Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines Read online

  “It’s twenty-eight degrees out,” I said. “How much use do you think we’ll get out of a convertible?”

  “Hmm,” said Meg. “Okay, how about a minivan?”

  “How about a four-wheel drive Suburban? We still have two months of winter to worry about.”

  “Only if the groundhog sees his shadow,” said Meg.

  I looked at her warily. “How did you know about the groundhog?”

  “What?” she said. “Groundhog Day? Everyone knows about Groundhog Day. It’s not a secret. If the groundhog see his shadow, six more weeks of winter.” She looked at me sideways. “What’s going on? Something’s up.”

  “Nothing’s up,” I said. “That’s what I meant. Groundhog Day.”

  Meg looked at me, but didn’t say anything.

  * * *

  At ten o’clock sharp, I walked up the stairs to join the choir. It was strangely quiet and I wondered if any of the singers had bothered to show up except Meg, who I knew was here. We had arrived at church at 9:45 and I had headed for the coffee pot in the kitchen, while Meg decided to go on upstairs and get settled. By the time I’d coffeed up and climbed the stairwell to the choir loft, I was met with quite a sight — eighteen choir members struggling to fasten ruffs to the collars of their choir robes. The Chevalier hadn’t waited for my introduction.

  A choir ruff is a conservative fashion statement to say the least, and has its roots firmly in the Elizabethan era. In the late nineteen and twentieth centuries though, ruffs had been relegated to church choirs, then finally, choristers: that is, boys and girls. I had never seen an adult choir wearing ruffs and I’d seen my share of choirs. That didn’t mean there weren’t any. I just hadn’t seen them. Now I had.

  Shakespearean ruffs could be twelve inches wide or even larger, but those fashion monstrosities, luckily, had been outlawed by Philip IV of Spain in 1643, or, no doubt, the Master of the Musik would have gone with something even larger than the eight-inch collar jutting from under the chins of the unfortunate singers. As it was, the choir looked as though their heads were all resting on giant, pleated, supper plates. If it would have been possible to hot-glue some vegetables around the edges, the choir could have auditioned for the Entrée Chorus in Donner Party — the Musical. Mark Wells turned to me with terror in his eyes. His graying beard scraggled across the top of the ruff like an old rat trying to escape down the front of his choir robe, held by it’s hind legs in a pitiless snare. “Help us,” Mark silently mouthed.

  I wanted to laugh. I might have laughed. Then Meg caught my eye and the laugh turned to ice in my throat. I’d seen that look before, so I stifled my mirth and sputtered, “Nice ruffs.” The choir was absolutely silent, and those who had managed to attach their own collars were helping those less fortunate. It was like watching a war movie where everyone knew they were about to die, but bravely accepted their fate and donned their uniforms for the last charge. There was nothing to be said. No final goodbyes, no speeches. Just the mute camaraderie that certain doom creates.

  “Nice ruffs, indeed,” said the Chevalier Lancelot Fleagle, his gelled and spiked hair standing at attention. He adjusted his glasses. “These are my own personal crinoline ruffs handmade in Holland. I carry them with me. Thirty of them.”

  Steve DeMoss, standing next to me, made a small, pitiful mewing sound.

  “It’s very difficult to find ruffs that will fit an adult choir,” said the Chevalier. “It’s especially difficult to find craftsmanship like this. This is handwoven Dutch crinoline — horsehair and linen. The horsehair gives them extra stiffness. They don’t even need to be starched, but I have it done anyway.”

  “They are something special,” I said. “Truly.”

  The choir, one by one, fastened their ruffs and sat down in their chairs, gingerly because now they had no vision below their chins no matter how they tilted their heads. They used their hands to find their seats, then lowered themselves gently onto the cushions.

  “There are two advantages to the choir ruff,” announced the Chevalier. “First, of course, is the obvious. Wearing a ruff, the choir considers itself to be professional and therefore conducts itself accordingly. Secondly, the singer is forced to hold his or her music at the correct angle and therefore keeps the organist in their field of vision.”

  Marjorie managed a guttural, “Gaaack,” as she tried to croak out a rebuttal.

  “Now, let’s sing.”

  The Chevalier played a five-note scale and ascended by half-steps as the choir tried to follow his lead. He changed the pattern every few minutes with no explanation, and the choir struggled to keep up. I had to take the blame for this. I usually warmed up the choir using a chorale that we all knew or had been working on. At Christmastime, Lo, How a Rose, in Lent, O Sacred Head, F. Melius Christiansen’s Lamb of God, that sort of thing. We’d do it in different keys and work the vowel sounds. There was no one way to do a choral warmup — other directors went up and down the scale and got beautiful results — but the choir just wasn’t used to it. The Chevalier had no patience with them and after about five minutes of ear-tearing scales, decided that the group would probably sound better if they didn’t warm up.

  “Choir,” he said, using a tone that implied that he had their confidence, ” we really have some work to do.”

  “Gaaack,” managed Marjorie.

  “I’ll need you all to come for a rehearsal tomorrow evening. I know it’s Monday, but we have a major performance on Wednesday and I’m busy on Tuesday, so Monday will have to do. Seven o’clock. It shouldn’t take more than two hours. You there …” He pointed at Marjorie sitting at the end of the tenor row. “You really don’t need to attend. You’re excused.”

  “Hang on!” said Meg. “You can’t just …”

  “I thought I made it clear,” barked the new director. “No talking!”

  He glared across the choir, but his stare was less than intimidating. Still, Meg’s mouth clamped shut.

  “Now to the anthem,” he said. Laudate Dominum by Charpentier.” He played the introduction, then stopped abruptly and said, “Dr. Burch?”

  Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, stood up and recited, “Marc-Antoine Charpentier, born 1643, died 1704. A French composer of the Baroque era, Charpentier was a prolific and versatile composer, producing music of the highest quality in several genres, including works for the stage in collaboration with Molière. His mastery in the composition of sacred vocal music was recognized and acknowledged by his contemporaries. If you’d like to learn more, please visit my website. www.ianburch.phd.com.”

  Ian sat down and offered Tiff St. James a greasy grin. Green teeth. I watched her shudder.

  “What a wonderful asset to the choir,” said the Chevalier, clapping his pudgy hands together in delight. “A true music historian. I bow my head to you, Dr. Burch.” Then he did just that with the fingers of one hand extended in a twirl of affected elegance.

  A moment later, and without warning, he started the introduction again. The choir had been stunned to silence, but managed to come in when the time came. Badly, and not all at the same time, but who could blame them? The Chevalier didn’t stop and regroup, now hearing what he’d expected to hear in the first place. He plowed straight through the piece throwing in Baroque ornamentation here and there, giving the little anthem a bit of pizzaz. He was a good organist, no doubt about that.

  Father Dressler appeared beside me, beaming. “He’s brilliant, isn’t he?”

  “He’s a fine player,” I agreed.

  “I’ve never heard better,” declared Father Dressler. “He and I are of one mind when it comes to the art of liturgy. We act as one.”

  The choir finished miserably, mangled the cutoff, and ground to a halt a few beats after the Chevalier had finished playing. He signed audibly and sarcastically, and said, “Yes choir, we certainly do have a lot of work to do.”

  Father Dressler said loudly, “We want to welcome the Chevalier here to St. Barnabas.” He started applauding wildly, and one by on
e, most the members of the choir halfheartedly joined him. Some didn’t. “Now remember,” said the priest, once he’d finished his ovation, “we will all genuflect this morning. Not only during the procession like last Sunday, but also when you come down for communion, which all of you forgot to do last week. Remember, you set the tone for the congregation. They will follow your lead. Stop, bow one knee, wait three beats, then rise and continue. If you need help, an usher will assist you. During the processional hymn, the Chevalier will be improvising between the verses and it may be mesmerizing to you. I implore you, don’t stop to listen! Please keep the procession moving.”

  The choir had no comment. I turned, walked back down the steps, chose a seat in the back of the sanctuary, and waited for the service to begin.

  * * *

  In my opinion, the highlight of the service, as it was whenever he took part, was Benny Dawkins’ display of the thurifutic arts. As a two-time world champion thurifer, he had complete command over his medium, and his medium was smoke. Benny carried his own thurible, and this incense pot was platinum, rather than the traditional gold. It hung from matching Figaro chains and was set with polished obsidian from Mount Vesuvius. This hand-made thurible had been presented to Benny by the Archbishop of Naples after he had brought the man to tears during an Epiphany service in which he had created a remarkably lifelike rendering of Botticelli’s Adoration of the Magi during the censing of the scriptures.

  Most of the thurifer’s display took place at the beginning of the service, during the processional, for it was here that the smoke-slinger could really shine, but Benny didn’t stop there. Yes, the processional was something to behold, and on this particular frigid morning on the last Sunday of January, Benny came down the aisle using his now-famous maneuver, St. Sebastien’s Revenge, arrows of smoke darting into the space between the congregants and leaping into the air before dissipating into nothingness. Then, when he had ascended the steps of the chancel and was standing before the altar, the thurible became a blur in his hands, and before us, hanging in the space between heaven and earth, was a traditional Shinto garden scene. Monochromatic waters moved gently across a serene lake, a waterfall tumbled in the distance, trees swayed in the peaceful breeze, then suddenly, two cranes leapt from the rushes with beating wings and ascended into the rafters. From where I was sitting, the intake of collective breaths from the congregation was audible, even over the music. A few moments later, the smoke dropped away, leaving the priest standing behind the altar, his hands raised in prayer, as if he had appeared by magic. The effect was breathtaking and we felt as though we were in the presence of holiness.

  This was Benny’s entrance and most thurifer’s bread and butter, but even more impressive was the censing of the altar during the Great Thanksgiving, that part of the service that leads us into communion. Most priests, at this point, will take the pot from the thurifer and swing it clumsily at the Eucharistic elements like they were trying to douse them with lighter fluid. To his credit, Father Dressler allowed Benny to do it.

  “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” Father Dressler said as two smoke signals rose slowly from the cloud surrounding the altar, looking like nothing much until they were ten feet above everyone’s heads, then morphing into two characters: the Alpha and the Omega. Then the Alpha character became a dove that swooped through the middle of the Omega, and winged its way heavenward.

  “Holy smokes!” I muttered, then smiled at my own joke. “Holy smokes …”

  * * *

  Moosey and Bernie performed admirably in their acolyting debut, nothing being set afire that wasn’t supposed to be. The choir wasn’t atrocious, although most of them found that kneeling and getting back up with a stiff choir ruff on was totally different from performing the same feat unruffled. Almost all of them needed help from the two ushers stationed on either side of the center aisle. Despite each member of the choir genuflecting, none of the congregation, including myself, followed suit.

  The communion anthem was worse than the offertory anthem, neither of them being particularly good, and the Psalm wasn’t their best effort either. The Chevalier didn’t bother to conduct with either a head-nod, a look, or the occasional a free hand. The choir would be able to handle his style eventually, but not at first blush.

  And, as was expected, Meg was fit to be tied.

  Chapter 25

  Pete, Meg, Cynthia, and I were sitting in the Slab on Monday morning having a cup of coffee. Meg was waiting for Bev to come in, then they were going down to Asheville to meet with some other investment folks about opening a branch of their nonprofit down in the big city. Pete was taking a break from cooking, and Cynthia wasn’t working tables this morning since it was her morning over at the courthouse.

  “Who hired this guy anyway?” asked Cynthia. “The priest, I mean. He sounds singularly awful.”

  “I was not on that committee,” said Meg. “I don’t remember who all it was, but Bev was on it, that’s for sure.”

  “Joyce Cooper, Mark Wells, Bob Solomon, me, and Georgia,” said Bev, appearing at the table. She pulled up a chair from an adjoining table and squeezed in. “Also Fred May and Francis Passaglio. We’re all meeting on Thursday. It’s the first time we can get together. An emergency meeting.”

  “I guess you all should start looking for a full-time rector sometime soon,” I said. “Like, maybe immediately.”

  “I guess,” said Bev, “but you know that Father Dressler has already been courting his minions: the dispossessed, disenfranchised, the unappreciated, the poor in spirit. He’s been at St. Barnabas two weeks and already has a claque. He’s garnering support for his application even before it’s been accepted. He’s told several people privately that they’ll be on the vestry within the year and then they can help him affect the changes that need to happen.”

  “How do you know that?” Meg asked.

  “Because Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle can’t keep her trap shut, bless her little blabbermouth’s heart. We’ve got to do something soon or it will be too late.”

  Meg and Bev both glared across the table and gave me the stinkeye.

  “Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’m on sabbatical.”

  “You’re the whole reason we’re in this mess,” said Bev. “If you were still in the choir loft, at least there would be some semblance of normality. You could ride herd till this guy blew out of here.”

  “You’re not blaming this on me,” I said. “This one’s on you.”

  Bev sighed. “I know. Can’t I just pretend it’s someone else’s fault?”

  “You can blame Pete, I guess,” I said.

  “Sure,” said Pete. “Why not?”

  “I’m so mad I could just spit,” said Meg. “You know, he just came right out and fired Marjorie. She’s been in the choir since Abraham was in knee pants!”

  Cynthia laughed. “What did you just say?”

  Meg put her head down on the table. “I know! I’m so upset, I’m using my mother’s expressions!”

  “There’s a big rehearsal tonight,” I said to Pete and Cynthia. “It could even get worse.”

  “I’m sure it will,” moaned Meg.

  “I’m thinking about not going,” said Bev. “Maybe it’s time we all took sabbaticals.”

  “You could,” I said, “but that’s probably what the Chevalier wants. Then he’ll go over to the university, hire a bunch of ringers using the music fund money, and run the rest of you volunteers out of there.”

  “What?” said Bev. “Over my dead body! This is our choir!”

  “You want something to eat?” Noylene asked, putting down a clean place setting and coffee cup in front of Bev. “Or are you just taking up space like the rest of ‘em?”

  “Just taking up space, thanks,” said Bev, “but I would like some coffee.”

  “‘Course you would,” grumbled Noylene.

  “What wrong, honey?” Meg said to her. “You are way out of sorts this morning.”

  “It’s Hog,
” she said. “He’s making me crazy. I gotta go over to Boone and get him some medicine. And, of course, I gotta go this morning. It can’t wait till tomorrow!”

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” said Meg.

  “Not as far as I’m concerned. He saw on TV that he’s got reptile disfunction.”

  “Huh?” said Cynthia. “What on earth is that?”

  “Reptile dysfunction,” said Noylene. “I guess that means his reptile don’t work.”

  “Ohhh,” said Cynthia, then laughed. Meg joined her.

  “It ain’t funny!” snarled Noylene. “Those pills are ten bucks a piece. I’ll tell you this much. They sure ain’t worth ten bucks to me. I wouldn’t give you a plugged nickel!”

  The cowbell jangled against the glass door and I saw Nancy come in. She shed her coat, hung it on the wall and wandered through the maze of tables to where we were sitting in the back. She pulled up yet another chair, and we all scooched closer to make room.

  “I thought of something,” she said. “You remember when that article came out in the Tattler? The one about the victims?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Do we still have a copy somewhere?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t.”

  Everyone else at the table also answered in the negative.

  “Hang on,” said Noylene. “Lemme look in the back. I’ve got a stack of those things that I save for wrapping used color foils. Which week you looking for?”

  “Two Fridays ago,” said Nancy, and Noylene disappeared into the kitchen.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “Something Helen said to Annette. Its been bothering me for two weeks and I finally figured out what it was.”

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” said Cynthia. “What was it?”

  “Hang on,” said Nancy. “I just need to read the article again.”

  Noylene walked out of the kitchen and handed Nancy a copy of the Tattler. The headline read “Foreclosed Properties Cloak Gristly Murders.”