cash register, the entire room erupted into a bedlam of laughter, fish stories, and adrenaline-driven babble. He figured they wanted Ava and her sister to think this was a busy, prosperous enterprise, not some pokey little deal on a backwater island. Adding to the general vibration was the fact that Roger was nearly through burning, and would soon begin painting.

Father Tim had to admit that Junior was looking good. Instead of washing or ironing anything, however, he’d run across and bought new jeans, a shirt and jacket, and a new cap that read
Go, Bulls.

“I’d take that off,” said Roanoke.

“Why? She’s seen my pictures, she knows my hair’s a little . . . you know.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean she might not like th’ Bulls.”

Junior looked stubborn. “I don’t want to take it off,” he said. “It’s brand-new.”

“Yeah, but what if she likes Carolina? You’d sure wish you was wearin’ one that says
Go, Heels.
”

Glowering, Junior snatched the hat off his head and threw it in the corner.

“Now, don’t go upsettin’ him!” said Ernie, picking up the hat. “If you feel good wearin’ th’ thing, put it back on.”

Junior crammed the hat back on his head and sat stiffly, looking miserable.

“Tim, you ought to tell Junior how you caught that big yellowfin tuna, take everybody’s mind off—”

The screen door slammed as Ava Goodnight walked in and stared anxiously at the roomful of men.

The silence was sudden, complete, and absolute.

Ernie appeared turned to stone, Roanoke’s hand froze at his shirt pocket where he was reaching for a Marlboro, and Junior’s mouth was hanging open.