Opal got up and ran to him, and Tate hugged her tight. He kissed the crown of her head, wanting to tell her everything would be all right. But he couldn’t. It would’ve been a lie.
Trudy Robertson’s newborn began to cry, and the girl—all of fifteen now, he thought—unbuttoned her shirtwaist, pulled out a breast, and began nursing her child. He saw Rebekah look over, then just as swiftly look away, her cheeks reddening. No one else in the room paid it any mind.
“Come on into the bedroom, son.” Her mother tugged his hand. “You too, Rebekah. Time for swappin’ names can come later.”
They entered the bedroom, Rebekah a few steps behind. His father lay beneath the covers, his head propped up on two pillows, and he looked much the same as the last time Tate had seen him, except his breathing was noticeably more labored, and his face more ashen.
Determined to hold on to a little hope, Tate had brought additional laudanum, but he wondered now if they’d need it.
“Angus,” his mother whispered. “Can you wake up, darlin’? Witty be here with his woman friend, Rebekah. They come to see ya.”
His father stirred, then coughed, the deep rattle in his chest making Tate’s own lungs ache. Tate moved closer and leaned in to be in his father’s line of sight, the ache in his own chest fanning out.
“Hey, Pa. It’s good to see you again, sir.”
His father blinked in the dimly lit room, then reached for his hand on the covers. “Be it . . . time for the last load, son?”
Tate gripped his hand, not wanting that time to be here. Not yet. “No, sir. I don’t think it’s quite time.”
His father sighed, a soul-weary sound that all but broke Tate’s heart. He knew he was being selfish. But he wasn’t ready to say good-bye yet. He was so close to being able to honor his father in the way a man like Angus Whitcomb should be honored—by sitting front and center in the new Nashville Opera House and hearing the symphony his son had written for him, inspired by him and the life he’d lived, and all he’d given.
Tate heard a shaky breath behind him and turned to see tears streaming down Rebekah’s cheeks.
Later that evening, once neighbors had taken their leave, the family sat down to dinner—what little everyone ate. The cabin felt more spacious, certainly, but also emptier somehow, and sadder, as Angus Whitcomb’s struggle to breathe filled every corner of the home.
And that’s when Tate knew what he had to do. . . .
He walked back into the bedroom and took his father’s hand. “Pa,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.
His father’s eyelids fluttered open, and it seemed to take a moment for him to focus in the soft glow of lamplight.
“Pa . . . I might have been wrong earlier.”
A frown creased his father’s brow.
Tate steeled himself against the wave of emotion cresting inside him. “Like you’ve always taught me . . . the Lord calls each of us to run a race, a race meant only for us. And when your race is done”—his voice broke as tears pushed past his reserve—“Jesus will make that known. So listen for him, Pa. And when you see that finish line, whenever it comes, you run for Him with all you’ve got.”
Tears slipped from the corners of his father’s eyes and trailed down his temples. “Ya been . . . a good son, Witty.”
“And you’ve been the best and most loving father I could have ever asked for.”
Tate stayed by his father’s bedside all night. Until, finally, dawn broke and the sun edged up over the mountains. Each time his father took a breath, Tate expected it to be his last. Yet even as he sat there, he found himself thankful that he could hear his father breathing, that he could hear the creak of the cabin, the slow-burning crackle of the fire in the hearth, and the first warble of a songbird calling for the world to awaken.
Staring out the window, watching the smoke-colored clouds drift slowly over the highest peaks, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Rebekah, her hair tousled from sleep, her eyes full of care and concern. He brought her palm to his lips and kissed it, breathing in her sweet scent, so grateful she’d come with him. So grateful she was in his life, for however long.
“Witty . . . ” Voice soft, his mother walked up from behind. “Coffee be on the stove. You and Rebekah go get yerself some. I’m gonna sit with Pa awhile.”
Tate stood, his muscles stiff from having sat in the chair so long. In the kitchen, he poured two cups and handed one to Rebekah. “Let’s grab blankets and go sit outside. I want to talk to you about something.”
They settled on the front steps, and Tate draped a blanket around her, then another around them both. They huddled close, the steam from the coffee rising to their faces, the crisp mountain morning offering fresh hope after the dark of night, and he thought . . . this wouldn’t be a bad way to spend one’s life.
None too eager to chase away the silence and peace of the moment, Tate drank his coffee and tried to think of a way to tell her what he needed to tell her. He’d brought the letter from Dr. Hamilton with him, had it in his pocket even now. He’d intended to tell her night before last when he’d invited her to his house for dinner. Then the response from the Philadelphia doctor had arrived, followed by the telegram . . .
But there was something else he needed to tell her first. “As I was sitting by my father’s bedside through the night, I kept thinking about the fourth movement and what it’s lacking, and why it’s been so difficult to write.”
“What you did, though, with what you’ve written so far, changing from C minor to C major, that was masterful.”
“What we’ve written so far.” He gave her a look. “And yes, I think that helped. But as I’ve composed this symphony, I’ve tried so hard to write something worthy of the European masters—Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven. And while I’m pleased, for the most part, with the first three movements, I want the last one to reflect more of who I am. More of . . .”
He lifted his eyes to his beloved mountains, which boasted shades of green too numerous to count, their rugged beauty incapable of being described by words alone.
“This,” he said softly. “My world in Chicory Hollow. Because while I’m writing this symphony for the opening of the new opera house, the real reason I’m writing it, Rebekah . . . why it’s been so difficult and frustrating and maddening at times, is that I’m writing it . . . for my father.” He felt her watching him, her body warm against his beneath the blanket. “I want this music to be not only a celebration of his life, but a reflection of my love and admiration for him.”
Without words, she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, and he pulled her closer.
“Which, I finally realized early this morning, means that the fourth movement must include a violin solo. I’d use the fiddle, if I could, but I doubt my esteemed colleagues would appreciate it.”
Her soft laughter echoed his.
“However, I have one small concern,” he continued. “By incorporating a violin solo, that means that Darrow Fulton, the first violin and my concertmaster—and a man upon whom I’m not at all certain I can depend—will be the one to play it. Then, of course, there’s the slight challenge of adapting mountain music into the fourth movement of an orchestral arrangement.”
Finger to his chin, she gently turned his face toward hers. “If there is any composer in the world who can do this, Tate . . . it’s you. I could not believe in you more than I already do.”
Her words like a balm, they also opened up a place inside him where he didn’t want to go—and where he didn’t want to take her. He hadn’t yet come to grips with the diagnosis himself. How could he invite her into that place of chaos and uncertainty? And how to tell her the truth when she believed in him so unwaveringly?
“Rebekah, you’ve asked me, numerous times, in recent weeks if . . . something’s wrong. Or if something’s happened.” Dread, both of her reaction and of an unknown future, knifed his gut. “And . . . it has.”
She frowned, and he instinctively started to pull away, but
stopped himself. Moving away from this woman was the last thing he needed—or wanted—to do right now. Soon her assistance in composing would become more vital than ever. And then, after the symphony was completed and the grand opening behind them—the knife twisted inside him a half turn—he would do everything in his power to pave her way to New York City where a new life awaited her. But first, to get through this. . . .
“You remember the weekend you followed me to Chicory Hollow?”
She nodded, studying him.
“The reason I didn’t return Monday afternoon as planned was because . . . I had an appointment with a doctor in Knoxville that morning, and the examination went longer than expected.”
“Tate . . .” She placed a hand on his arm. “Is everything—”
“I’m going deaf, Rebekah.” Saying it aloud for the first time jarred him. He couldn’t look at her. “Based on his examination, the doctor said I’ve already lost a considerable amount of my hearing. He wanted to consult colleagues and sent his prognosis in a letter that said, based on the few patients with similar afflictions they’ve treated . . . I can expect to suffer full hearing loss over the course of a year, maybe a few months more. Maybe . . . a few less.”
“How . . . ” She cleared her throat. “How long have you known?”
“About two weeks. The day I showed you the opera house.”
He finally turned to look at her beside him, and she nodded, her face pale, lips pressed firmly together.
“I returned home that night and the doctor’s letter was waiting.” He sighed, feeling a bitter smile. “I didn’t open it at first. I couldn’t, even though I knew not reading it wouldn’t change anything in the long run. I think I simply wanted to live a few more hours without knowing for sure. So I went to my study, and I played. I don’t know how long I was there at the piano. But when I finally stopped, I opened the letter, I read it . . . and have been trying to come to grips with it ever since.”
She wove her fingers through his. “Tate, I . . . I’m so sorry. I knew something had changed, that something was wrong, but . . . I never suspected.”
The shock in her expression, the disbelief, were familiar to him. They’d been his constant companions for days on end.
“Did the doctor say anything else? Are there treatments? Are there other doctors, perhaps, that you could see? Ones with more experience in this area?”
“Dr. Hamilton is the leading physician in the field of hearing maladies. He served as director of medicine at Boston Medical for over thirty years. The doctors he consulted are also experts in that field.”
Tate had thought the burden inside him might ease a little once he told her, but it hadn’t. The sadness in her eyes tore at him. “So you see now,” he continued, needing to fill the silence, “why the prospect of writing a violin solo will be even more of a challenge.”
“Tate . . .” She wiped the moisture from her cheeks, her eyes earnest. “I can help you do this.”
“I know you can, Rebekah. You’ve already helped me more than you’ll ever—”
“No, you don’t understand.” She briefly closed her eyes. “I haven’t been completely—”
“Witty?”
Tate turned to see Emil standing in the doorway.
“Ma says ya need to come. Pa’s askin’ for ya.”
Giving Rebekah’s hand a gentle squeeze, Tate rose and started for the door—when the planked porch shifted beneath him. He reached out for the wall of the cabin as the ringing in his ears grew thunderous. He found it difficult to breathe, much less remain standing.
From a long distance away, he heard Rebekah’s voice.
“Tate, are you all right?” You all right . . . you all right . . . you all right . . .
Her voice echoed down a long tunnel toward him, each reverberation more painful than the last.
“I’m fine,” he heard himself say, his voice traveling back toward her. But even as he said it, he realized how foolish it sounded. How foolish he must look to her.
A muscular arm came around his shoulders.
“Brother, ya okay?”
Emil.
As quickly as the episode came on, it subsided, but equilibrium was slower to return. A dullness filled his ears, as if sound was passing through a wet blanket before it reached him.
“I’m fine,” he said again, holding the side of his head. “I . . . must’ve gotten up too quickly.” He looked at Rebekah, whose expression was pained.
“Ya better not be sneakin’ any moonshine behind Mama’s back. She’ll skin ya alive.” Emil laughed.
Rebekah didn’t.
With effort, Tate walked inside of his own accord and continued to the bedroom. Rebekah and Emil followed. Everyone was gathered—Rufus, Benjamin, Opal, his mother. Her face lit when she saw him.
She held out Pa’s fiddle, her eyes glistening. “He’s wantin’ to hear ya play, son. Done told us hisself. And we already knowin’ what he wants to hear.”
His mother’s voice was distant and muffled. Tate looked at his father, saw the ghost of a smile on his face. Tate reached for the fiddle, careful not to look at Rebekah.
He plucked the strings, tuning as he went, the simple task he’d done countless time now proving a challenge. But what if this was the last time his father would ever hear him play? What if this would have to suffice instead of his symphony?
“This be Angus’s fav’rite church song,” he heard his mother telling Rebekah. “He learnt it to Witty when he was just a boy.”
Tate tucked the cherished instrument against his collarbone and drew the bow across the strings. The resulting notes were familiar to him, but still sounded distant, and distorted in a way.
Please, Lord . . . For him. Let me do this for him.
Tate closed his eyes, concentrating, and played, the notes and cadence of this song having been woven into the fabric of who he was long ago. But oddly, the lyrics—which he knew but didn’t dwell on as much—were what rose in his mind this time, and the words all but drowned out the music. “Come, thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace . . . Streams of mercy never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise . . .”
He squeezed his eyes tight, struggling to find the melody, but the ringing in his ears returned. And by the time a note finally registered, another soon piled in upon it, then another, and another, until the notes were more a jumble inside his head than a tune.
Realizing the futility, he lowered the bow to his side and slowly lifted his gaze. His father’s eyes were still closed, but furrows knit his brow. In the faces of his family, Tate read confusion. But in Rebekah’s, he read heartache. And understanding.
“I’m s-sorry,” he stammered. “I seem to be having another one of my headaches. Perhaps, I can try again later and—”
Wordlessly, Rebekah crossed the room, gently took the fiddle from his grasp, and with tears in her eyes, began to play.
30
Rebekah didn’t dare look at Tate as she played the beloved hymn, yet she could think of nothing and no one else. Tate . . . going deaf. She could scarcely wrap her mind around what he’d told her and what that would mean for him. And yet, it explained so much. His erratic behavior in recent days and weeks, his irritability and frustration. It all fit—
And it broke her heart.
She tried to imagine how she would react if she’d gotten that news, losing the ability to do what was most dear to her. A cold stab of fear caused her to grip the fiddle more tightly than she should, and with effort, she consciously relaxed her hands.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted Opal inching forward and quickly realized the young girl’s intentions. The glistening in Opal’s eyes made her own tears start afresh.
“‘Here I raise mine Ebenezer . . . ’” Opal sang, joining in the middle of the second verse, her tender love for her father evident in her voice. “‘And I hope, by thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home. Jesus sought me when a stranger, wanderin’ from the fold’a God. He,
to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood.’”
The fiddle’s chin rest, worn on one side, felt especially smooth against Rebekah’s skin, the instrument having been well loved and well played. And how precious that this song meant so much to two men she and Tate had loved so dearly in their lives.
The rest of the family—except Tate and his father, whose eyes remained closed—joined in on the third and fourth verse. Then Rebekah played the melody again, one last time—slower, softer—the uniqueness of this family’s vocals and their way of expressing themselves in song influencing the vibrato and trills she played. The fiddle reminded her of the one Demetrius had owned and upon which he’d first taught her to play.
The image of Demetrius and how he’d looked the last time she’d seen him—his smile, the way he’d stood in front of the house waving good-bye—brought to mind again the last words of the fourth verse. . . .
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.
Thy courts above . . . where Demetrius was now. Along with her father, and soon . . . Tate’s father. All believers. Men who had trusted in Christ. As the last note faded, the soft look of contentedness in Angus’s rugged features made her heart swell, as did Cattabelle’s tears as she closely watched him.
But when Rebekah sneaked a look at Tate, she couldn’t decipher the emotion in his sober expression and quickly looked away again.
“What ya be sayin’?” Cattabelle leaned closer to her husband’s face, then looked up, her composure wavering. “Pa says ya fiddled nice as ever, Witty.” She gave him a soft wink. “Says he’s real proud.”
Tate nodded once and bowed his head, and Rebekah felt for him, grateful Angus still thought his son had been the one playing.
“You done real good,” Emil whispered to her as he left the bedroom.
Benjamin nodded, following after. “’Twas real nice, Miss Carrin’ton.”
A Note Yet Unsung Page 35
