The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) (18 page)

"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 you 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 Ivy
ed 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 her 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."