The Happy Hour Choir

by Sally Kilpatrick

  “All right, Miss Ginger, what do you propose?”

  On the one hand, I liked the fact that he was willing to listen to Ginger. He certainly didn’t have to. He draped an arm over the bench behind him, clearly relaxed. He wasn’t going to do a thing he didn’t want to, but he also didn’t see the need to tick off an old lady.

  Her mouth turned upward a hair, and I felt a twinge of jealousy for how quickly he’d wormed himself into her good graces. “I’d say Wednesday would be a good day to compare notes with Beulah, don’t you? You do have your sermons done by Wednesday, don’t you, Luke?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The look in his eye said he was no stranger to procrastination, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

  “Beulah, think you can hop on over and see the good Reverend Daniels since The Fountain is closed on Wednesday?”

  I had trouble forcing out the words. I reminded myself I was twenty-five, for crying out loud. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Good. Now, Beulah Lou, take me home. It’s time for my nap.”

  I stood, but turned to Luke first. “Thank you for lunch.”

  Luke stood and shuffled from one foot to the other. “You’re quite welcome.”

  Interesting. A vegetarian with muscles, a generous man not used to gratitude, and a squeaky-clean minister who hadn’t been afraid to press his legs against mine. Obviously, there was more to Luke Daniels than I’d thought.

  I kicked at rocks in the church parking lot for a good ten minutes the next Wednesday. I’d already proven I wouldn’t catch fire upon entering the church, but that didn’t mean I wanted to go inside. Of course, the afternoon sun and several persistent gnats made the idea much more appealing.

  Once inside, I waited for the cool air to hit me, but the sanctuary was too hot for anything holy. Walking through the church back to Luke’s office felt like pushing my way through invisible blankets, damp with steaming heat.

  “Have mercy, Preacher Man, why is it so hot in here?”

  He looked up from his desk, and I sucked in a breath. There he sat in one of those sleeveless undershirts, the last thing I would have expected to see him wearing. Stubble had taken over his jaw, and he wore a pair of glasses. He looked both domestic and dangerous in a soap-opera hero sort of way. “Beulah, I’m sorry. I lost track of time. I’m almost finished. Have a seat.”

  There were so many questions I wanted to ask him. What was going on with the heat? Did he really need glasses? Where did he get those muscles? Nope. I wasn’t going to think about Luke doing push-ups so I looked to the wall. A poster of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band had joined Abbey Road as well as a framed sketch of a pretty woman.

  “Beatles fan?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, wondering who the woman in the sketch could be. “I don’t play them much, but I like to listen.”

  He grinned. “Good. If you’d told me you preferred the Stones, I would have had to fire you.”

  “I prefer the Stones.”

  “Nice try,” he said pointedly before looking down at his desk to finish writing notes in the margin of the typed page in front of him. It was easy to forget Luke was a minister when he looked like this, rough around the edges with an easy smile.

  “So, why is it such an inferno in here? It wasn’t this hot last week.” I swiped at the sweat that had beaded up on my forehead and leaned away from him.

  “Oh, yesterday I got our new budget, and I had to crunch some numbers. Excess air-conditioning had to go.” He capped the pen he’d been using and took off his glasses.

  “Excess air-conditioning? But you work here during the week.”

  “Well, it’s either this or let Joleen go because the conference didn’t bother to tell me about a shortage of funds until after I had ordered handbells.” His eyes met mine to see what I’d make of that.

  Ginger once told me Joleen had been contracted to clean the church at some point before the civil rights movement. I averted my eyes. Curse him for making it so hard to dislike him. Wait, handbells?

  “Then why don’t you send the handbells back?”

  “Handbells are a great way to get people involved in the church, and one of our members generously funded half the purchase.” He leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers over the stubble on his chin, daring me to contradict him. “Besides, I’ll be able to include AC again in a couple of months.”

  I blinked twice. Handbells seemed like a ridiculous waste of money to me. We already had a piano and an organ, but I didn’t need to waste my time or what little breath I could catch arguing the point with him. Let him roast all summer if they meant that much to him. “Suit yourself.”

  “I’m going to need some songs on grace. Want to read the sermon to see what I’m talking about?”

  No, I want to know what your exercise regimen is and if I can come watch. “No, thanks. Let’s see, grace . . .”

  A bead of sweat fell from his forehead onto an envelope he was about to open, and he hastily brushed it away. When my fingers twitched to help him out with that, I decided I didn’t need to be in a room alone with him.

  “I think it’s actually cooler outside. Want to move this conversation to the oak tree out front?”

  “You go ahead, and I’ll be there in a minute.” He frowned at the letter he held in his hands.

  Once outside I could breathe easier, which said a lot for the sad state of the church. Didn’t Luke realize he was never going to get the building cool enough in time for Sunday? Whatever. That was his problem. And it gave me a good excuse to wear my favorite spaghetti-strap sundress to church, too.

  Underneath the oak, I sat at one of three old picnic tables to think about grace.

  Grace was the girl’s name I’d picked out.

  For a brief moment I remembered New Orleans and pressing a hand to my rounded belly while standing shoulder to shoulder at Preservation Hall. That was about a month after Ginger had taken me in, and she was sick and tired of the bad attitude and the stomping around. She’d put me in the car, and we didn’t say a word other than “I have to pee” until we reached the outskirts of New Orleans.

  “What’s all this about?” I’d asked in a surly teenage tone that Ginger didn’t in the least deserve.

  “Something I think you need to see,” she finally said as we pulled up to the curb of an aging but elegant hotel that overlooked the streetcar line. Ginger passed the valet her keys, and I gawked. I’d never seen a real life valet before. She even let another uniformed man get the bags out of the trunk, as though letting someone else handle her luggage was the most natural thing in the world.

  “What could there possibly be here that I couldn’t see at home?” My question trailed off as I looked all around me at the faded opulence. Once upon a time, this hotel had really been something.

  “We both need an attitude adjustment,” Ginger had said primly as she took the key and led me to the elevator.

  After a nap, she took me outside to catch the streetcar, and we rocked and clanked our way to Bourbon Street. Warm jazz and raucous laughter oozed out of dingy buildings into the street as day faded into night. Ginger took my hand and pulled me to the middle of the street as I gaped at a swing with fake legs above a doorway. Everywhere people laughed, danced, and drank.

  Up until that point, I’d only known Ginger as the prim and proper lady who sat beside me for years of piano lessons. The faraway expression she’d once worn was gone, and her eyes twinkled as she led me through unbridled revelry.

  We waited in a long line, and my lower back began to hurt. I didn’t want to say anything, though, because I wanted to know more about this Ginger who nonchalantly tipped valets and waltzed down Bourbon Street like she knew exactly where she was going.

  Finally, we shuffled inside. At first I was disappointed. The room had no air-conditioning, no decoration, and precious few seats. The grizzled musicians appeared with the air that they we
re doing us the favor despite the fact we’d paid them.

  When they began to play, I realized they were.

  They played “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” in a way I’d never heard it before. Clarinet, trumpet, trombone, and banjo played over, under, and around each other in a beautiful chaos, then gave way to a solo from each player. The pianist plunked keys with steady confidence, helping the drummer keep time. We listened to a handful of New Orleans classics, then filed out and came back in for more.

  Ginger made a request, again flashing cash. Who is this woman? I wondered. At the end of that set, they played “Amazing Grace,” and it all clicked for the Baptist preacher’s girl that there was a whole world beyond what I’d always known. For that one moment in time, I could believe in a world where good and bad lived side by side. For that moment, I believed we could all tamp down the bad a little more and let the good rise to the top. For that moment, I was ready to try again, to try things Ginger’s way.

  We never talked about what happened that weekend in New Orleans, but Ginger fed me well and I came home a new person. On the long car ride home, I decided I’d name my baby Grace if she was a girl.

  “Any luck?”

  I jumped out of my skin as Luke’s question brought me back to the present. “Didn’t your mama tell you not to sneak up on people?”

  He took a seat beside me and held out a glass of sweet tea. “Nope. She didn’t have time to teach me much of anything before she passed away.”

  Sweat dripped from the glass and plinked on my leg. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It happened a long time ago.” He took a gulp of his tea and eased onto the seat across from me.

  “But still—”

  “Wound’s healed, Beulah. She’s in a better place.”

  I gritted my teeth against the memory of a ridiculously small white casket—no way would I ever talk so easily about his death. How were we supposed to know for sure our loved ones were in a better place? “So, I was thinking about a few hymns you could put here.”

  Luke’s eyes bored through me as if he knew why I was changing the subject. “Who did you lose?”

  I could tell him. I could tell him about how I called my baby Grace right up until the moment I popped out a baby boy and named him Hunter. I could tell him about how scary and awful it had been and how I wasn’t old enough to take care of myself much less a baby. I could tell him how much it hurt to lose that child just when I felt I might make it after all, but I hadn’t said anything to anyone about my baby for so long that the words were rusty, unable to move out of my throat and into my mouth. It hit me. I’d allowed myself to think about my sweet, sweet baby boy by name for the first time in years, and I couldn’t think his name twice in one day.

  I choked out different words. “You could use ‘Love, Mercy and Grace’ here or stick with an oldie but goodie, ‘Amazing Grace’—”

  Trying to change the subject again gave me a reason to ignore how he gazed patiently, relentlessly. I didn’t know it then, but Luke was an expert at excavating secrets. “Beulah, we don’t always understand why someone has to die, but—”

  A sob escaped in spite of my best efforts, but I wasn’t about to let him see me cry. “Do you really think I haven’t heard all of this hogwash before? You don’t know. You. Do. Not. Know.”

  I stood, ready to run, but he was there with his hands on my shoulders holding me in place.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said.

  I swiped at both cheeks and cleared my throat. “Well, you did. The heathen has a heart. There? You happy?”

  “Not really.” From the way he studied me, I thought he might kiss me. Just when I’d decided I’d let him, something, some deeply buried secret of his own, made him release my arms and step back. “ ‘Love, Mercy and Grace,’ huh?”

  I nodded, reaching for the tea. If I could swallow the tea, then I could swallow a lump of sadness. For a minute I thought I was going to make it. Now he sat on the other side of the picnic table holding his own tea and waiting patiently for me to talk hymns or lost babies.

  When the moment came to speak, I walked to the car instead.

  Chapter 6

  The next night I should have known immediately something was wrong with Tiffany. She looked a little green around the gills, as my aunt Edith would have said. And she kept bolting for the bathroom. But I didn’t notice those things at first.

  Instead, I was still in my funk about Luke and his questions, wanting to think about Hunter and not wanting to think about him all at the same time. I was on my third slow song with “baby” in the title when Bill leaned over to whisper, “Think you can play something a little peppier? The boys are getting kinda down.”

  I nodded and vowed to play something up-tempo next. “The boys are getting kinda down” was Bill-speak for “You’re making folks so sad they’d rather go home to their miserable lives than hang out here, which means we won’t make any money.” I humored everyone with classics like “There’s a Tear in My Beer” and with some audience participation in “You Never Even Called Me by My Name.” By the time nine rolled around, I was ready to sing my song with my usual gusto. After a particularly rowdy version, I snagged a beer and stepped outside for my break.

  There was Tiffany at the side of the building retching her fool head off. Then I knew, but I was the one who felt dizzy. “Tiffany, you okay?”

  “Hell, no. I want to go home and lie down.”

  “What’s wrong?” My heart was beating so loudly in my ears I wondered if I would be able to hear her answer. Please, please let me be wrong.

  She turned to face me, wiping her mouth on her forearm. “I don’t know. I swear I thought it was some bad shrimp I got from Seafood Sam’s, but I should have been over that by now. And I’m so damned tired. All I want to do is go home and take a nap.”

  She didn’t know. Bless her heart. She didn’t know.

  “Think you might be pregnant?”

  Her brown eyes widened in horror.

  “Maybe you ought to ask Bill for the night off.” I patted her on the shoulder and turned to go back in. It wasn’t any of my business, and I shouldn’t have said anything. From behind me, Tiffany made a horrible choking, mewing sound. I told myself I didn’t want any part of it. I didn’t want to get involved with her growing belly. I didn’t want to see her healthy baby boy, a baby she would think she didn’t want. And I hoped to goodness she wouldn’t have to find out how much she did, indeed, want that baby.

  Not like I did.

  “Beulah, please.”

  At that, I turned around, and she fell into my arms before I could stop her. I wanted to shove her away and to yell at her for being so stupid. How could she throw away that scholarship for some asshole guy? What had she been thinking?

  And I remembered how plenty of people, particularly my parents, had yelled those questions and accusations at me. I wouldn’t do that to Tiffany. No one deserved to be skewered for mistakes that couldn’t be erased. No one.

  I drew her closer and rubbed her shoulder with my free hand. “It’s going to be okay. Promise.”

  Total bullshit, but she didn’t have to know that yet.

  Bill poked his head out the door. “Beulah, you gonna play tonight? Tiff, you gonna pass out beers? You two having some kind of Summer’s Eve moment out here?”

  “Just a minute, Bill. Keep your pants on,” I said.

  He let the screen door slam behind him.

  “I gotta go play,” I said. “Why don’t you go on home and rest? You can get a test in the morning to be sure. Maybe it’s bad shrimp after all.”

  She nodded but then followed me in and finished out her shift with a grim determination I couldn’t help but admire. But I made sure I didn’t sing any more songs with the word baby.

  Just after the eleven o’clock rendition of my song, Luke walked in and sat down beside me at the bar.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said as I motioned to Bill. �
�Hey, get a beer for the preacher man, would you?”

  “I’m not staying long,” he said. “I only wanted to see if you were okay after this afternoon.”

  “Just peachy,” I said as I took a swig from my foreign beer of the week, a Hoegaarden. My pulse beat double time. Luke had come back into The Fountain to check on me. “But thanks for asking.”

  He gave me that half smile I was growing to like in spite of myself. For a second or two, I caught a glimpse of Luke the man as he sat on a stool and drank a beer.

  “I gotta get back to work,” I whispered.

  “Take any requests? Maybe a Beatles song?” he asked.

  “Only for a tip,” I said with a grin.

  He fished around in his wallet for a single and held it out to me.

  “That’s only good for ‘Yellow Submarine.’ Just so you know,” I said.

  This time he came back with a five. “How about this?”

  I whistled. “For that kind of money, you get to pick.”

  He closed my fingers around Abe Lincoln. “Surprise me.”

  I sat down to sing about how I could get by with a little help from my friends, but then I hit the line about believing in love at first sight, and I couldn’t stop the furious blush at the edge of my cheeks. Damn him! No one made me blush. No one but the Beatles-loving preacher man!

  I just need somebody to love.

  Nope. Not going there.

  Blessedly, the song ended. Luke saluted me with his beer bottle and quietly left. While watching him go, I broke a cardinal rule by sitting silently. Leaving any amount of dead air meant that someone from the pool table would have the opportunity to shout, “Play some Skynyrd!”

  I sighed deeply. “That one’s going to cost you!”

  They came up with the necessary twenty bucks, and I had to play “Sweet Home Alabama.” In my heart, though, I was still humming the Beatles.

  That Sunday, with the help of one of Ginger’s hideous shawls I had no intention of wearing past the car, I managed to slip out of the house in my favorite sundress and cowboy boots. Since we were already running late, Ginger looked at me and shook her head.