Saying Grace

by Beth Gutcheon

  Perhaps they hadn’t really expected her to sing; they didn’t know if she could sing without her group. But Georgia, blushing but wearing a quizzical grin, handed her mother her disgraceful coat and went forward.

  The eighth graders shushed the crowd. Georgia stood, a small figure in torn jeans, with hip-length red hair. She was wearing a slouchy gray sweater that came halfway to her knees.

  She did nothing visible to prepare herself, and showed no nervousness. She just stood very still for a moment, then took a deep breath and began to sing.

  She sang the Panis Angelicus of César Franck in a soaring soprano that was darker, stronger, and richer than any of them had heard from her before. The high notes seemed to be made of silver. Mrs. Stevens, who knew the aria well, tried an experimental note on the Kurzweil, and found that with perfect pitch, Georgia had begun in exactly the key in which the piece was written. She pushed the organ button and played the accompaniment.

  When the aria ended, there was a long moment of silence and then a roar of applause. The eighth-grade Georgia claque shouted for more, but she gave a deep bow, then ducked her head and scurried back to her parents as people applauded, and here and there a voice shouted, “Georgia—‘He’s a Rebel,’ or Georgia—‘Poor Little Fool.’”

  Her father looked her in the eyes, and said, “Wow.”

  Georgia shrugged and smiled, and said, “Plus ça change,” looking at him straight. Anyone watching them would have had the impression she had done it for him.

  Henry, Georgia, and Rue walked slowly, very happily, across campus in the moonlight. Their house was full of light, waiting for them.

  “So what is this rainbow ribbon, Georgia,” said her father, inspecting her.

  “That’s for gay rights, Daddy.”

  “I see. And what’s this red one?”

  “AIDS support. Don’t you read?”

  “No, we’re very sheltered here. You aren’t trying to tell us something, are you?”

  “What would that be?”

  “This earring.”

  “The skull and crossbones?”

  “Is that what it is? I’m too old to see in the dark. Now what is the significance of the one ear?”

  “It’s not the one ear, it’s which ear.”

  “I see. And what does it mean?”

  “Left is straight. Right is gay.”

  “Left is right and right is wrong?”

  “If you see it that way.”

  “Rue, is she trying to tell us something?”

  “She’s trying to tell you that Truman isn’t president anymore.”

  “He isn’t?”

  Rue put her arm around Georgia’s shoulders and Georgia wrapped hers around her mother’s waist.

  “Hey,” said Henry. “I feel left out.”

  “You’re the wrong height,” said Rue.

  “Me and my friends went to see…”

  “My friends and I,” said Henry.

  “Oh, did you go too?” Georgia asked.

  “So,” Rue prompted. “You and your friends…”

  “Went to see Jan Morris speak at Town Hall.”

  “Was she wonderful?”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Isn’t he the one who climbed Mt. Everest and then became a woman?” asked Henry.

  “Yes, Daddy, she is.”

  “What did she say?” Rue asked.

  “Well, after the talk, there were questions, and someone said, ‘You’ve been a man, and you’ve been a woman. Can you talk about what you’ve learned from that?’ And she said, ‘Let me put it this way. Women are like computers. And men are more like…Waring Blenders.’”

  Rue and Georgia both roared with laughter.

  “I don’t think that’s a bit funny,” said Henry.

  “Yes, you do,” said Georgia, and began to tickle him.

  “I do not. And I don’t remember giving you permission to…GROW UP!” And as he spoke he wheeled and began to tickle her with both hands. Georgia screamed and ran for the house, laughing, with her father on her heels.

  Rue walked slowly after them, feeling she might have been so happy sometime before in her life, but if so, she couldn’t remember when.

  Ordinarily the face-off with Chandler before the Holiday Program would have shaken Rue badly, and she and Henry would have talked it out from every angle. But Rue was so glad to have Georgia home, and her presence put things in such a happy perspective, that she decided to forget it. Instead, in the next days, Rue and Georgia spent hours shopping together, decorating the house, and planning the Christmas dinner. Rue was to be allowed to braise a goose, for the nonvegetarians. Georgia was going to make vegetable tempura, some curries, raita, and Japanese buckwheat noodles with miso. Rue would make sautéed Brussels sprouts, cranberry chutney, and pecan and apple pies. They had a wonderful time making lists, and going from the Safeway to the health-food store.

  Georgia had brought home a knapsack full of cassettes of the music she was listening to. There was some jazz, some rap, a lot of blues, and a lot of what she called “alternative strangeness.” She also had a pirate tape of The Ghost of Versailles made by a friend of hers who sang in the Met chorus. She wanted CDs of Einstein on the Beach and of the Death of Klinghofer for Christmas.

  There were also a lot of long-distance telephone calls that involved stretching the downstairs telephone cord until Georgia was sitting in the coat closet.

  Finally, Rue said, “Forgive my curiosity, but…” and Georgia laughed and looked shy.

  “I won’t ask if you don’t want me to.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ve been admiring your restraint.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s just Jonah.”

  “Do I know Jonah?”

  “No. He’s a senior. He’s training to be a conductor. He’s incredible, he can play five instruments, and he can sight-read a score and hear all the voices at once…most people think he’s a genius.”

  “What five instruments?” Rue was rolling out pie dough. She knew it was better to keep her back to Georgia, if she wanted her to feel safe when she was telling something new.

  “Clarinet, saxophone, trombone, piano, and electric bass.”

  “Some combination.”

  “You should hear him play the bass….”

  “Do you have any of his music in that pile of tapes?”

  “A couple of cuts upstairs. It’s fairly outrageous.”

  “Honey, anything more avant garde than Karla Bonoff sounds outrageous to me. I’m still interested.”

  “Do you like ska?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Sometimes, if he writes vocals, he asks me to sing.”

  “Are they songs, then? That he’s writing?”

  “Sort of.”

  Rue turned around. She could see by the light in Georgia’s eyes that this was no ordinary professional admiration.

  “Mine are songs,” said Georgia, encouraging. “The things I write are recognizably songs. And he still likes them.”

  “Oh, good,” said Rue. She lifted her pie crust into the baking tin, trimmed it, and crimped the edges. She covered the bottom with pinto beans to weight the crust and put it in the oven. Then she started assembling the brown sugar, pecans, vanilla, and butter for the pie filling.

  “Is that Jonah’s sweater?”

  “Yes.”

  “He must be tall.”

  “Six-four.”

  “Where is he from?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “Yes, you would. You’d like him. What are you putting in now?”

  “A little bourbon, and some grated orange peel.”

  “Is that the secret?”

  Rue smiled. “One of them.”

  “Would you teach me to bake?”

  Rue turned and looked at her. “You’ve never been interested in baking. You don’t eat desserts.”

  “I know, but I think I’d like to lear
n.”

  Rue smiled and turned back to her saucepan. Georgia was in love, and with someone who liked sweets.

  On Christmas Eve, Georgia was going caroling with her friends from high school. Rue had planned a high tea by the fire before she went out. She had made scones, and they had a choice of homemade jams and cookies and tins full of nuts and dried fruits that the school family had given them for Christmas. She made shirred eggs and warmed some Black Forest ham for Henry as well, and this being California, there was also a bowl of fresh strawberries. It had been a Christmas Eve ritual to have high tea together in the early evening and then a quick cold supper after midnight, when they got back from church and hung their stockings from the mantelpiece.

  After tea on Christmas Eve when Georgia was little, Henry used to read aloud A Christmas Carol. Some years he read selections from The Pickwick Papers, which one happy year gave Georgia such a contagious fit of the giggles that the reading had to be stopped so they wouldn’t wet themselves.

  Rue noticed that Henry had put his Pickwick on the table beside his favorite chair, in case this evening there should be time to read a little after tea and before Georgia’s friends came to take her away.

  “I love this tea,” said Georgia, pouring cream into her cup and heaping in sugar. “What is it?”

  “Lapsang Souchong.”

  “Just the smell of it reminds me of Christmas Eve.”

  Rue was toasting the scones over the fire.

  “Could you pass me the dead pig, Georgia?” said Henry. Georgia passed the ham and eggs, and accepted a hot scone from her mother. She heaped hers with jam and whipped cream.

  Rue looked wistfully at her rail-thin daughter and ate a hot muffin with a little sugarless jam.

  “Is that all you’re having?” asked Henry. “Have some dead pig,” and he passed the plate over. Rue took some eggs.

  “It’s just that we’re going to eat all day tomorrow. Of course Georgia could eat all day every day and not gain an ounce.”

  “Good genes,” said Henry, knowing she took after him.

  The phone rang. Both Rue and Henry were surprised when Georgia said, “Excuse me,” and dove into the back hall to answer it. They had long had a family rule against talking on the phone during meals. But soon Rue heard the now-familiar sound of Georgia stretching the phone cord to where she could settle herself in a nest of rain boots and tennis racquets on the floor of the coat closet. Even with the door mostly closed, they could hear happy murmurs, long silences, and the occasional exclamation or peal of excited laughter.

  “What’s all this then?” Henry asked Rue.

  “We have a boyfriend.”

  “We do? Is that whose sweater that is?”

  “Yes,” said Rue. She was surprised he had noticed the sweater, not that Georgia had had it off since she got home.

  “I knew it wasn’t mine,” said Henry. “Too big. Does this mean she’ll stop going off with all my shirts?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. A first serious boyfriend is different from getting married and moving to New Zealand.”

  “So this is serious?”

  “Oh well. That may be the wrong word—it seems more euphoric than serious.”

  “What’s its name?”

  “Jonah.”

  “I hate him already.”

  “Have a scone.” Rue held one to him on the end of her toasting fork. He took it and piled on some jam.

  “Does it have a last name?”

  “Not as far as I know. He comes from Brooklyn, he’s a senior, he’s training to be a conductor, and is widely considered a genius.”

  “Does that mean he can’t be told not to call when we’re eating?”

  “I think it might.”

  There was a whoop of joy from the coat closet, followed by the scuffling sounds of Georgia hauling herself to her feet and hurrying back to them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, as she picked up her napkin from the floor and sat back down to her half-eaten scone. She scooped some strawberries onto her plate for good measure. “Guess what—Jonah has a recording contract! He’s been sending our tapes around to A&R people, going around knocking on doors, and this morning Combat Earache offered him a contract! He’s going to make a record!” She looked from one parent to another, eyes glowing and cheeks flaming, fully expecting to be told that this was the single most astonishing and elating piece of news to be heard since man first walked on the moon.

  Henry and Rue both looked at her. Rue said, “Well how exciting, dear,” thinking this could be good news or terrible and she had no idea which.

  “What kind of record?” Henry asked.

  “I don’t know what you’d call it. Sort of grindcore with a lot of blues influence.”

  “So this is not destined to premier at the Met.”

  “No, Daddy.”

  “Well just give me a clue. Where would one expect to hear this music?”

  “Clubs. Concert halls, when he gets famous.”

  “Will there be stage diving involved?”

  “No, Daddy. Where did you hear about stage diving?”

  “But there will be amplifiers?”

  “Of course!”

  “I’m just looking for information. Is this contract for him or for a group?”

  “A group, I guess. He uses pick-up musicians for gigs, but now he’ll be able to put together a band, to tour.”

  “And how will that work out with his studies?”

  “Daddy—do you know how exciting this is? Do you know how many wannabes there are in New York, going from label to label with their demo tapes, who would kill to get a chance to make a record?”

  “I have some idea.”

  “Well then stop the third degree! This is exciting!”

  “It is exciting, Georgia. It’s absolutely thrilling,” said Rue. Then the doorbell rang, and Georgia leaped up again. She stuffed another chunk of muffin into her mouth and scrambled out. Soon she was back, with Caroline and Mary and Shana and Rochelle, her old pod from high school. They came to the door to say, “Hello Dr. Shaw, hello Mrs. Shaw…Merry Christmas!” while Georgia put on her coat. Then they were gone, the door closed behind them, and outside they could hear the excited piping voice of Georgia telling her news, and then the shouts of amazed excitement and the slap of high fives as her friends gave her the appropriate reaction that had so escaped her parents.

  Georgia was still pink with excitement when she slipped into the pew beside her parents at five minutes before eleven. Rue had a basket of gift-wrapped presents at her feet, and to her surprise and pleasure, she saw that Georgia had brought four presents with her too, wrapped in Rue’s most expensive paper. “You remembered!” she whispered to Georgia.

  “Of course. I brought them all this def stuff from New York.” Rue suddenly felt her eyes fill with tears, to think of Georgia, nineteen, on her own in that terrifying city, with an allowance that barely covered what she needed for subway tokens, shopping for Christmas presents for homeless children on the coast of California.

  The doors at the back of the church opened, and the organ began “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” The choir came down the aisle singing and carrying candles, and behind them, a twelve-year-old Joseph with a burnt-cork beard carried a staff and led a Shetland pony, on which was seated the blue-robed figure of Nicolette Wren. She was sitting sideways, bareback, and was clutching the pony’s mane with both hands, leaving the Baby Jesus she was supposed to be cradling dangling from her bosom with no visible means of support. Apparently, he was strapped to her body under her robes in some sort of infant carrier. Rue was pleased to note that Joseph was African American, feeling that this gave good representation to those who thought of Our Lord as the Lion of Judah, and Ethiopian. She wondered why in the world poor Nicolette had been cast as Mary, however, since she was clearly terrified of the pony. Then Rue remembered that Buster Wren was on the vestry.

  Following Joseph and Mary came two sheep who kept trying to escape into the pews. These
were being admirably managed by an efficient border collie whose master, dressed as a Magus, was about twice as tall and three times as old as the rest of the cast. Then came two smaller Magi carrying ornate boxes. One was Asian, and one was a girl. Far overhead, in the vaulted arches of the sanctuary, there was a large glittering star with a tail like a comet’s, being drawn along a wire by some form of pulley. The two little Magi kept their eyes piously fixed on the star, while the tall one kept his eyes fixed on his sheep.

  As it happened most years, some sort of miracle occurred once the members of the tableau reached the manger scene. Mary was helped from her ass by Joseph and she neither fell nor dropped the baby. The infant Jesus was (with some effort) disentangled from his mother’s bosom and laid in the manger, where he seemed to disappear in a cloud of straw. The pony then stood quietly, and the sheep lay down and went to sleep. The congregation listened, once again to the familiar verses from Luke, and they sang all the favorite Christmas carols. Rue found herself in tears over and over again to have Henry on one side and Georgia on the other, with Georgia sight-reading the alto and Henry singing the bass.

  Standing between her husband and her daughter, surrounded by people she knew and did not know, all of whom share a membership in this community, whose many bodies made one body and whose many voices sang one song, she wondered if she could find the words to explain to Mrs. Kip how she felt elated and transformed by belonging here. Inspired in the literal sense, she felt that as they sang they breathed in air that belonged to one spirit. She wished for a chance to say to her, “You thought I spoke lightly because I don’t believe, but that’s not it. I speak lightly because it doesn’t matter which parts of a narrative I believe or don’t believe. What matters is that I belong to a community that believes in a pattern life. I believe in the experience of belonging to this community. I can feel what it does in my life, it’s not a mystery or a matter of doctrine, it’s as experiential as eating dinner.”

  She thought of it again as she was falling asleep, with her arms around Henry and her cheek against the back of his shoulder. Of course, saying things like that to people whose beliefs were otherwise made no sense. No matter what she said, neither Chandler nor his mother was going to get the point of her. Never mind. Her job was to do what you have to do and let the storm blow until it blew over. They were entitled to hate her if they wanted to.