The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) (17 page)

* * *

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.

"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
?"