Sing Them Home

by Stephanie Kallos

  The end result is that Gaelan is afraid of staging a repeat non-performance in bed. He hasn’t invited any woman home for weeks, not even the women he was already sleeping with when he and Rhiannon started going out. For a while, they kept calling, asking him to come out and play. He had a ready excuse (I’m just so tied up with this online study class …) and took pains to assure them that it wasn’t them, it was him, and that he’d call when he got out from under all this schoolwork.

  They’ve stopped calling now, moved on, like migratory birds in winter. They must be dancing the commiseration tango with other partners.

  Actually, a period of enforced celibacy might do him good, help him focus on his studies—although it hasn’t so far.

  Gaelan parks the car and heads in, scanning the workout room on his way to his locker.

  No sign of Rhiannon.

  But after he changes into his sweats and reemerges, she’s there, standing near the reception desk.

  “Hi, Gaelan!” she says. “Merry Christmas.” She’s wearing a hat, scarf, gloves, boots, and there’s a big winter coat slung over her arm.

  “Merry Christmas.” Gaelan loves it when women dress for cold weather; all those clothes to remove. There’s an overnight bag at her feet. “Are you on your way out?”

  “Yeah, we … I already worked out today. The weather forecast, you know, and the early closing, holiday hours …”

  “Oh, right. I forgot about that.” Damn. He’ll have to do a truncated, more aggressive version of his workout. “You doing anything special over the break?”

  “Well, I’m …”

  “Hey babe!”

  Jeff erupts from the sales office and starts striding toward them; he has his designer jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to give a teasing peek at his mammoth biceps. No hat, no boots, no gloves, no topcoat. Clearly as a man so inherently hot that he doesn’t need protective gear in subfreezing temperatures.

  “Hey Gaelan!” Jeff pulls Rhiannon to his side. He nuzzles her jaw and then flicks his tongue against a pulsing spot on her neck with reptilian precision. “Yum,” he murmurs, and then winks at Gaelan.

  She’s told him. She’s told him everything.

  “You got any special plans for Christmas?” Jeff asks.

  “Not really. Headed down to see my stepmom and sisters.”

  “Don’t forget your free weights, buddy. Keep working your lats and pecs, okay? Come back with those New Year’s Resolutions.”

  “Will do.”

  Jeff turns to Rhiannon, yanks her by the waist, pivots her so they’re groin to groin. “You ready, babe?”

  “Yep. Bye, Gaelan.”

  “Bye.”

  He moves toward the locker room to the sound of Jeff singing the song that brought Rhiannon’s parents together, her answering laughter, and then an inner voice from years past:

  That’s quite a farmer’s swing you’ve got going there, buddy …

  Gaelan pushes himself hard on the elliptical trainer, does an extra round of reps on the Nautilus machines. It’s late, and it’s getting dark outside. If he skips his postworkout stretches, he’ll have just enough time to do some heavy lifting with the free weights.

  He settles in for the bench press. How much?

  You can do this, she said, so he loads up the bar.

  He has a great workout and doesn’t leave the Y until 3:30. It’s another hour before he makes it beyond the Lincoln city limits. The roads are slick, the snow is starting to accumulate, and traffic is crazy. He calls Viney from his cell phone to tell her he’s going to be late and they shouldn’t wait supper.

  His shoulder is starting to bother him. He must have overdone it a little. He pops some ibuprofen, puts in a Springsteen CD, and settles in for what’s bound to be a long drive.

  Oblivious to the way he’s undermining the holiday cheer of his fellow travelers, Gaelan keeps his emergency lights blinking and propels his Jeep toward Emlyn Springs at the speed of a golf cart moving through the rough.

  “That’s quite a farmer’s swing you’ve got going there, buddy …” His father’s voice is lightly teasing.

  Gaelan keeps walking, but he immediately shortens his stride and brakes the pendulum action of his arms by stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  “Sorry I was late,” Dad goes on. He’s slowed the car and is calling across the highway through the open car window. “Come on, get in. I’ll give you a ride the rest of the way home.”

  “No thanks,” Gaelan replies. “I’ll walk.” He waited for an hour at their appointed meeting place by the bridge before giving up. An hour, while his friends drove by and waved, while townsfolk kept stopping to ask him what he was doing and did he need a ride anywhere?

  No, that’s okay. My dad’s gonna pick me up.

  He fixes his eyes on the horizon and quickens his pace.

  “Come on, son, don’t be that way. I got hung up …”

  There was a car crash, a thresher accident, an amputation, a heart attack, a birth, a death, a stroke, a fracture … Dad’s excuses for failing to appear are predictable. And yet, how can you make claims on your father’s time or be pissed about him standing you up when he’s just sewed some kid’s fingers back on?

  “We can have a driving lesson tomorrow.”

  Can’t he at least say he’s sorry?

  “Don’t bother,” Gaelan mumbles. “Larken said she’d teach me.”

  There’s a pause, and for a while the only sounds are those made by the the two of them, a father and son moving in the same direction on opposite sides of the highway: the skittering of loose gravel and roadside trash in the wake of Gaelan’s footsteps, the slowed rpm’s of the engine as his father keeps the car creeping along beside him.

  “Fine, then,” Llewellyn says finally, sharply. “Be that way. Pout like a little girl.” Gaelan’s heart thuds in fear, but he also experiences a certain satisfaction: I made Dad angry. He noticed me.

  Gealan hears Dad gun the engine, watches as he speeds on ahead and disappears into the vanishing point of the horizon. He spends the next four miles trying out various ways of walking that won’t identify him as a dolt, a misfit, an embarrassment, because nothing could be worse for a thirteen-year-old boy than to be identified in teasing tones as having a farmer’s swing by your saintly physician father.

  What Gaelan doesn’t know, will never know, is that his father’s seemingly out directed anger is a function of guilt: He’s doesn’t have any legitimate medical excuse for failing to meet Gaelan at the appointed time and place; he’s late because he was having sex with his nurse and forgot to keep his eye on the time.

  And Llewellyn didn’t know—the way parents often don’t—that it’s often the semiconscious comment, the teasing remark, the snippy chastisement uttered in frustration at the end of a trying day that will be one your child remembers and clings to and incorporates into the mold out of which they’ll re-form themselves. Not the countless times he’s said Good job, son, or I’m so proud of you, but the single time he barked, Why can’t you take up a regular team sport like swimming or football? and Don’t be an idiot: bodybuilding isn’t an athletic event. It’s vanity. It’s a freak show.

  If only Llewellyn had made himself available to spot Gaelan when he started lifting weights. If only Hope had still been around when Gaelan discovered Springsteen. She would have chastened her husband for treating their son’s first great musical love with disdain. She wouldn’t have allowed him to banish that twangy crap from the stereo.

  Hope believed that certain pieces of music qualify either the composer or the interpreter for a spot in heaven. And not just “classical” music either; Hope was no snob. On her list of Free Admission to Heaven performances (and she continues to build this list) is “State Trooper” by Bruce Springsteen and “Que Sera Sera” as performed by Pink Martini.

  If Hope had lived longer, Gaelan wouldn’t still be waiting for his father to sit down and listen, really listen to a Bru
ce Springsteen album with him.

  Of course, if mothers continued to think about all the ways they could advocate for their children, they’d never leave.

  The snow stops falling when he pulls onto the bridge; strangely too and at the same time, the Jeep stalls out. Gaelan relaxes, momentarily becalmed by the sudden silence and stasis. He lets his eyes travel down Main Street in advance of his body, taking in the sight of colored Christmas lights twining around lampposts like Maypole ribbons; glowing plastic Santas and reindeer and crèches. Gaelan realizes that this is the first year his father wasn’t up on a ladder decorating Viney’s place.

  His father’s gracelessness while trying to do anything “handy” (and he did try) embarrassed Gaelan when he was young; every other kid he knew had dads who could fix things that were broken, build things without them falling apart. But later, when Gaelan thought of his father—who was so full of grace and competence in every other aspect of his life—precariously perched on a ladder, wearing a tool belt that always looked brand-new, bending every nail he tried to hammer—he felt for his father an inexpressibly deep and mournful tenderness.

  Did anyone step up to the tasks vacated by his father at Christmastime? Did anyone else stand on a ladder for Viney? Help her put up lights? Decorate the tree?

  He poses the questions; he knows the answers: No No No and It should have been me.

  The temperature has dropped again. The bridge is covered with several inches of dry powder, but there’s an underlayer of ice. Gaelan restarts the Jeep and makes his way carefully across the ravine and into town, which at this hour and on this night looks—and is—almost completely deserted.

  The porch of Viney’s house wears only two holiday decorations: a flocked, faux-evergreen wreath, and a choir of three life-size angel children, plastic triplets conjoined at the wings and holding hymnals. These characters haven’t made a holiday appearance for years—Where have they been all this time? Gaelan wonders—but he remembers them clearly: Their mouths are frozen in perfect o’s as if some character from an episode of The Twilight Zone gifted with the power to stop time zapped them just after they sang the first syllable of “O, little town of Bethlehem!” or “O Holy Night!” They derive their inner glow from an extension cord that snakes out from beneath the back of the middle angel’s robe and travels into the house through a partially opened window. There are lights on inside, but it is well past six and Gaelan knows that everyone has already left for church.

  He finds a note on the kitchen table: Welcome home, honey! Hope the drive wasn’t too bad. I’ll save a seat for you at church. If you’re hungry, feel free to depredate the pie. Love, V. After he unloads his car, he grabs a flashlight, bundles back up, and sets out for the two-mile trek.

  Among the Welsh of Emlyn Springs, it is a tradition to come to Christmas Eve services on foot—or by any other means that doesn’t burn fossil fuel or unduly mar the quiet. Not everyone keeps with this tradition, but many do. There are folks who ride their horses or employ them to pull sleighs, wagons, or pony carts; parents with young, nonperambulating children stand in as sled dogs; if the snow is deep and powdery dry, like tonight, some people arrive on snowshoes or cross-country skis. Bonnie rides her bike.

  Gaelan can’t remember ever walking to church by himself on Christmas Eve. As he swings his flashlight beam in an arc, he’s surprised by the number of footprints; he would never have guessed that this many people walk to church.

  Townsfolk would give different answers to the question of why this tradition has endured. Certain factions would insist that it’s a way of exposing young people—for whom everything is so easy—to a hardship that many of them endured on a daily basis. Others, of a less puritanical but still catholic disposition, would remark that there is something of the saints’ pilgrimage in this volkswalk. Others cleave to this custom because they remember that there’s a special sweetness in community that is hard-won. These wise souls would say that whenever light and fellowship and warmth and song are the promised rewards, even the heaviest hearts can soar.

  But Gaelan feels none of this: neither light nor lightness nor hope nor anticipation. As he trudges through the snow, he feels nothing so much as dread. He thinks of that poem about a man walking alone through the woods in winter—the poem Larken recited for the talent part of the Little Miss Emlyn Springs competition the year she won—and he wonders what on earth made it his mother’s favorite.

  Up ahead, he sees the white clapboard church, its steeple like a needle puncturing the dark pillow of the sky, its tall windows emitting a citrus-colored glow.

  Suddenly, Gaelan stops, listens. His townsfolk are singing. The song is a famous one, perhaps the most famous of all Welsh airs. Its English title is “All Through the Night” but in Emlyn Springs the song is known as “Ár Hyd Y Nos” and sung in Welsh.

  Town tradition dictates that a soloist—a gifted young person chosen by the church pianist, Hazel Williams—sings in a call-and-response manner with the congregation.

  Gaelan makes his way up the wooden stairs. The intense lemony light bursts out of the church wherever it can, revealing the uncaulked seams, the unweather-proofed cracks. There’s a confidence in this light; if only someone would fling the doors to the church open, this withheld light would warm the entire night.

  Gaelan opens one of the doors and peeks inside. The church is packed, but hushed. Every seat is taken—except, he imagines, the one near the front that Viney is saving for him, next to her and his sisters. There’s a clear view down the center of the aisle, so he can easily see the young man—he’s probably sixteen or seventeen—who stands in the front of the congregation, singing. Surely everyone inside knows him, but Gaelan doesn’t.

  O mor siriol gwena seren, the soloist sings.

  Ár hyd y nos, the congregation answers.

  I oleuo’i chwaer-ddaeren, he sings again.

  Ár hyd y nos.

  Gaelan opens the door a bit further, just enough to slide his body into the vestibule.

  Holl amrant au’r serddywedant …

  Ár hyd y nos.

  Dym a’r ffordd i fro gogoniant …

  “Ár hyd y nos,” Gaelan sings. Those few notes begin to unlock a reservoir of feeling, so he sings no more, makes his way back outside.

  It’s snowing again. He’s about to start down the stairs when he’s startled by the sound of someone clearing their throat.

  “Hello.” It’s Woodward-Bernstein.

  11 yo? 12? Small, sad, intense.

  Bethan’s son.

  “Sorry to scare you,” he says.

  “It’s okay,” Gaelan answers. “What are you doing out here in the cold?”

  Woodward-Bernstein gives him a quizzical look, as if he’s trying to decide if Gaelan is truly uninformed or simply pulling his leg. “I’m Jewish,” he says, giving Gaelan the benefit of the doubt.

  “I see,” Gaelan lies.

  “My name is Eli Ellis Weissman,” he continues, holding out his hand.

  “How do you do? My name is—”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” Eli says, and then, assuaging Gaelan’s sudden terror that Bethan has told her son everything about him, he adds, “You’re the television weatherman.”

  “Yes. That is correct.” For some reason, Gaelan feels the need to eliminate contractions when speaking to this boy.

  Eli fumbles around in a leather satchel that is slung over his thin shoulders. “I was hoping I might see you here this evening. I’ve been waiting for you, actually.”

  Gaelan doesn’t know what to make of this. He’s been stalked before, but never by a preteenage boy wearing a yarmulke.

  Eli extracts a large notebook and clasps it against his chest. “My play won first prize in the Pageant Play Competition and will be performed next summer during the Fancy Egg Days Celebration.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m hoping that you will consider auditioning for the role of the Custodian. It’s the lead.” Gaelan opens his mouth to speak but Eli
quickly presses on. “Auditions won’t be held until May but I would like you to get a head start. These are your sides.” Eli reaches inside the notebook and pulls out a sheaf of loose papers. “Merry Christmas,” he says, and then—before Gaelan has a chance to respond—he tromps down the stairs and disappears into the night.

  Gaelan looks at the pages. By the light coming from the church windows, he reads, You might not believe that there’s such a thing anymore as magic. Magic is a hard thing to come by these days. But folks, I’m here to tell you that inexplicable and miraculous things are happening all the time. You just have to know where to look. If there’s any place in the world that can bear out the truth of that, it’s our town, Emlyn Springs. Our little Wales.

  Gaelan sits down on the church steps. Something hard smashes against his hip. Wincing, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his flashlight.

  He pictures Woodward-Bernstein walking alone through the dark: his narrow shoulders and dark, serious eyes. He wasn’t wearing one scrap of light-colored clothing, and against the cold, no gloves or muffler, just an odd, oversized overcoat.

  A man’s overcoat, Gaelan realizes, and then, feeling a terrible remorse, he weeps.

  Hope’s Diary, 1967:

  A pilot could fly over it

  Family relationships cannot be perceived directly, or even through meaningful words. A family is like a small city at night, seen from across a prairie, its lights glittering. At times, its shape is almost graspable, the contours of its skyline are clear, the pinnacle, the organizing principle, all are fixed and for a moment comprehension is possible. The skyline is a shape that any child could draw. A pilot could fly over it. An artist could paint it. A particularly brilliant mathematician could create a proof to account for all its complexities.

  But then one light goes out, another is turned on. Lights dim or brighten, and in an instant what was almost accessible is lost again. Not even this small city can be described.