by Chris Cander
He clasped his forearms, slipping his hands inside the sleeves of his robe. He had a habit of pacing in small ovals when he was talking. Myrthen watched him follow his own path round and round, visible now in the wood floor after fourteen years of circumscription.
“Oh, how I wish we could install such a holy instrument here. It would uplift the parishioners. And it would impart splendor and strength to our prayers. Surely prayers accompanied by an organ would leave a deeper and more lasting impression, when skillfully employed. The strength of a thousand prayers at once, all inspired and controlled by one.”
At this, Myrthen discovered a personal interest in the idea. “Who would play an organ here?”
Father Timothy became solemn again. He stopped pacing and wilted back into his chair. “Herein lies the problem. We have no organ, no organist, and no money to pay for either. Perhaps we could petition a subscription from the parishioners. Though in such troublesome times, who would have sums like that to spare?”
After a few weeks of searching, Myrthen found such an instrument through an advertisement in the Philadelphia Inquirer:
Moravian Unity Church — To be sold by the Church-Wardens, the Organ in the Moravian Unity Church. The Instrument is modest but very neatly adorned. It consists of 1 manual and 8 stops (including a Terzian), 2 original double-fold wedge bellows and 486 pipes. (Scattered mouse and rat damage to the wooden rank of pipes and pine case have been repaired.) It may be inspected; will be sold cheap, and the Purchaser may remove it immediately, (another being expected from England this Autumn) but if it is not disposed of, is, on the Arrival of the new Organ, intended to be shipt to England.
Without consulting Father Timothy or her husband, Myrthen liquidated her savings. She arranged for the organ’s purchase and enlisted the son of a known Moravian organ builder to oversee its transport by train, reassemble and voice the instrument, then teach her as much as she needed to know so that she could assume the role of liturgical organist in addition to her position as church secretary. Her mother and, later, her aunt Agnes had taught her to play German waltzes and polkas on the piano when she was a little girl — happy tunes that never quite settled into her soul — a musical skill that could, she correctly believed, be translated to the organ. Her palms grew damp at the idea of playing on such a powerful instrument the hymns and dirges that would accompany her contemplation of the Savior and amplify the strength of her prayers to God.
Father Timothy, when she told him of the impending arrival of her gift to the church, hit his knees. Her husband, as she predicted, hit the roof.
From the moment the organ arrived at St. Michael’s in March 1933, she devoted nearly all her time to it. Her husband rarely saw her. He never needed to ask where she’d been when she finally crawled reluctantly into bed with him at the end of the day; he could smell the moldy spoor of old wood and incense on her clothes.
The day before their third Valentine’s Day together, John came home from work after his shift in the Number Seventeen mine ended at three o’clock, as he always did, to a house full of dust and empty dishes. Once again he’d planned to paint her a small gift — a winged Cupid or a tree with their initials carved in the trunk — something that might finally penetrate the icy backcountry of her heart.
But when he went into the bedroom to collect his paints and brushes, he saw the mess on their bed. Sheets flung back, almost proud, the bloodstains dried to nearly black. There would be no baby again, a fact that tightened his heart into a fist beneath his work shirt. If there were someone to carry on his name, he’d thought, he might finally feel a sense of purpose. And if he could make her into a mother, she might be different. She would love the child, and maybe, finally, love him, too.
He balled the sheet and, if there hadn’t been twenty families within earshot, he would have emptied his lungs of all the disappointment and anger he’d accumulated during their marriage. How he would have yelled until it hurt: at the bed, at the blood, and even at God. But instead he squeezed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his temples until his head pounded. Why bother? Even if there were a God, He wouldn’t hear the scream of a lone half-believer. He couldn’t. Not when the half-believer’s pious wife, with her incessant prayers and incantations and organ playing, was taking up all of His time.
August 14, 1936
Alta, Walter, and four-year-old Abel stood on the platform at the train station, withering under the afternoon sun. Walter was wearing his Sunday clothes. Even though it was nearly four o’clock on a Friday, Alta had insisted.
“They don’t care what I look like,” he’d said.
“Please, Walter,” she’d replied, more with panic than with admonition. “They’re used to seeing people dressed up.” He groused under his breath, but did as she had asked.
Meanwhile, she’d stood at the door of their small closet in her bra and slip, biting at a hangnail and fretting over her limited options. She tried on her housedress with the tiny rosebud print, but it felt too ordinary. Slacks were too casual. She had a pair of shorts, but they might look silly to her worldly aunt Maggie. Fashion arrived slowly to Verra; she wasn’t even certain what would be considered stylish beyond the ridges that separated them from the rest of the world. She tried on each of her seven dresses, but in the end went back to the one with the rosebuds, because at least it fit nicely with the trim waistline and matching belt. And she wore her best shoes, polished to gleaming. There would be no mud crusting between her barefoot toes this time. She wanted to show Maggie how she’d grown up in the eleven years since the first and last time they’d met, now that she was a wife, a mother. If not exactly sophisticated, she was worthy.
The train was late. Walter tugged at his tie. Alta dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief, fingered the limp curls she’d spent an hour coiling into place, and held tightly on to Abel’s hand to keep him from running off to throw rocks onto the tracks. Finally, they heard the familiar rumble of the passenger train coming around the bend.
“Here they come!” Alta said, touching her hair again. Then she reached down and adjusted Abel’s collar, licked her fingers, and passed them over his hair. “Stand up straight,” she said. She took a deep breath and did the same.
The train heaved toward them, all steel and steam. The first few passengers descended with their jaunty hats and valises. Out-of-towners, for certain. Then Mrs. Colby, with her one inflated leg, coming from a specialist in Philadelphia, limping down the steps with the help of the conductor. And then her uncle, who stepped out first so that he could turn and extend his hand to her aunt.
Maggie, at thirty-two, was no less stunning than she had been the first time Alta saw her. She wore a navy-blue rayon dress with tiny raised polka dots and puffed sleeves that contrasted with her tiny, belted waist. The two buttons at her neck and chest, made from rabbit-fur pom-poms, were unnecessary and divine. Glossy, dark curls framed her felt beret and set off her flushed cheeks. At an age when most of the hardworking women in Verra began to look like their grandmothers, Maggie still sparkled like a girl.
She looked around, apparently delighted at the rustic tableau, and when she found Alta, who’d gone suddenly rigid, she put her hands on her hips and shook her head slowly, smiling, as if to say, Well, look at you.
Just then Abel, who couldn’t resist a close inspection of any train, wrested free of his mother’s grip and ran toward the engine. Alta, who’d hoped to impress her glamorous aunt with her feigned composure, sprinted after him. She caught him by the back of his shirt just before he was about to step onto the tracks, and came to a breathless, windblown stop in front of Maggie.
“Well, he’s a live one, isn’t he!” Maggie said.
Alta smiled weakly back at her, trying to smooth her dress and her hair while still holding on to Abel. “He is,” she said, then to him, “Abel, say hello to your great-aunt Maggie.”
“Hello,” he said, looking down.
“Great-aunt! Now doesn’t that make me sound simply ancient! Oh, b
ut you’re looking lovely, Alta. Simply lovely. And all grown up!” She rested a hand against her heart. “Why, it was just yesterday, and now look at all of you.” She turned then toward the two men, who’d just introduced themselves, and said, “You must be Walter.” He shook her hand awkwardly. To Alta, it looked as if he might crush her, his solid, coal-stained paw girding her dainty fingers.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, nodding and solemn.
“How do you do,” she said.
Punk, still swift as a hummingbird and dapper in his shiny banker’s shoes, gave Alta a one-armed hug. “You’re looking fine, Alta girl. Just fine. And what a nice family you got yourself. Your mama’d be so proud.” He squeezed her again. “Now, how about we get this show on the road? Can’t have my bride melting out here in this infernal heat, now can I?” He looked over at Maggie and winked, his smile reaching all the way up to the graying hair at his temples.
The circumstance that drew them away from their Upper West Side apartment for a weekend visit to Verra and not, say, to the Hamptons or Nantucket Island was the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary of Punk’s older brother. Alta tried not to think too hard about where Punk and Maggie might have been, so many years ago, on the occasion of her wedding to Walter or, more recently, during Abel’s baptism, or on any of his four birthdays. They’d always sent a small gift along with their apologies, and often mailed postcards from their many trips — Canada, Cuba, Europe — but this was the first time they’d actually come back. Alta watched Punk fuss over Maggie’s suitcases and the way she lightly touched him every so often on the arm or the cheek. Then she looked at Walter as he plodded along ahead of them, a suitcase in each hand and all the thoughts to which she had no access billeted in his squared-off head. Walking behind them all, she reached down for Abel’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
Punk’s brother’s house had no room for extra guests, since older relatives lived with them, so Punk and Maggie spent the weekend at Alta’s. That news came first as a thrill — Aunt Maggie so close by; think of all the time they’d have together — later usurped by distress. Alta looked around their modest house. What would Maggie think of it, so plain, so unoriginal? There was no time — and no money, quite frankly — to do anything about the house, but at least she could present it well. She’d spent the better part of the day before, and then that morning, scrubbing and washing, making her bed with clean sheets — Alta would sleep with Abel and Walter would take the couch — and she gave Abel the job of picking flowers for a bedside bouquet. When it was all done, Alta stood back and tried to imagine what it would be like to see her home for the first time, but she couldn’t. To do so, she’d have to possess a memory of something different to compare it with. But she’d never been to Canada or Cuba. She’d never even been past the borders of West Virginia. Everything she’d ever known looked exactly as she expected.
Because it was Friday, she made pstragi sauté for dinner: fried brook trout that Walter and Abel caught that morning, cooked with the head and tail and served with thin slices of onion, and a few sprigs of mountain cress for a garnish.
Any time she’d spent worrying about Maggie’s reaction had been wasted, because her aunt had nothing but kind — even effusive — words for the meal, the house, the comfortable bed. She even expressed regret for having to take it over (but didn’t offer another arrangement). “Won’t this be cozy?” she said to Punk, leaning against him and threading her arm into his. Abel, usually as quiet as his father, warmed to Maggie so much that he volunteered that it was he who’d picked the flowers. She bent down and cupped his chin and said, “They really are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen.”
After dinner, Alta cleaned the dishes and put Abel to bed while the adults retired to the living room to smoke and drink the scotch whiskey Punk had brought. When she came back downstairs, she encountered a tableau vivant: Walter sitting uneasily in his easy chair, pressed back against the cushion as though he were being held there, both feet on the floor rather than one draped over his knee the way he usually sat when he was relaxing at home, and holding his glass of whiskey as though it were a dead animal; Punk sitting at the end of the couch, comfortable as though it were his own, one arm on the rest, the other draped over the back. Sitting very close beside him, but still maintaining an independent and dignified air, was Maggie, who held a cigarette and whiskey in one hand while trailing her fingers up and down Punk’s trouser leg with the other.
Alta slipped quietly in while Punk talked, took the chair next to Walter’s, and picked up the glass someone had filled for her.
“Have you been following the Olympics in Berlin?” Punk asked. Walter and Alta both shook their heads.
“Oh, you should, really. The games are simply wonderful,” Maggie said. “We’ve been practically addicted to checking the scores, haven’t we?” She looked up at Punk, who nodded confirmation of this shared experience.
“That’s the first thing we go for when we read the Times over breakfast,” he said. “So you didn’t hear what happened to that Negro runner from Pennsylvania? John Woodruff?”
They shook their heads again, and Alta felt a heaviness settle across her shoulders. Maggie, on the other hand, smiling at her husband, flush-faced and elegant, seemed to be levitating.
“It was remarkable, really,” Punk said. “Two weeks ago, the eight-hundred-meter dash, this Long John Woodruff they call him on account of his terrific height, he was what?” He turned to Maggie.
“Six feet three inches tall! Can you imagine?”
“So one of the other runners, a Canadian, I believe, started off at a slow pace and somehow or another all the other runners ended up boxing Woodruff in. So what does he do? He stops! Literally, right there, three hundred meters into the race, he comes to a dead stop.”
“Why’d he do that?” Alta asked.
“He might’ve earned a disqualification if he were to push his way through, if he spiked another runner to get ahead,” Punk said. “But the thing of it is, he won! He stopped dead and then moved out into the third lane and took off again, and he won the gold medal.” He slapped his thigh. “Can you believe it?”
“One minute, fifty-two-point-nine seconds,” Maggie said. “It’ll go down in history, just you watch. If only we could’ve been there in person to see it.”
“We’ll catch the next Olympics in 1940, I promise,” Punk said. “Say, maybe we could all go. I don’t know where it’ll be, but if it’s in Europe again, we could sail across the Atlantic on the Queen Mary.”
“The Queen Mary?” Alta asked.
“The British ocean liner,” Maggie said. “She made her maiden voyage just this May. I hear she’s simply divine. Oh, we must go. We must!”
Alta tried to smile and stole a glance at Walter, who had taken an interest in his whiskey. Bankers might sail to Europe on ocean liners, but coal miners did not. She picked up her glass and, in her mind, clinked it gently against Walter’s. Then she took a sip, as though it were merely water, and it burned going down. When she tried to suppress a reaction, it made the sting worse, and in spite of her embarrassment, she stood and let go a salvo of heaving coughs.
“Oh dear!” Maggie said, and nearly leapt off the couch. “Punk, honey, a glass of water!”
Maggie patted Alta on the back, reaching up in order to do so; Punk scurried to the kitchen; and finally, Walter stood up, though he could think of nothing to do to help. After she had stopped coughing, and the spills had been dabbed off the rug, and apologies had been offered back and forth — Oh, dear, I should’ve warned you; Oh, no, it was silly of me — Alta said she was going to go check on the baby, and bid them all goodnight. Punk and Maggie agreed that it was indeed late, and they climbed up the stairs hand in hand, leaving Walter to make himself a bed of the couch alone.
On Sunday evening, after the aunt and uncle’s anniversary had been celebrated, the family went back down to the train station with Maggie and Punk to see them off. Abel gave Maggie a sheet of scribbled
-on paper as a farewell gift, and Punk presented Alta with an unopened bottle of I. W. Harper whiskey. “Drink it slow, now, hear?” he said with a wink. He shook hands with Walter while Maggie gave Alta a hug. “Do think about traveling with us sometime, won’t you? If not the Queen Mary, then perhaps someplace else. I’ve always wanted to see the Pyramids, haven’t you?”
The whistle blew and Punk gently herded Maggie and her suitcases toward the train. “We’ll see each other soon!” she called, and blew a kiss over her shoulder. When the train finally pulled away from the platform, the three of them, Alta, Walter, and Abel, stood still and mute until they could no longer see even a lock of smoke in the sky.
“Let’s go on home then,” Walter said.
That night, after Abel was long asleep, and Alta and Walter had gone to bed, Alta lay awake, watching the moonlight through the open window and listening to the crickets call. Next to her, the bouquet of wildflowers wilted. The silence that had overtaken the house again, now that Punk and Maggie had gone, rang in her ears. She thought about Long John Woodruff and the Queen Mary and the Pyramids. She thought of Punk and Maggie, the way they touched each other constantly, as though reminding each other of their presence, of their passion. Walter hadn’t touched her at all since Abel was a baby. She wasn’t even sure why. It was another thing about which they didn’t speak, but maybe it was time.
She rolled onto her side away from the window, tucked one hand beneath her head. Walter lay on his back, as he always did, unmoving, as though practicing for the coffin. Slowly, she reached out across the span of bed, like the Queen Mary crossing the Atlantic, and let her hand rest on his chest, feeling his breath and the beat of his heart, slow and steady as a clock. She moved her hand higher up toward his neck, a gentle caress that inspired no reaction. She reversed the direction, dragging her palm over the button-front of his pajama top, over the crest of belly, and down the other side. When she reached the elastic waistband, and slipped the tips of her fingers just inside, he stirred.
