CHAPTER 30

The devil does not need all the good tunes for himself.

Martin Luther

Next morning, lying in bed in the dawn light, Alan tried to put the lost Rosie in the back of his mind. But she kept surging forward, sometimes as a woman on fire in a blazing car, sometimes as a dreaming image in a filmy nightgown like the one in her bedroom closet, sometimes as an ordinary girl in a flannel bathrobe brushing her teeth somewhere right now. At last, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he told himself he had no choice but to depend on Homer Kelly’s inquisitive nose.

At the moment he had enough to do on his own—practicing for Sunday services in the Church of the Commonwealth, voicing the organ, repairing a gasping wind chest in King’s Chapel, adding a rank of Krummhorns to the organ at Annunciation, and now there was this daunting new undertaking, the rehabilitation of Harold Oates.

Alan was trying to arrange a series of concerts for the great man, beginning at Commonwealth. And maybe the Boston Globe would do a story on his musical resurrection. Come to think of it, why shouldn’t there be appearances on television? Then, pulling on his clothes, Alan changed his mind about television. Better not. Much better not.

This morning Oates was to face his first challenge. He was to play for Edith Frederick. The all-powerful Mrs. Frederick would decide whether or not to grant Oates a festive, well-advertised concert, a celebration welcoming back into the world the most distinguished organist in the United States since E. Power Biggs. Her decision would have to be rubberstamped by the other members of the Music Committee, but the deciding voice was always that of the Great Provider of All Funding.

The man would have to look respectable. Once again Alan ransacked his closet, looking for something tweedy. He pulled out a gray suit he had bought in college for a court appearance on a pot charge, six years back. He had never worn it since.

It didn’t look too bad, although there was a moth hole on the collar of the jacket. Alan groped in his bureau drawer and found a tin button with the legend, SAVE OUR RIVERS. He pinned it over the hole. He found an Oxford-cloth shirt and a regimental necktie, more gifts from his ever-hopeful mother. At the last minute he threw a shoe-polishing kit into the paper bag and set off for the Church of the Commonwealth.

He had arranged to meet Oates fifteen minutes before the appointment with Mrs. Frederick, but Oates was late. “Overslept,” he said jauntily, showing yellow teeth. Two were conspicuously missing. He looked awful. Alan rushed him into the men’s room and made him take off his loud shirt and sleazy polyester pants. Oates fumbled with the shirt buttons and protested.

“Look, do you want a concert here or don’t you?” Alan grinned, remembering scenes like this with his mother. “Let’s see your shoes. Christ, Mr. Oates, where are your socks? Oh, God, I didn’t bring any socks. Here, you can have mine.”

Alan whipped off his shoes and tore off his socks. Oates put the socks on reluctantly, while Alan gave his shoes a quick swipe with the polishing kit. “Now, let’s take a look at you. God, you look like a stockbroker.” Alan laughed, wishing there were some way to spruce up the sagging face, the wicked little eyes, the hideous grin with its missing teeth. “The next thing we’ve got to do is get a dentist to fill in those gaps.”

“Damn you,” said Oates.

Mrs. Frederick was waiting for them on the balcony, graciously pretending they weren’t late.

“Sorry,” said Alan. He introduced Oates to her again, then hustled him onto the organ bench, hoping to keep silent the vile tongue of his great protégé. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Mrs. Frederick sat down nervously and gripped the clasp of her handbag, as Oates pulled out stops and began to play. There had been an argument over the music. Alan had nagged him into performing “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” because he guessed it would be familiar to Mrs. Frederick. Oates had objected. “Oh, for shit’s sake, why not the C Major Prelude and Fugue? Something every kindergarten kid can’t play while wiping the snot off his nose?”

“Look, all we’re doing right now is persuading one old woman. I tell you, Mr. Oates, this is what will do it.”

Oates played it briskly, without sentimental languishing. The triplets danced up and down, his shiny shoes moved with certainty up and down the pedals, and at the beginning of the cantus firmus the Spire Flute and Violin Diapason serenely played their part. With a wink at Alan, Oates added a light Mixture and pulled out the stop that promised Divine Inspiration.

As he finished, Alan glanced at Mrs. Frederick. It was clear that she was overcome. “Oh, Mr. Oates,” she said, rising from her chair, “that was simply magnificent.”

Oates slid off the bench and lunged toward her. “Kind of makes you shit your pants, right?”

Alan closed his eyes, but Mrs. Frederick seemed not to have heard. She beamed. “Of course I have to bring it before the Music Committee, but I know they’ll agree. We must pick a date. We must advertise and let everyone know.”

Alan saw her out to the street, singing the praises of Oates on the way. To his surprise he saw that she was looking down and frowning. Perhaps Oates had insulted her after all. But as she said goodbye the truth came out. She wasn’t dissatisfied with Harold Oates, she was disappointed in Alan Starr. “Really, Alan, I’m shocked. Coming out without your socks! It won’t do, dear, it just won’t do.”