The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) (6 page)

Michael Baum, the organ builder, had thoughtfully provided me with a secret drawer in the organ bench where I hid my Glock 9. In the old days, I kept it handy for the choir rats that were always chewing on the wires. Now, since we had a brand-new, apparently rodent-proof church, I kept it for the tenors.

Bev Greene, Georgia Wester, and Meg came up the stairs and into the loft, one behind the other.

"Well," announced Georgia, "the sopranos are here." Georgia owned Eden Books and generally didn't sing with the choir except during the Advent/Christmas season.

"The good ones are here, anyway," grumbled Bev, just loud enough for me to hear. I assumed that Bev was referring not to all the missing sopranos, but to one in particular. Muffy LeMieux.

Muffy was a soprano whose vocal stylings, as well as her dress, tended toward the Nashvillian. She was determined to become a country star, and her signature look—stretch pants, cowboy boots, and tight angora sweaters in various colors—lent credence to her dream. She had dark red hair and pale, flawless skin. At least, that's how the men in the choir described it: flawless. The BRAs (back row altos) were less kind, characterizing her complexion as "well-camouflaged." Muffy was always followed, at not quite arm's length, by her husband Varmit. Varmit LeMieux ostensibly sang in the bass section, but everyone knew he was there to keep an eye on Muffy. There was some history there that we weren't privy to, and no one asked.

"I didn't mean Elaine," muttered Bev, obviously feeling a twinge of remorse. Bev Greene was our church administrator and had her hands full, what with our part-time supply priest beginning to give her grief about his wife's insurance benefits, and trying to keep tabs on Kimberly Walnut, our Director of Christian Formation. Kimberly Walnut had decided that Advent wasn't really fun for children, and had invited them to sing a Christian version of
Jingle Bells
in church on the Sunday after Thanksgiving during the Children's Moment. Preferring to take advantage of the Walmart Liturgical Calendar rather than the one we currently used, Kimberly Walnut had lined all the kids across the steps of the chancel, pointed at her Sunday School accompanist, Heather Frampton, and started the song. The first and second graders howled like banshees.

Christ is born, Christ is born, Christ is born today!

He was sent from heav'n above,

to take your sins away...HEY!

Angels sing, church bells ring, children laughing, too.

Celebrate the greatest gift,

from God straight down to you!

I noticed that the children especially enjoyed the
HEY!
part, emphasizing the word with "jazz hands" just as they'd been taught.

"Kimberly Walnut didn't say anything about this during the worship meeting," Bev growled, seated right behind me in the soprano section. "I asked her specifically what she was going to do at the Children's Moment. For heaven's sake! It's not even the first Sunday of Advent yet."

"I wouldn't know," I said. "As you remember, I skipped that meeting."

"Yes, I
do
remember!"

Kimberly Walnut took the solo verse, holding our state-of-the-art wireless microphone.

Long, long time ago, while we were still in sin,

God, He had a plan, to get His people in.

He sent a baby boy, and Jesus was His name.

And all that choose to welcome Him

Will never be the same!...OH!

"Christ is born, Christ is born, Christ is born today!" the children screamed over the piano.

"Oy veh!" said Bev, her head dropping into her hands.

"Take solace in the fact that you may be able to use this against her," I said. "Maybe."

The kids finished to polite applause and raced, pell-mell, back down the center aisle and out the back door to Children's Church. They'd be back for communion.

"I can't fire her," said Bev. "You know what the vestry said. No changes in staff until we get a full-time priest. And now, she's gaining support. Not with the parents so much. Mostly with the little old ladies."

"Well, you have to admit there are a whole lot more kids in Sunday School since she took over."

Bev nodded glumly. "Yeah. But I don't know if it's because of her or in spite of her. If she'd just check with me once in awhile..."

* * *

Meg followed Georgia and Bev across the loft to the soprano section, picked up her copy of the cantata, and sat down. "So," she said, "you decided to do it."

"Yep. It's Sydney or the bush."

"Huh?" said Georgia.

"You know...Sydney or the bush. Hollywood or bust. Banjo or the buzzard."

"I never understand a word you're saying," said Marjorie, reappearing from behind the pipe case with her flask.

"Never mind," I said. "We're doing it."

"Doing what?" asked Rebecca, coming in the stairwell door. She was followed in quick succession by Tiff St. James (my unpaid music intern from Appalachian State) and Elaine Hixon, another soprano. Rebecca and Tiff were altos.

"This cantata," I answered. "
La Chanson d'Adoration
. Christmas Eve. It's on your chairs."

"Huh," said Elaine, picking up the score by the edges and shaking it as if she was trying to extricate spiders from the pages. "I don't mean to sound crabby, but..."

"No more crabbiness," said Meg. "I proclaim a moratorium on griping."

"Can she do that?" asked Mark Wells. The basses had come into the loft as well and now there was a steady stream of choristers representing all the sections. We had twenty-two singers on the unofficial choir roster. I was hoping for twenty at rehearsal. I'd be happy with sixteen.

"Yes," I said. "I'm sure it's in our choir constitution, or bylaws, or whatever. The president may declare a moratorium on whatever she chooses."

"Yeah," said Rebecca, "but we don't
have
a president."

"I'd declare a moratorium on
this
," grumped Elaine, still holding the score at arm's length. "I don't like the way it feels. And look at how long the dang thing is. It must be a hundred pages."

"The number of pages is deceiving," I said. "You see, I didn't extract the vocal parts so we all have full scores..."

"I nominate Meg for choir president," crowed Marjorie. "All in favor?"

"No...wait..." said Meg.

"Aye," came the resounding cry.

"Opposed?" asked Meg hopefully.

No answer.

"Oh, that's just
great
!" she said.

"Okay, Madame President," said Elaine. "First order of business. If Hayden’s gonna make us sing this thing, let's talk about the Christmas party."

"Later," I said. "We have to rehearse. Pull out the anthem for Sunday.
Veni, Veni Emmanuel
by Zoltán Kodály."

"Zoltán?" said Fred May. "His name is Zoltán?" The rest of the basses—Bob Solomon, Phil Camp, and Steve DeMoss—had taken their seats in the back row. In front of them were the tenors: Marjorie, Randy Hatteberg, and Bert Coley. Bert was the best singer, having been in the Appalachian State Concert Choir when he was a student. Now he was a police officer in Boone, but still came and sang when he wasn't on duty. Randy was good. Marjorie was earnest.

In addition to Tiff St. James, the altos in attendance included Martha Hatteberg (Randy's wife), Rebecca, Tiff, and Sheila DeMoss. All were good singers and good sight-readers.

"Zoltán Kodály," I said. "Very famous Hungarian composer and pedagogue. You might remember him from music education. The Kodály Method?"

"Oh, sure," said Tiff. "I didn't know he wrote choral music, though."

"Hey, Tiff," said Fred, "where's Ian?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Tiff, her color rising slightly.

As if on cue, Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, came through the stairwell door, looked around the choir and made a beeline for the empty chair next to Tiff. Ian was a countertenor, a fine one actually, and had been supplementing our alto section since he'd become infatuated with Tiff St. James just before Halloween. Now, six weeks later, he was still on the prowl. Unfortunately for Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, Tiff was not interested. This wasn't surprising, really. Ian was twice Tiff's age and possibly one of the most unfortunate looking men in St. Germaine. It wasn't his protruding ears, his small, flat head, or his long, slightly red nose that made him so homely, but rather the cumulative effect of the whole. His dating persona wasn't helped by a rather irritating personality stemming (in Meg's opinion) from a PhD in musicology, a fascination with the unknown music of Guillaume Dufay (1397-1474), and the fashion sense God gave a badger. "For heaven's sake," Meg said. "He wears a cape! A fur-lined cape!"

"Good evening, Tiff," Ian said, sidling his choir chair three inches closer to Tiff's.

"Hi," muttered Tiff.

"Hey," said Marjorie, interrupting any further exchange. "This anthem is in Latin. I don't sing in Latin."

"Sure you do," said Bob from the bass section. "Think back. The
Little Organ Mass? O Vos Omnes? Ave Maris Stella?"

"Oh, you guys sang in Latin," said Marjorie, "but I was just making words up. If God had wanted us to sing in Latin, he wouldn't have given us uvulas."

* * *

Meg and I drove back to the house listening to John Rutter carols, a CD that had magically appeared in her car stereo. If we'd been in my old Chevy pickup, we'd be listening to my Leon Redbone
Christmas Island
album, since Meg had banned it from the house for the duration of the holidays. I'd left my truck parked in front of the police station. I'd hitch a ride with Meg back into town tomorrow morning in her Lexus. The heated leather seats made a big difference. The only thing that was heated in the '62 pickup was the exhaust pipe.