CHAPTER 64

I always loved music; whoso has skill in this art, is of a good temperament, fitted for all things.

Martin Luther

The next night Oates was not merely late, he was nowhere to be found. The church was packed. Every pew was filled, and Donald Woody had found a miraculous new source of folding chairs for the overflow crowd at the back.

In the balcony the chorus members were lined up in their black robes. The instrumentalists held fiddles on their knees, and flutes, English horns and oboes across their laps. The soloists were somber and distinguished in black gowns like those of the choir. They waited.

Barbara’s patience was giving out. She grasped Alan’s arm. “Where is he?”

Alan had been dodging next-door, looking for Oates, running up to the balcony to report. “I don’t know where the hell he is. He’s not at home. I’m afraid he’s back on the bottle.”

Below them people turned to stare up at the balcony. In the front row Mrs. Frederick frowned, and whispered to Martin Kraeger. Barbara looked at Alan severely. “You’ll just have to take over.”

“Oh, God,” said Alan, who had never even glanced at the organ accompaniment to the St. John Passion.

“You’ve got to. It’s not difficult. Really, there’s nothing to it.”

Alan groaned. But then the problem vanished. A familiar figure walked out onto the balcony, plump and beaming, his bald head glowing with sunburn.

It was James Castle.

It didn’t matter that he had left the Church of the Commonwealth in a state of precarious doubt. Nor did it matter that Homer Kelly suspected him of having something to do with the fire in the church, and with the disappearance of Rosalind Hall. All that mattered now was their immediate need.

“Oh, Jim,” said Barbara, throwing her arms around him, “will you help us out?”

“Of course,” said Castle.

He sat down on the organ bench and pulled out a few stops—Stopped Diapason eight, Prestant four, and Div Insp—and nodded at Barbara.

At once she raised her arms, the instrumentalists began to play, and the choristers drew breath to sing “Lord, Lord, Lord, Thou our Master.” From that moment they were possessed. Everything flowed out of them into the music, torrents of controlled feeling. For a little while on an April evening at the end of the twentieth century they existed together in the mind of the eighteenth-century composer. The bows of the string players went energetically up and down, the flutes and oboes tweedled contrapuntally, the organ gave harmonious support, and the voices rose and fell and cried out, resolving splendid dissonances in harmony and beginning the story again. Barbara stood at the front of the balcony, transported, while sixty-seven men and women obeyed every motion of her lifted hands, lamenting the anguish of the cross, bewailing their grievous sin, uttering their majestic wonder.

And then it was all over. There was applause for the chorus and the musicians and the soloists, and Barbara was presented with a bouquet of flowers. Then the instrumentalists put away their fiddles and flutes and oboes, and everyone left the balcony but Barbara. She sat down on the organ bench, and depression washed over her.

She didn’t need the applause, she didn’t want a bouquet of flowers. She wanted only one thing. But Martin Kraeger had not even shaken her hand in congratulation. He had come up to the balcony to welcome back James Castle, he had nodded at her and smiled, and he had gone out with Castle.

She felt washed-out and hollow. What did life hold for her after this, after tomorrow, after Easter Sunday morning? Castle would take over his old position, and once more she would be out of a job.

She heard a step on the stairs. Quickly Barbara stood up, and looked for her coat.

“Barbara Inch?”

She didn’t know the woman who stood staring at her and frowning as though it were a crime to be Barbara Inch. “Yes, I’m Barbara Inch.”

“I just want you to know a few things about my ex-husband.”

Barbara shook her head, bewildered. “Your ex-husband?”

“A word to the wise. I’m here to warn you. Steer clear.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Barbara looked at the stairway, wondering if she could dodge past this insane person and get away.

“He wasn’t married to me, he was married to the church. He did not attend my mother in her last illness. His parenting lacked discipline.”

“You’re Mrs. Kraeger,” said Barbara, astonished.

“Lately he has revealed his bestial instincts, but I should warn you that in bed he seldom achieved my personal needs. I am a very passionate woman.”

It was grotesque. “But why are you telling this to me?”

“I’ve heard rumors. I feel I owe it to you as a woman.” Kay Kraeger’s eyes narrowed. “I must say, you’re not what I expected in a femme fatale. Why don’t you do something about your hair?”

Barbara burst out laughing. Did it mean, could it possibly mean—? No, of course it didn’t mean anything, but a crazy happiness welled up in her, and she couldn’t control her laughter.

“Oh, you may well laugh.” Kay Kraeger turned and pushed through the folding chairs. “I’m only trying to help, woman to woman.”

Barbara found her coat and followed Mrs. Kraeger down the stairs. There was no one in the vestibule but Donald Woody.

“She came roaring in here and demanded to know where you were,” explained Woody. “She’s bonkers, if you ask me.” He waggled his finger in a circle beside his ear. “What did she want?”

“You tell me,” said Barbara. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Martin Kraeger took James Castle for a drink in the Copley Plaza.

“So it was you who was ill, not your mother? Why didn’t you let us know?”

Castle looked down at his gin and tonic. “Pride, I guess.” My doctor didn’t hold out much hope, and I didn’t want people feeling sorry for me.”

“But where have you been? Were you at Mass General all this time?”

“No, no, Sloan-Kettering in New York. Then I went to Fort Lauderdale and strolled along the beach while my mother fed me up.”

Martin remembered the woman who had turned her back on him, whose screams he had heard through the brick wall of Castle’s house on Mount Vernon Street. Hastily he revised his opinion. The woman couldn’t be so bad, after all.

“How about another one of these?” said Castle. He beckoned to the waiter. “Two more of the same.”

Martin looked at him uncertainly. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be drinking this stuff? After what your insides have been through?”

Castle looked surprised, and fumbled with his paper napkin. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I mean this is a special occasion.”

“Right you are. Here’s to the special occasion. Welcome back.”