The Happy Hour Choir

by Sally Kilpatrick

  By the grace of God, I made it home.

  Chapter 33

  The next few days passed in a blur—an awful, terrible blur. A tornado touched down on the other side of town, but it didn’t do too much damage. That night I didn’t even bother going down to the cellar. I half thought it would be easier if the damned thing took me up to be with Ginger.

  And Hunter.

  Ginger had thought of everything. Declan Anderson had extensive notes of her final wishes, things she hadn’t wanted to bother me about. She had picked out every song, every type of flower, what dress she was to wear. She had made arrangements for where she was to be buried and had paid for everything she could in advance. On one hand, it was one of the kindest gifts she could’ve given me. On the other, arrangements would have given me something to do other than sit around and stare at the sealed envelope she’d left for me.

  At the very least I had plenty of time to call Derek back and explain why I hadn’t shown up. He was more understanding than I deserved and said he’d keep me in mind for the future. I had a feeling that this second chance would be my last.

  On the day of the funeral, I sat in one of the folding chairs to the side of the casket. Anderson’s Funeral Home was older than Potter’s, and a temporary partition separated the family section from the chapel proper. I had never been so glad for something to hide me from prying eyes.

  Mournful chime music set at a glacial pace poured through the funeral home speakers. I gritted my teeth, glaring at the closed silver casket as Luke squeezed my hand. I looked at him and saw tears threatening to spill from his eyes, too.

  At first it surprised me that Luke wasn’t delivering the eulogy, but Ginger would have known I needed him beside me. Instead, she chose Walter Massengill, an ancient preacher who had been at County Line for the better part of thirty years. An octogenarian, Brother Walter stooped as he reached the podium, his white hair flying out from his head.

  “We gather here to celebrate the life of Ginger Belmont, one of the finest ladies I’ve ever known.” He cleared his throat, and the tears I’d been holding back spilled over in a flood. Luke drew me to him, and I sobbed quietly through the eulogy.

  Brother Walter talked of highs and lows, things Ginger had done long before I knew her. He told stories of how she’d played rock and roll at the school dance and been banned from playing piano there. Just as a grin broke through my tears, he added a passage about rejoicing when our friends die, adding, “And I’m sure Ginger is in heaven and would want us to rejoice.”

  Anger choked me. How were we supposed to find these wonderful people then celebrate when we lost them? The more I thought about “celebrating” Hunter’s death or “celebrating” Ginger’s death, the greater that ball of anger became.

  And then there was Luke. If some freak accident took him from me, would he want me to “celebrate” his passing? Maybe we’d both be better off if I didn’t give us the chance to find out.

  My entire chest burned as we walked outside to get into our cars, the cars that would follow immediately behind the black hearse.

  “Beulah?” Luke asked as he slid behind the driver’s seat of his ridiculous roadster. At least he was smart enough not to ask me if I was okay. No, I was not okay. I would never be okay.

  I thought about letting my anger flow out like lava, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to lose Luke the man and have Luke the minister show up. My heart squeezed in my chest. Luke the man had been my constant companion for the past couple of months, and I loved him with all of my being.

  But Luke the minister was always there, and he reminded me of who I was and who I had been.

  If I blew my top, Luke the minister would show up. If I kept my rage inside, I would implode. I’d have to chance imploding.

  I shook my head no, and he respected my wishes not to talk.

  Luke held my hand as we walked from the parking lot to the corner spot of County Line Cemetery where Ginger’s plot lay. The tent rustled in the cold breeze, and I drew my winter coat closer. He draped an arm around me as folks paid their last respects and the casket was placed into its protective lead casing then lowered into the ground. As if anything could protect us from what would inevitably happen. Nothing mortals did could protect a body from turning on itself.

  Luke squeezed my hand as we turned to go. “Beulah, are you sure you feel up to this?”

  I nodded affirmatively. Of course, I didn’t want to play at Ginger’s “going-away party,” but doing so was a part of her explicit instructions. She wanted us to celebrate her passing, and she had even picked out a sound track.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the wild salt-and-pepper hair of my mother only seconds before she was in front of me. “Beulah.”

  “Mother,” I said. Luke put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry.” She stared through me, leaving me to wonder if she was sorry about Ginger, about disowning me, or both. Ginger’s words came back to me: You could tell her your side of the story.

  Not today, Ginger.

  “Thank you,” I choked out. She hugged me fiercely then patted me on the shoulder before walking off. I was too stunned to call her back, and I still wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  Maybe tomorrow, Ginger.

  Focusing on The Fountain, I crossed the street with Luke’s help. Asking me to play piano was one thing. Asking me to make up with my mother on the same day as Ginger’s funeral would require more beer than Bill had on hand.

  Ginger had known I wouldn’t be able to think of songs to play, so she had provided a list. I took a deep breath and looked at the first item: “Just a Closer Walk with Thee ”—jazzy.

  Fortunately, my fingers knew the song far better than I did. People milled around The Fountain, a subdued crowd, but a larger one than I’d ever seen. Bill pulled at his suspenders when he wasn’t pouring out libations.

  From her first request I moved to “In the Sweet By and By,” and Sam was kind enough to duet with me. Halfway through, the anger in my chest loosened. Ginger had wanted me to play because she knew. She knew I poured myself into what I played. She knew playing would ease the pain.

  Or was she looking for a good excuse to get a bunch of teetotallers into The Fountain? For a minute I imagined Ginger looking down on our little party and cackling so hard she cried. Miss Lottie, Miss Lola, and Miss Georgette were all tipsy. They had opted for the punch in the corner, not knowing it had been liberally laced with Southern Comfort.

  Miss Georgette stumbled over to where Bill stood right in front of me. “What is your punch recipe? I really must know.”

  He stifled a grin. “Aw, Miss Georgette, it’s something Marsha cooked up.”

  And that part was true. Except for the part where Marsha hadn’t added the Southern Comfort. That had been the Gates brothers. Bill had only looked the other way while they did it.

  I played hymns about grace, hymns about our truth marching on, and hymns about laying our burdens down by the riverside. Then I delved into some of Ginger’s favorites: “Moonlight Serenade,” “St. James Infirmary,” and a slew of Johnny Mercer.

  While I rambled through an instrumental version of “Accentuate the Positive,” John the Baptist came over with a friendly smile. “I got your CD made.”

  “Thank you! I do appreciate it even if I forgot to come by.”

  “I know,” he said, his eyes kind as ever. “I would’ve waited for you, but I thought you might want it now.”

  Of course. It was the only link to Ginger’s voice that I had. My eyes filled with tears as I whispered thank you again. Despite my sorrow, the tavern-goers reached a raucous happiness thanks to both the punch and the liberal amounts of wine and beer I had yet to sample. More people arrived than had even been at the funeral: Goat Cheese, the Satterfields, and all sorts of people I didn’t recognize, people who’d no doubt taken lessons from Ginger over the years. My numb fingers hit the keys clumsily, but I had no intention of quitting.

  Then the cuckoo clock sou
nded in the corner.

  The chorus of “All You Need Is Love” once again hung in the air unresolved as my head snapped toward Bill.

  No one spoke.

  “I promise I unplugged it just like you asked.” Bill shrugged and went back to fiddling with his suspenders.

  I hopped down from the risers and pushed my way through the crowd to the wall where the cuckoo clock hung.

  The cord dangled to the ground, clearly not plugged in. “Who did this? Who plugged it in then unplugged it?”

  Pete leaned on his pool cue. “Ain’t no one touched it, I promise. I’ve been standing here this whole time waiting for this jackass to take his shot.”

  Greg elbowed Pete, and I stepped closer to look deep into his eyes. Pete’s wide brown eyes suggested he was telling the truth.

  “All right, Ginger,” I bellowed to the heavens. “You want to hear the song? We’ll give you the song.”

  My fingers froze above the keys.

  I couldn’t do it.

  I squeezed my fingers together into fists and tried again.

  My fingers hovered over the piano, but they refused to strike. Instead I closed the cover over the keys and stood. I jumped down from the risers, and the eerily quiet crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses. I only made it as far as the door before my Happy Hour Choir started the singing for me.

  “Far away the noise of strife upon my ear is falling.”

  I turned. Mac and the Gates brothers had stepped up on the risers. Sam and Tiffany stood in front, his arm draped around her shoulders.

  “Then I know the sins of earth beset on every hand.”

  To my side, Luke joined in with an even baritone. John the Baptist sang from somewhere in the corner.

  “Doubt and fear and things of earth in vain to me are calling.”

  Miss Lottie’s abrasive soprano rose above the other voices, but seemed to be what the crowd needed to join in, a reminder that what’s in our hearts is more important than the perfection with which we sing.

  “None of these shall move me from Beulah Land.”

  I paused and nodded to the crowd around me, tears blurring my vision and my throat too closed up to join them.

  “I’m living on the mountain, underneath a cloudless sky.”

  “Praise God,” whispered Mac.

  “I’m drinking at the fountain . . .”

  A silent wave of red plastic cups lifted to the ceiling.

  “. . . That never shall run dry. Oh, yes, I’m feasting . . .”

  Luke’s arms slipped around me, and I leaned into him.

  “. . . On the manna from a bountiful supply.”

  The crowd turned to look at us, and my Happy Hour Choir finished almost at a whisper.

  “For I am dwelling in Beulah Land.”

  I turned and buried my face in Luke’s chest, inhaling his scent and memorizing the feel of his arms around me. Ginger had always said one reason why it was so important to be a member of a church was that community picked up where you had to leave off, holding you up when you felt like lying down. I felt like crumpling up in the corner, but they weren’t going to let me. Luke would never let me.

  “I think I need to be alone for a while,” I managed to choke out.

  Luke nodded.

  I meant to give him an innocent peck on the cheek, but that wasn’t enough for good-bye. Instead, I put a hand on either side of his face, running my thumbs against his smooth cheeks. I pulled his face down to mine and pressed my lips against his, a light touch but enough. Then I slipped out the door, wondering if I would ever be back.

  Chapter 34

  Only one sealed envelope remained: mine. Tiffany had opened hers immediately; so had Sam and Bill. I didn’t know if Luke had opened his because I had been studiously avoiding him since the funeral and wake. I hadn’t left the house. I hadn’t showered. And Tiffany had learned very quickly not to question me on any of those points.

  Seven days after Ginger’s funeral, smack-dab in the middle of December, Luke Daniels knocked on my door. Tiffany had already gone to work so I ignored him.

  “I know you’re in there,” he said.

  “Go away.”

  “We’ve missed you at church.” His shadow shifted from one side to the other. “I’ve missed you.”

  I got up and walked to the door. There was no easy way to have the conversation we were about to have, so it was best to go ahead and get it over with. I opened the door, and he came in. He crushed me to his body and planted kisses on the top of my greasy head. “I’ve missed you so much, and I’ve been so worried about you. Why won’t you answer any of my calls?”

  I couldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t want to see you.”

  “Beulah Land, didn’t you say less than a month ago that you loved me?”

  “Yes.” In a moment of weakness.

  “Didn’t I tell you that I love you?”

  “Yes.” But only your God knows why.

  Something behind his eyes shifted from Luke the man to Luke the minister. “We need to support each other. We need to pray for strength and understanding.”

  My rage boiled over. “And that’s why I haven’t called you.”

  Later, my therapist would tell me this episode demonstrated how denial had moved to anger and that my rage was a perfectly natural part of the grieving process. I told her I didn’t care much about process. I was pissed off, and it had been a long time coming.

  “I love you, Luke, but I can’t do this preacher’s girlfriend thing. I played piano for the church. I went to Bible study. I even started praying, sometimes about big stuff like Tiffany or Ginger, and sometimes about small stuff like making sure that the dressing came out right on Thanksgiving.”

  “Stop.” Luke held out one of his carpenter’s hands. I wanted to take that hand in mine, to lace my fingers through his. Instead, I put my hands against my sides and let them curl into fists.

  “No, I will not stop! God hates me, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t hate Him back.”

  And those, ladies and gentlemen, are fighting words for a preacher.

  “Beulah, you sit down and you listen for a minute,” he said. He tried to lead me to Ginger’s chair, but at the sight of her empty chair, I wrenched my wrists from his grasp.

  “No! No more listening. I don’t want to hear another sermon. I don’t want to sing another song. I want to know why all the people I love have to die. And I want to know why I had to be raped and why Tiffany had to play house with her stepdaddy. I want to know why doing something supposedly good, like a Bible study, had to run Bill out of business. And I want to know why pregnant mommas lose their babies and why in the hell something as ugly and painful as cancer has to exist.”

  I panted. I was hoarse.

  “Beulah—”

  “It’s not fair. I did the right thing. I kept that baby even though I didn’t want him, even though it wasn’t really my mistake. And just when I learned to love him and to want him, he was taken away from me. You tell me how that could possibly be fair.”

  Luke tried to pull me into his embrace, but I pushed him away.

  “And I came to this house because my momma kicked me out. I learned to love and respect Ginger, and what happened to her? She got cancer. I helped her through that as best I could even though I was still hurting over losing Hunter. You ever been a caregiver to someone with cancer, Luke? You ever shuttled someone back and forth on two-and-a-half-hour trips to the hospital with every muscle in your body stiff because you’re straining to make sure they’re still breathing? You ever cleaned vomit out of places you didn’t know could get vomit in them? You ever seen a chemo port, how nasty it looks? You ever been with someone when they get a mastectomy? Looked at flatness and scars and skin that stretched flat over ribs? I was with the world’s sweetest lady while she experienced pain and nausea and lost her hair and did it all without one single, solitary complaint. And I wished every day I could take her place because the pain of the treatment would have to be better th
an sitting beside her and holding her hand and knowing it was the only damn thing I could do for her.”

  “Are you about done?”

  “What kind of cruel joke was it to have me get all the way to Nashville, to get so close, only to have to drive back? She wanted to live to see Tiffany’s baby. She was supposed to live long enough to see Tiffany’s baby! And I didn’t even get to tell her good-bye or that I loved her one last time.”

  “Stop!” He took me in his arms. I tried to beat him away with my fists because he was the enemy. He was a man of the church, a representative of how I was supposed to meekly accept the skewed injustices of my life. But he grabbed my wrists and he pulled me tight and let me cry.

  When I had no more energy to scream or cry, I looked up at him and said the stupidest thing I have ever said in my entire life: “Luke, I think you need to go now.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he murmured into my hair.

  “No. I’m done. I thank you for everything you’ve done for me, for Ginger, for Tiffany. And I love you, but I can’t be with you. It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to me.”

  Ever the preacher, he added, “I know you feel this way now, but—”

  “No, there is no but. Not this time. Because right now I hate your God.”

  He kissed me on the forehead, on one cheek then the other. “Your God still loves you. And I do, too.”

  “Get out before I start hating you, too!”

  He stiffened at that, but he kissed me on top of the head once more and walked out the door.

  Chapter 35

  I couldn’t sit in Ginger’s chair, so I took the box of Kleenex and sat on the floor using one after another until the box was empty. Then I threw the empty box against the wall and went to the kitchen pantry to get more.

  But I stopped by the oven.

  I could put my head in an oven.

  My eyes traveled to the knife drawer. Ginger had always sharpened her knives until the old blades were razor thin.

  Then my gaze settled on the basket full of prescription drugs. There had to be enough pain pills left to kill a horse.