ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

  “Almost forgot,” said Berta, moving to the table with a small stack of envelopes and circulars. “The mail was early.”

  Setting her keys aside, Mary sorted through the stack, finding nothing that required immediate attention. But one of the items caught her interest—a note-size blue envelope addressed to her in a graceful hand, bearing the return address of the rectory of St. Alban’s Episcopal Church in downtown Dumont. Berta handed Mary a well-polished sterling butter knife, with which Mary slit open the envelope. Unless she was mistaken, it was perfumed. She gave it a sniff, not recognizing the fragrance. Mister Puss jumped up to the tabletop, and he too sniffed the envelope. He sneezed.

  Mary removed several sheets of folded blue note paper and skimmed the handwritten letter. She said, “Listen to this.”

  Berta pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Mister Puss settled near Mary’s elbow and began to emit a soft, steady purr as Mary read the letter aloud:

  Dear Mrs. Questman,

  I understand that your family’s valued membership in the St. Alban’s community goes back for generations, but I do not believe we have yet had the opportunity to meet, so I would like to introduce myself. My name is Joyce Hibbard, and as you may be aware, I have recently stepped into the role of St. Alban’s new rector. I feel both honored and blessed to be entrusted as shepherd of your historic parish.

  As I’m sure you will agree, the beauty of Episcopal teaching rests in its sense of balance—on the one hand, we have a deep sense of roots and tradition, while on the other hand, we have a progressive vision that embraces the realities of change. Here in Dumont, St. Alban’s finds itself at something of a crossroads, and our parish vestry has begun to discuss important ideas regarding our future direction.

  Since the Questman family has played such a significant role in St. Alban’s past, I would very much welcome the opportunity to discuss with you our plans to move forward. You may call on me at the rectory anytime at your convenience, or if you prefer, I would be happy to visit you at your home.

  In addition, the vestry—our governing council—will hold an important meeting this Thursday evening at seven o’clock, which the entire congregation is encouraged to attend. Many of your fellow parishioners have expressed regrets that they have not seen you at services for many months, perhaps a year, and I am certain it would be their great joy to welcome your return to the bosom of our church family. May we count on your being with us on Thursday?

  I have heard so many lovely things about you, Mary. (May I presume to call you Mary? And I hope you will think of me as Joyce, rather than Mother Hibbard!) I look forward to the pleasure of meeting you soon.

  Yours in Christ,

  The Rev. Joyce Hibbard, Rector

  St. Alban’s Episcopal Church

  Mary folded the pages and returned them to the envelope. “Well, now,” she said, “what do you make of that?”

  “A little too flowery for my tastes,” said Berta.

  Mister Puss, still purring, reached his paws to Mary’s shoulder and stretched his snout to her ear.

  Hold on to your wallet.

  Chapter 1

  Traipsing down the spiral metal stairs of a converted downtown loft we called home, I found my husband, Marson Miles, busy preparing for the day—brewing coffee, buttering toast, puttering with placemats and cutlery at the granite-topped kitchen island that separated the cooking area from our two-story living room. Our sleeping space was upstairs, on the mezzanine of a former haberdashery that had long ago been shuttered, ripe for repurposing by two architects who, two years earlier, had set out to build a life together. We were also business partners.

  “Brody,” Marson asked me, “could you check if the paper’s here yet?”

  “Sure.”

  I opened the front door and stepped out to the sidewalk on First Avenue, the main drag of our quaint little burg in central Wisconsin—not the sort of setting that would conjure even an inkling of impending menace, let alone murder.

  A bright spring morning hinted of the summer to come. By seven o’clock, dawn was long gone and the sun had already spent some two hours warming the sky, greening the trees, and prodding the birds to mate and sing. Ah, nature. I sneezed.

  Snatching the rolled copy of the Dumont Daily Register, I darted inside and thumped the door closed.

  Marson liked to fuss. By instinct—as well as by profession—he had a passion for precision and an eye for detail that some might deem stodgy. I, however, found his obsessive quirks to be among his most endearing traits. He was a designer to the core, and I not only loved him but learned from him.

  Older than I by some twenty years (or so), Marson always took pains to dress well (jacket and tie at the office), to communicate clearly (sending me well-composed emails throughout the day from across the hall), and to set a proper table (the simple breakfast he’d arrayed on the kitchen island was fit for the leisurely elegance of a Sunday morning).

  But this was not Sunday. It was a Wednesday, the middle of a workweek, nothing special. Even the newspaper was slim and unremarkable. Taking it to the kitchen, I handed it to Marson as I sat on a stool at the counter. At the far end of the island, Marson began his ritual of “cleaning” the paper:

  After unrolling and unfolding it, he removed the creases by gently rolling and folding it in the opposite directions. Then he pulled a few stuffers, the want ads, and the sports section, setting them aside for recycling. Finally, he rearranged the remaining sections in the order he preferred for reading. Then he stepped over to the sink to wash his hands.

  We kept an iPad in the kitchen. While sipping coffee, I checked for email. “Oops,” I said.

  Marson returned to the island, sitting on the stool next to mine. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s Clem Carter—again. A delay in the construction schedule—again.” Marson and I were building a permanent home for ourselves; the loft had been a stop-gap solution to our immediate need for housing after we met. The new project, which we immodestly had dubbed “the perfect house,” was proceeding more slowly than planned. No surprise. But lately, the delays encountered by Carter Construction seemed much more frequent—and more costly. This time, it was something about the custom steel-framed windows.

  “The way this is going,” I said, “it’ll be a miracle if we’re in by winter.”

  Marson grinned. “Meanwhile, we’ll be stuck ‘roughing it’ right here.” He placed a hand on my knee. “Don’t stress over it, kiddo.”

  Kiddo, I thought. Being younger than Marson, I might have found his pet term for me condescending—and overly literal. But I knew him well enough to understand that his spontaneous use of the word carried not a hint of ageism. Or reverse ageism. Coming from him, it conveyed pure tenderness.

  Placing my hand on his, I asked, “Know what I love about you?”

  He cocked his head and arched one brow.

  “Your practicality.”

  “Oh.” His brow sagged.

  Laughing, I told him, “No. I mean, you don’t let things throw you. You’re … unflappable.”

  He shrugged. “Imperturbable.”

  “Right. But you’re also sweet and caring. And intelligent. And very, very hot.”

  “That’s better.” He patted my inner thigh.

  “Jesus”—I was instantly aroused—“I don’t suppose we have time for…”

  He gave me a look. “We just got dressed.” He reached over to straighten my tie. “And we have a full schedule at the office.”

  “Yeah,” I said, hangdog, chomping a piece of toast. I checked my watch. “Mind if I tune in Chad Percy?” We didn’t usually watch morning TV—we didn’t watch much at all—but one of the cable networks had begun airing daily cutaway segments from an out-and-proud gay commentator in Green Bay, of all places. He was associated with the university there, and his features ran the gamut from social issues to decorating and fashion. Flamboyant and fun, Chad Percy was just catching on nationally, but he’d already become som
ething of a local cult hero. The largest city in central Wisconsin, Green Bay was about an hour’s drive from Dumont.

  “Fine by me,” said Marson, reaching for the newspaper, “but not too loud, please. I’ll be reading.”

  “Sure.” I opened our cable app on the iPad, selected the news network, and propped up the screen just as a commercial was ending for some revolutionary prescription drug, which listed, as one of its many possible side effects, death.

  Then bang, there was Chad Percy, jabbering at us from between the carafe of coffee and a pitcher of orange juice. “…disturbing reports that these incidents in Green Bay represent an uptick in anti-gay activity previously not encountered here…”

  Marson mumbled, “How does he manage to look cheery while delivering that?”

  I suggested, “Must be in his genes. I mean, come on, could he be any cuter? He’s, like, total dollcakes.”

  Marson lowered the paper and took a closer look. “Not bad. But he’s no Brody Norris.”

  Deflecting, I reminded my husband, “I thought you were trying to read.”

  Dollcakes told us, “And on a happier note—some marketing news I’m excited to share with you. File this one under ‘branding.’ After months of negotiation, development, and testing, I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve partnered with the legendary scentologists at Parfumerie Abraxas for the introduction of a new unisex fragrance you’ll want to make your own.”

  Marson snorted. “Wonder what they’ll call the stuff. ‘Eau de Green Bay’?”

  As if hearing Marson’s query, Chad Percy responded, “And guess what we’re calling it. ‘Chad!’ That’s right—‘Chad!’—with an exclamation point. Isn’t it fabulous? And it’s coming soon.”

  Marson turned to tell me, deadpan, “I can hardly wait.”

  Marson would never, I was certain, abandon his allegiance to Vétiver, the elegant, woody scent that had been introduced by Guerlain around the time he was born. I myself had never found much appeal in fragrances; from time to time I would try one, and they would invariably irritate my skin. But Marson came from a school of thought that considered a gentleman not presentable, not dressed, without a touch of fragrance. And on him, it was indeed the slightest touch—and it didn’t smell the same on anyone else—and I loved it.

  Sitting together at breakfast, he passed to me the front section of the Register, which he had finished. Dollcakes was still bubbling about Chad!, so I switched him off and began to skim the newspaper headlines.

  “Oh, good,” said Marson as he turned a page of the features section. “Glee has a column today.”

  He was referring to our dear friend Glee Savage, a local reporter who primarily covered the social scene and the arts. But she also wrote an occasional column titled “Inside Dumont,” a personality profile of someone whom Glee wanted to introduce to the community. When I arrived in town from California some two years earlier, I was flattered when she ran such a column about me.

  As Marson hunkered into his reading, I found a story concerning a conflict of interest on the local water board, but it was painfully arcane, and within a few minutes, my mind wandered. I focused instead on a golden triangle of buttered toast, trying to decide which jam would make the better pairing: gooseberry or apricot?

  “I can’t believe it,” said Marson, lowering the paper.

  “What?”

  He handed me the page he’d been reading.

  Inside Dumont

  Historic local parish welcomes

  its first woman priest

  By Glee Savage

  •

  MAY 11, DUMONT, WI — The Episcopal Church in the United States approved the ordination of women as priests in 1976, but even today they are seldom encountered in some smaller or more rural dioceses. Dumont’s historic St. Alban’s parish is a case in point.

  Founded in 1865 and funded largely by the area’s timber gentry, St. Alban’s soon established itself as the town’s “society” church, enjoying a long period of prosperity and growth that lasted well into the twentieth century. However, like many of Dumont’s mainline churches, St. Alban’s has witnessed a slow change of tides over the past fifty years, with dwindling membership and resources. The school was closed a generation ago, and Sunday services often draw fewer than a hundred souls to the church’s mahogany pews.

  When the Rev. Charles Sterling, ninth and most recent rector of St. Alban’s, announced his intended retirement to warmer climes late last year, some in the small parish feared the beginning of the end. But many in the struggling church have now embraced an opportunity for St. Alban’s to renew and redefine itself with the arrival of the Rev. Joyce Hibbard.

  “My path to the priesthood was anything but conventional,” she said during a recent interview. “My initial training was in law, and I spent a dozen years practicing with a large firm in New York. But something was missing. It felt like such a dry pursuit. So I started a fashion business, which saw me through another dozen years. By then I was in my fifties—and still searching. This may sound cliché, but when I opened my heart, at last I heard the calling.”

  A calling from God?

  She hesitated. Sitting in the tidy front parlor of the St. Alban’s rectory, she reached to pour more tea for both of us. A Cartier watch adorned her wrist. A gold ring and bracelet matched the design of her earrings. She said, “Let’s say it was a spiritual calling. My husband was shocked when I told him I intended to enter divinity school. Five years later, I’d earned two degrees; three years after that, I was ordained. And now, fresh into my sixties, I’m here to begin a new life as rector at St. Alban’s.”

  When this reporter asked Mother Hibbard how the locals have reacted to a woman at the pulpit, she interrupted, patting my hand. “Please,” she said, “we’re friends now. Do call me Joyce.” With a laugh, she added, “Mother Hibbard—it sounds like that dowdy old woman from the nursery rhyme.”

  Dowdy she is not. Stylish and worldly, the Rev. Joyce Hibbard fits none of the stereotypes one may associate with priests, not even the progressive Episcopal female variety. And the title “Mother” (used by many Episcopalians in place of “Father”) does seem to stick in the throat, although that may stem more from its novelty in Dumont than from its aptness to her office.

  With a firm background in both law and business, she brings a wealth of experience to the troubled parish that could indeed prove a blessing. She also brings her professional connections and doubtless a bulging Rolodex. Mother Hibbard’s husband is the New York attorney Curtis Hibbard, who specializes in corporate governance.

  At last month’s institution ceremony, the new rector of St. Alban’s told her flock…

  As I lowered the paper, Marson repeated, “I can’t believe it.”

  “What? Why?”

  He explained, “This new priest at St. Alban’s, I think I met her eons ago. She’s married to a college friend of mine, Curt Hibbard. He and I stayed in touch for several years after school, and I went to visit him a few times in New York. I remember Joyce. She and Curt were … ‘dating.’” Marson enclosed the last word with air quotes.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say I suspect a marriage of convenience.” Marson paused before adding, “I should know.”

  Indeed, Marson should know. He’d been married to a woman for some thirty-five years before I entered his life.

  With a prim linen napkin, I wiped a smear of apricot jam from my fingers. Then I flashed Marson a grin and suggested the obvious: “Look up your old friend. Say hello. Get the dirt.”

  The offices of Miles & Norris, Architects, LLC, were located downtown on First Avenue, a few blocks from our loft. When the weather was pleasant, as it was that Wednesday morning, we could easily walk from home to work, but more often than not, we would drive at least one of our vehicles, since we were frequently taken away from our desks by meetings, client lunches, site visits, and such. That day, we rode together in Marson’s whopping hunter-green Range Rover.<
br />
  Business had been good—great, in fact. Three years earlier, Marson had scored a career-changing commission to design a local performing-arts center, funded largely by a wealthy widow, Mary Questman, whom we now counted as one of our closest friends. Questman Center proved to be an immediate hit, not only in Dumont but in the arts world at large, snagging a cover story in ArchitecAmerica, which brought Marson a good measure of later-life fame and the luxury of cherry-picking from an influx of proposals for high-profile future commissions.

  We were now in the final construction phases of a new county museum located near Questman Center. Farther from home, we had a half-dozen public projects under way, including a university building in Appleton, a museum expansion in Chicago, and a civic center out in Oregon. Our office in Dumont had acquired additional space in an adjacent building, and our payroll had expanded to include a full-time accountant and two more design interns.

  Later than morning, therefore, I was surprised to learn that Marson had taken a break from the grindstone to indulge in a bit of personal correspondence. A ping at the computer on my desk signaled an arriving email from Marson, across the hall, which he had sent to me as a blind copy.

  From: Marson Miles, A.I.A.

  To: Curtis Hibbard, Esq.

  Isn’t the Internet a remarkable invention, Curt? We haven’t seen each other since that neolithic age preceding the magic of thermal faxes, but I noticed your name in this morning’s local paper, and now, after a Google search that took all of five seconds, here I am, scratching at your in-box in New York. I hope this communication finds you happy and well.

  So you and Joyce have been married lo these many years? This comes as something of a surprise, as my last recollection is that your affections were then focused on a ballet dancer. What was his name?