The Bass Wore Scales (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 10

  “We’ve decided to move the wedding up to June! This month! We’re so excited, aren’t we Snookie-Pie?”

  We all looked at Corporal Snookie-Pie for a verbal affirmation, but he had a mouth full of cake, so he just nodded, smiled and kept eating.

  “Dave and I are getting married at New Fellowship Baptist Church. Brother Kilroy will be doing the service. You’re all invited.” She looked around the Slab and fixed her gaze on the ten or so customers populating the tables on the other side of the restaurant. “Y’all, too,” she said with a smile. “All y’all are invited.”

  Bud came out of the kitchen and up to the table.

  “Hi, Miss Farthing. Pete said you wanted to see me.”

  “Hi Bud. I wonder if you can suggest a couple of special wines that will go with whatever Hayden is planning on cooking for me.” Meg looked over at me and gave me her nicest smile.

  “Well, sure,” said Bud. “What will you be having to eat?”

  Meg’s eyebrows went up. “Well, let’s just find out, shall we?”

  Yes,” I said, “supper. I’m thinking that on Friday we’ll probably begin with an onion tart, followed by an entree of seared scallops in a light tomato-plum sauce. I hadn’t planned any dessert, but, now that I think about it, some baked D’Anjou pears would be nice.”

  I looked over at Meg and Nancy. Both their mouths were hanging open. I smiled at them and pulled out my pad to take notes. Bud was always thorough.

  “Onions are really diverse and can be enjoyed with white and red wine,” began Bud. “If you’re using Vidalia onions you should choose a white with a more flinty tone like a Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. ‘Cause Vidalias are sweeter. A Chardonnay from Washington or Central Coast would be just perfect. I would ordinarily choose a white over a red, but a Beaujolais Villoiage from George Duboeuf or a Chianti Classico from Fonterutoli would also match very nice.”

  I nodded and jotted down this info. “Beaujolais Villoiage…George DuBoeuf…Chianti Classico.”

  “For the main course, if you’re having a red with the appetizer, I’d go with a New Zealand Sauvinon Blanc or a light, crisp, clean Pinot Grigio.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Now for the pears.” Bud stopped and thought for a moment. “Robert Mondavi is growing a delicious Moscato D’Oro. Also the vineyards from Martinelli are producing a tremendous Muscato. Those wines are rather powerful in acidity and have high levels of residual sugar. The flavors are full of pear, apricot, melon and honeysuckle. It would be a great match with this dessert. Also a sparkling wine or a glass of Champagne would be delicious.”

  “What do you think?” I asked Meg. “Champagne or a Moscato D’Oro?”

  “I…uh…” said Meg, now at a loss for words. She hadn’t planned on this. She’d been trying to catch me unprepared. I, on the other hand, had been planning for days.

  “Champagne it is,” I said, snapping my pad shut. “That settles it then. Thank you, Bud.”

  “No problem,” said Bud. “I’m happy to help.” He turned and walked back to the kitchen.

  “That boy never fails to amaze,” said Nancy. She looked at me. “You, too! Seared scallops in tomato-plum sauce? Where did you learn that?”

  “Oh, here and there. I can be quite a cook when I get motivated.”

  “That’s news to me,” said Meg.

  “News to us all,” added Dave.

  “Speaking of news,” said Noylene. “I’ve got some news, as well.”

  “This morning is just getting better and better,” I said.

  “Y’all know that me and Wormy been seeing a lot of each other. Well, Wormy’s going to open his cemetery in the fall, and I’m going to help him. I got some business experience since I opened the Beautifery—more’n Wormy anyway.”

  “That’s great,” said Meg. “I’m sure you both will do very well.”

  “Oh, that ain’t the news,” said Noylene, with a big smile. “The news is that Wormy and me’s getting married, too. I’m keeping my professional name, but I may hyphenate for formal occasions. Noylene Fabergé-DuPont.”

  “Umm, Noylene,” Pete said. “Aren’t you and Wormy first cousins?”

  “Well, sure. Is that a problem?”

  “Not in North Carolina,” I said. “Not in North Carolina.”

  Chapter 9

  Betsy was a good time waiting for a bus. We headed over to a dive I knew for some dancing and then to the Possum ‘n Peasel for drinks. When I woke up the next morning, she was long gone--gone like the “Amens” on the end of some of those hymns, plagally content in their subdominant/dominant relationship until someone decided they weren’t theologically accurate and dumped ‘em as unceremoniously as I’d just been dumped by Betsy.

  I peeled myself off the floor of the bar, staggered to my feet, looked around the P ‘n P, brushed the cigar butts out of my hair, and decided that the next time a Methodist Minister challenged me to a vodka-drinking contest I wouldn’t wear suede shoes. My head hurt the way your tongue hurts when you accidentally staple it to your tax return.

  I headed back to the office. I still didn’t know anything. I was supposed to find out who Fishy Jim was seeing on the sly, but this whole case stunk like a dead woodchuck wrapped in chicken skins lying in the backseat of a car. Which reminded me…

  * * *

  “This is very good writing,” said Marjorie from the tenor section. “I’m glad you’re still in fine form.”

  “Well, I need to keep in shape. I have a contest to win.” I smiled over at Meg and Elaine.

  This was my first choir rehearsal since before Christmas, not counting the couple of times I had subbed after Agnes Day died. Bev told me that Henrietta Burbank would no longer be showing up for services. I’d come up to the choir loft earlier in the day, set the organ back up the way I liked it, and spent a few hours reacquainting myself with the fine old instrument. It was soon apparent to me that I’d have to put in more than a few hours. As Paderewski, the famous pianist, once said, “If I don’t practice for one day, I know it. If I don’t practice for two days, the critics know it. If I don’t practice for three days, everyone knows it.” Granted, I wasn’t in Paderewski’s league, and I didn’t practice every day anyway, but I’d been away long enough to notice a big difference. Still, I had some old standards under my fingers, and I’d rely on them until I was back in playing shape.

  “Okay choir,” I said. “I’m back. No more goofing off. And no more singing like pigs.”

  This brought snickers from the bass section. Sitting on the back row were the basses Fred, Bob, Mark and Phil. The tenors were a little thin, being anchored by Marjorie. Marjorie had been in the choir since God was a boy and had been singing in the men’s section since 1972. “I’m a tenor, dammit!” was her answer to any organist brave enough to question her choice of seats. Marjorie also kept a flask in her hymnal rack. None of us dared check to see what it contained. The back row altos (or BRAs as they preferred to be known) were the rowdiest section. Rebecca Watts had made herself at home in this moderately militant feminist organization and sat next to Martha Hatteberg. Also gracing the alto section was Tiff, our unpaid summer intern from Appalachian State. The sopranos included Meg, Elaine, and Georgia. Bev, who had decided she could sing in the choir as well as be the Parish Administrator, was in the soprano section as well. Everyone included, I counted twenty-two folks.

  “Are you saying we were singing like pigs?” asked Fred.

  “Yes,” I said. “Extremely porcinesque. They could hear the squealing all the way over at New Fellowship Baptist.”

  “Really?” said Elaine. “How could they hear us over their Electric Praise Team?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let us not cast aspersions. We need to learn the Psalm, an offertory anthem, a communion anthem and a hymn descant. And that’s just for this Sunday. Then we need to start looking ahead. We’ll start with some easy stuff. Get out the Tallis If Ye Love Me.”

  “May I be in this new story?” asked Elai
ne. “I want to be a Sultry Siren.”

  “I already have a Sultry Siren,” I said.

  “How about the Other Woman? Can I be the Other Woman?”

  “No,” I said. “Now, everyone, look at measure eight.”

  “I want to be in it, too,” interrupted Marjorie. “I want to be the Hard-Drinking Bus Station Restroom Attendant With The Heart Of Gold.”

  Everyone laughed, and my shoulders slumped. “Fine,” I said. “In the next one. If there is a next one.”

  “Dandy About Town,” said Mark Wells from the bass section. “I want to be the Dandy About Town.” There were more giggles from the sopranos. Dandy indeed. Mark hadn’t taken his baseball cap off since Reagan was in office.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  The Ginger Cat has good food, if a bit too health-conscious for my tastes, though the coffee is always excellent and reason enough to be a steady patron. The Bear and Brew, St. Germaine’s new pizza establishment and micro-brewery, has much to recommend it, including great pizza and many extraordinary beers on tap. But for theological discussion and Reuben sandwiches, there was only one place to go—The Slab Café.

  There was quite a convocation gathering. Noylene, Collette and Pete were in attendance, of course. Nancy and Dave as well as Meg, Brother Jimmy Kilroy and Rev. Francisco Garridos.

  “I think he’s saved,” said Noylene. “That’s what the Bible says and I believe it.”

  “It’s an interesting question,” said Pete. “Because, in order to be saved, wouldn’t Kokomo have to sin? He can’t be born into sin since, not being human, he wasn’t affected by the fall from grace. And he’s a gorilla. Gorilla’s can’t sin.”

  “Gorillas can sin if they know it’s wrong. Dr. Pelicane said that Kokomo tells lies sometimes. That’s a sin.”

  “A sin for us, maybe,” said Pete, “but I hardly think lying is a sin for a gorilla.”

  “What about lusting in his heart?” said Collette. “That’s sure a sin. And while you guys were asking him questions, he was looking at Noylene in that pink shirt and lusting in his heart. I saw it! I just didn’t want to say anything.”

  “Yes, I think we all saw it,” said Meg, with a laugh. “It was kind of hard to miss. And I thought that Pete was being especially courteous not to mention it.”

  “What? I missed it?” said Pete. “Dagnabbit! That would have been hilarious!”

  “What if he is saved?” said Nancy, weighing in. “Can a gorilla go to heaven? Are there any animals in heaven?”

  “There are no animals in heaven,” said Brother Kilroy, emphatically. “That’s a fact.”

  “You mean I won’t see my cat, Thumbelina, in heaven?” asked Collette. “I always thought I would.”

  “No pets,” said Brother Kilroy. “The Word of God is very clear. No animals in heaven.”

  “Not regular animals,” said Noylene. “But if Kokomo was saved, he could get in, I’ll bet.”

  “What about the other gorillas? What happens to them?” said Dave. “He doesn’t want to be the only gorilla in heaven. He’d have to hang around with the Seventh Day Adventists.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Rev. Garridos. “What are these Adventists?

  “It’s just one of Dave’s bad jokes,” said Nancy. “Pay no attention.”

  “Hey, I just thought of something,” said Pete. “Shouldn’t Kokomo get baptized? I thought you guys over at New Fellowship were big into baptizing?”

  Noylene and Collette both nodded. “We’ve thought of that,” said Noylene.

  “I’m still praying about it,” said Brother Kilroy. “I’ve been back to see Kokomo a couple of times. I’ll admit that he is one amazing ape.”

  “If you decide to do it, you’ll have to do it soon,” said Pete. “Kokomo and Dr. P. are leaving the day after tomorrow.”

  “Maybe you could get another audience with Kokomo and give him a quick sprinkling,” I suggested. “While he isn’t looking.”

  “Sprinkling!” Brother Kilroy snorted. “What good would that do, other than get you wet? Sprinkling ain’t nothin’ but the devil’s washtub.”

  Noylene traded glances with Collette but neither one said a word.

  * * *

  “Hey, Hayden! Did you hear about the race last Sunday?” Billy Hixon called to me from atop his riding mower as Moosey and I walked from Pete’s boat back to my truck after another unsuccessful morning at the lake. Hixon’s Lawn Care had the Mountainview Cemetery account and Billy spent a lot of time on the ten manicured acres.

  “No, I didn’t hear. How did our boy do?”

  “He came in eighth. That’s his first top-ten finish. He’s very excited!”

  “That’s great, I guess. How will that affect us?”

  “I imagine that we’ll have a lot of tourists come up for the next blessing.”

  “What do you mean, the next blessing?”

  “Junior wants to get the car blessed again. You know, drivers are very superstitious. He wants Benny Dawkins, too. He says ‘the more Holy Smoke the better.’”

  “Did anyone ask our new priest?”

  “I haven’t yet. I just talked to Junior’s crew chief this morning, and they’re on their way to Bristol so they’re going to stop by tomorrow. I’m going to call Gaylen when I get finished here. By the way,” he added, “did you catch him?”

  “Catch who?” I asked.

  “Old Spiney. I spent one whole summer after that fish. I saw him a couple of times. Never did get him though.”

  “You saw Old Spiney?” Moosey asked. “How big is he?”

  “He’s about this big,” said Billy holding his hands shoulder width apart. “Probably weighs fifteen or twenty pounds by now. Good luck now, y’hear?” Billy started up his mower, engaged the blades and zipped down one of the rows of tombstones, grass clippings flying.

  Chapter 10

  Meg, Pete and I walked across the freshly-mown lawn of Sterling Park toward St. Barnabas. This was the first overcast day we’d had for several weeks, but the clouds hadn’t dampened the spirits of the crowd gathered in front of the church. It was a repeat of the service two weeks ago, with a few exceptions. The bishop had been replaced by Rev. Weatherall (arrayed in her finest vestments), the number of television cameras had been cut by more than half (there were only two that I could see), and the crowd that numbered a couple of hundred at the first Blessing of the Racecar now looked to be closer to five hundred, most of them wearing purple with a whole lot of number 17s showing up on shirts and baseball caps.

  “Where did all the people come from?” I asked Pete. “Did you put another ad in the paper?”

  “No. They just all showed up. A top-ten finish will start bringing the fans out. They didn’t care much about Junior Jameson a few weeks ago, but he’s God’s Messenger now.”

  We watched Benny walk around the car, his thurible dancing on its chains, the smoke billowing around the car.

  “They came to watch the blessing?” asked Meg.

  “Yep,” answered Pete. “Then Junior will sign some autographs and head up to Bristol for the race. I’m thinking St. Barnabas is going to have quite a crowd on Sunday. The race isn’t until three o’clock, and every hotel and B and B are full all weekend. These people are probably not going to Bristol until after church.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Why do sales of Tide go up every time No. 32 wins a race? Who knows? Maybe they want the whole St. Barnabas experience.”

  We looked at the racecar and Junior Jameson standing proudly on the steps with Billy, Bev and Georgia. Gaylen was walking around the car with the olive branch, giving the blessing and sprinkling the car as the bishop had done. She finished and started heading up the steps when Junior came down and whispered something to her. She nodded, went back to the car and, when Junior removed the radiator cap, poured the rest of the water into the radiator.

  “Bless this car and grant that your servant Junior Jameson may use it in your servi
ce and for the good of this church and all your people. Amen,” said Gaylen, wrapping up the blessing. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” She turned and went back into the church followed by Billy, Bev, Georgia, and Benny. Junior, this time, stayed down by the car and started signing autographs.

  * * *

  Pete’s prediction was more than accurate. On Sunday morning, for the first time since Easter, St. Barnabas was packed. In fact, I didn’t remember the ushers putting chairs in the aisles on Easter, but they were certainly doing their best to accommodate the crowd on this particular morning. The St. Barnabas members all showed up to hear Gaylen Weatherall’s first sermon. The NASCAR crowd showed up to see what all the fuss was about and maybe pray Junior Jameson onto Victory Lane. Billy told me right before the service that he’d talked to Rev. Weatherall, and she’d agreed that, as long as racecar fever was raging, she’d be happy to include Junior Jameson and car number 17 in the Prayers of the People. “After all,” said Gaylen, “It’s our car. We might as well pray for it.”

  The only thing missing from the service was Benny Dawkins. We didn’t usually have incense on a Sunday morning—not unless it was a feast day—but after church, it was decided that Benny would be invited to smoke up the church every Sunday for a while; at least until the crowds abated. Gaylen’s sermon was very good, and the choir did well. There wasn’t a Children’s Moment, but the children were invited to process out behind the crucifer during the second hymn and go to Children’s Church. They’d rejoin their families after the offertory just before communion. All things considered, it was a fine start. Many of the NASCAR fans stayed for coffee hour after church and expressed their appreciation and their intent to come back soon. At least as soon as Junior got the racecar blessed again.

  “You should see the offering plates!” said Billy. “They were overflowing!”

  “That may be true,” said Carol Sterling, “but it’s going to take a lot of full offering plates to add up to sixteen million dollars.”