CHAPTER 52

Music is the best solace for a sad and sorrowful mind.

Martin Luther

The Boston Chapter of the American Guild of Organists was conducting an organ crawl. They were touring the churches in the Back Bay, getting acquainted with each other’s instruments.

“Jeez, listen to the Krummhorn.”

“How do you bring in the Contrabassoon? Oh, here it is. God, it’s like Judgment Day.”

“Peggy? Your turn. Try the Cornet on the Swell.”

At the Church of the Commonwealth Alan explained the virtues of the new tracker from Marblehead and talked about the voicing.

“You’ve replaced the Trumpets en Chamade, I see,” said Gilda Honeycutt.

“Contra Bombardes still missing?” said Pip Tower.

Alan was glad to see Pip back on his feet, fully recovered after his fall from the ladder. “Right. I’m getting kind of frantic. What have we got, two weeks? The whole thing’s supposed to be ready by Easter.”

During the afternoon there was a good deal of grumbling about Harold Oates. “I don’t know what they’re waiting for,” said Jack Newcomb. “He ought to be put where he can’t do any more damage.”

“But my God, can you imagine him in prison?” said Arthur Washington. “What a waste!”

“And he’s so old,” said Peggy Throstle. “He ought to be allowed to play while he can, right?”

Pip Tower turned to her angrily. “Suppose every time he plays, some good instrument is ruined or somebody’s back is broken, is that what you want?”

Alan changed the subject. “Listen to this. I’ve been working on the sixteen-foot Trombone.” He ran his feet down the pedal scale. Deep braying notes shuddered in everyone’s bones and shook the walls. “Wait a second, I’ll play fifths. Listen to the resultant.”

They stood around the console, watching Alan’s feet on the pedals, while across the sanctuary the spidery cracks in the east wall branched delicately upward, and the picture of Walter Wigglesworth slowly tipped askew.

Afterward Alan persuaded Pip to join him for a drink at the pizza place on Boylston Street. He was anxious to mend their shaky friendship. It was probably vanity, he told himself, a case of not wanting to be disliked. But it was more than that. Pip had always been fun to talk to. He had a gift for intimacy and he told wonderful stories, funny anecdotes about mutual friends. One of his friends had been Rosie Hall. Alan felt an urge to confess his obsession with Rosie, his conviction that she was still alive. He wanted to ask what she was really like.

They walked up Clarendon Street past the Baptist Church, past old men walking timidly among crowds of students, old women daring the sidewalk for the first time since the ice storm in March. “Did you know I’m renting Rosie Hall’s apartment?” said Alan. “Harold Oates and I, we’re staying there while it’s in escrow, or whatever you call it. You know, while they settle her estate.”

Pip looked at him in surprise, and said nothing. His customary flow of talk was not forthcoming. Maybe, thought Alan, he was still too angry about the audition.

In the pizza place Alan ordered beers, and tried again. “How’s the job situation? Any new ones opening up?”

Pip was vague. “Oh, I get along. When I’m not at the hospital I work in a copy shop.”

The waiter delivered the beers. Alan couldn’t think of anything else to say. Fortunately Pip knocked his glass over, and in the confusion of mopping up the spilled beer, things relaxed a little. Alan ordered another, and asked him about Rosie. “You knew her pretty well, isn’t that right?”

“Oh, sort of.”

Alan had hoped for more. “She meant a lot to you, I’ll bet?”

“Well, naturally. Just as a friend. I mean we didn’t—”

“No, I didn’t mean that. None of my business anyway.” This topic wasn’t working either. “More beer?”

“No, thanks.”

Alan offered him the basket of corn chips. “I’ll be joining you in the ranks of the unemployed before long, when Castle gets back.”

Pip blinked. “Castle’s coming back?”

“No, no, but he will sooner or later. I don’t know why the hell he doesn’t let us know when.”

At last Alan had touched a chord. Pip leaned forward across the small table. “Suppose he doesn’t come back, will they keep you on?”

“I don’t want the job. By rights they should give it to Harold Oates, but I doubt they will. You know what he’s like.”

“You don’t want the job?”

“I want to build organs, not play them. I’d say you were the prime candidate.” Then Alan remembered Mrs. Frederick’s antipathy. Maybe he shouldn’t raise Pip’s hopes. The poor guy would have to find a permanent place in some other church. Of course another church wouldn’t pay anything like as much, but it would be better than making hospital beds and flipping pieces of paper in and out of copy machines. Alan stood up and said an awkward goodbye.

Pip did not get up.

On the sidewalk Alan looked back through the glass door and was surprised to see him getting out of his chair with difficulty, as though still suffering from the effects of his fall.