Saxophone, with vocal soloists

What am I doing here? John Carey looked around the concert hall, rapidly filling up with people in suits and expensive dresses, looking like . . . like . . . well, like he imagined New York socialites looked.

Not that he would know. His medium-blue workshirt was clean and crisp, and his khaki pants were fresh. But they seemed as out of place as he felt he was himself.

Part of him wanted to turn around and go straight home. But it had been a seven-hour drive and he didn’t want to have wasted it. Besides . . . . Lynn would have loved this place, he thought. They had decorated the stage with evergreen boughs and warm, soft candlelight; she’d loved Christmas. I can just picture her, all dressed up . . . . He took a program from an earnest looking young man, then found a seat in the back of the auditorium.

He remembered that Lynn had been in a production of The Messiah. Had to have been twenty-five years ago. He didn’t recall much about it; he just remembered that she had sounded amazing, and that he had felt . . . .

Something. He remembered feeling something. But whatever it had been, it was so far removed from his current existence that even its echoes had faded to nothingness. It had, he thought, been a good feeling. But music had brought him nothing but pain, ever since Lynn passed. He didn’t expect to feel anything good tonight, and if he was lucky, he wouldn’t feel anything at all. He was just here for his boy.

Hers, really, he thought, with a trace of sadness. I could never see much of myself in him. But, if Lynn can’t be here, someone should be.

A woman in a black sequined top and palazzo pants walked onto the stage from the left and stood at a podium that was close to the wings. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman.”

John snorted. That would probably include everyone here but me.

“I’m Glenda Wilkes, director of performing arts here at Branford Conservatory,” she continued. “On behalf of the President, the Board of Directors, and the entire faculty, I would like to welcome you to the Mikołaj Wozniak Center for the Performing Arts, and our special production of Georg Friedrich Handel’s classic oratorio, The Messiah. This masterpiece has been performed for almost three hundred years, since it premiered in Dublin’s Great Music Hall in 1742. Oddly enough, its original performance caused a bit of a scandal, since the singing of religious music in a public theater was considered, at least by some, to be indecent. Indeed, the Dean of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, a gentleman by the name of Jonathan Swift, almost refused to allow the Cathedral Choir to participate in the world premiere.”

John started to zone out. It had been a long drive.

But the woman didn’t keep talking for all that much longer. She gave a fulsome introduction to the conductor, who was apparently a big muckety-muck in musicland. Finally, she escorted a shortish woman with iron gray hair and an arm in a cast to the central podium. The audience applauded.

John joined in, but felt foolish about it. Why are we applauding? Nothing’s happened yet.

Then the choir trouped in and took their places on risers. John was too far back to make out faces, but he seemed to remember that soloists would be the ones who were dressed fancy. Neither of the guys in dark tuxedos was Gabe. If this is some kind of bait and switch, I am going to be pissed!

The conductor raised her baton and brought in the orchestra. They sounded okay to John, though he was aware he didn’t know much about it. He didn’t hear any sour notes, anyhow, but the harpsichord’s distinctive sound did nothing for him.

It was different when one of the guys in tuxes stood up and began to sing. “Comfort ye! Comfort ye, my people!” His voice was clear and beautiful, and it touched something in John’s heart. Some distant memory, perhaps. He’d been a Church-going man, once, but that was before. He and God hadn’t been on speaking terms since He saw fit to take Lynn away.

“The voice of Him, that crieth in the wilderness. Prepare ye the way of the Lord! Make straight in the desert, a highway . . . for our God!” John felt the words, so beautifully proclaimed, pushing against his detachment. Pushing hard. When the chorus came in, singing about the revelation of the Glory of the Lord, he found himself exhaling, like he’d been holding his breath.

A large man with an incredibly deep voice was next. Thus sayeth the Lord! The Lord of Hosts! While it lacked the purity and grace of the first pieces, the young man’s powerful delivery was effective. He’s got the whole ‘Voice of God’ thing down, that’s for sure, John thought.

Then a woman in a green dress stepped forward to sing. From a distance, she reminded him a bit of Lynn, with her slender build and wavy, light brown hair. She took a deep breath, then her voice filled the hall, seeming to float above the audience, cool, ethereal and pure as starlight in a deep midwinter sky.

“But who may abide, the day of His coming? And who shall stand, when He appeareth? Who shall stand, when He appeareth?”

John’s defenses collapsed like cobwebs before a comet’s fire. Oh my God. It’s her voice. It’s Lynn. His hands clenched on the ends of the armrests on either side of his seat, and he found himself shaking. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, and it carried a flood of memories. All the good times. The beginning times, and the happy times. And, of course, the end times. All the feelings that had accompanied those memories burst forth as well, though it felt like an eternity since he had been able to feel anything at all.

Softly, silently, he began to weep.

Recitative for Alto Voice

Haley launched, in perfect unison with the rest of the altos, echoing Gabe’s intro of the Isaiah proclamation, “Oh, thou that tellest good tidings to Zion, get thee up into a high mountain!”

She had no bitterness over being passed over for the solo; Gabe’s voice fit the part like . . . like a custom bra! The metaphor made her suppress a giggle. Haley knew she was good, and there would be plenty of chances to showcase her talent.

Meantime, her folks were right there, three rows back, beaming with pride, and she was loving the feeling of being completely in sync with all the talented women in her section. She particularly loved singing with Kiko, rock solid on her left, whose perfect pitch and crystal clear articulation anchored all of the altos.

Not that she knew it, of course. Kiko’s drive was amazing, but it came from such a place of insecurity it was almost painful to witness. Haley teased her, hoping that it might help, but it never seemed to for long. Gabe had better be good to her. And I sure hope she’s good FOR her.

Just as the piece ended, she felt Kiko stiffen. Haley risked a brief glance at her friend, then followed her suddenly fixed and focused gaze. Sure enough, not far from where Haley’s parents were soaking in the music, an elegant Asian woman with familiar regular features was looking intently at the stage.

She didn’t look impressed.

Right on cue, Carson’s deep bass boomed over the auditorium. “For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the people.”

Yeah. Sounds about right. Haley slipped a surreptitious arm behind Kiko and gave the shorter woman a half hug that was as intense as it would be invisible to anyone in the audience. She couldn’t say anything, but her message was as clear and warm as Kiko’s own voice: “We’re here for you, girl.”

Haley held the embrace until, slowly, bit by tiny bit, she felt Kiko relax.

Recitative for Soprano Voice

The second half of the first part of the oratorio is a showcase for the soprano soloist, focusing on the familiar nativity narrative from the Gospel of Luke – the shepherds abiding in the fields, the appearance of the angels, the proclamation of the infant birth, and the appearance of the heavenly host, singing the glory of God. Tamara felt every word as she sang the story; the stage was her holy sanctuary, and her voice was her communion.

Then, taking up the song of Zachariah, she sang, “Rejoice greatly, Oh Daughter of Zion!” and palpable joy filled each syllable. I was born for this!

She stepped back briefly as Gabe took up the story, singing “Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and tongue of the dumb shall sing.”

It was all Tamara could do to keep a lump from her throat. She knew there were plenty of religious people— Christians, even — who would disapprove of Gabe’s decision to walk in the world as a woman. But her faith community wasn’t like that; like Tamara herself, it was firmly anchored in the Gospel command to love one another. She was confident that Gabe chose the right path for herself, since her decision to identify and present as female brought out in her a ripening of what Saint Paul called the “fruits of the Spirit” — love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. You could see it in her face; feel it when she interacted with others.

And oh, could you hear it when she raised her voice to heaven!

Tamara stepped forward again for their duet and a smile briefly touched her lips as she remembered their conversation, right after the first time they rehearsed the piece. But she kept her eyes looking down at her score, doing nothing that would draw attention from Gabe, whose part came first.

It was hard not to look, though, because she knew the radiance she would see in her friend’s face. Could tell from the beauty, the compassion, the sheer prayerfulness of her friend’s voice proclaiming the allegory of the Lord as a shepherd, feeding and caring for His flock.

It got to her! Her downcast eyes caught on the small gold cross that hung on a fine chain around her neck, and she thought, “The Holy Spirit shall come upon thee, and the power of the Most High shall overshadow thee.”

She raised her head and drew a deep breath, her eyes fixed on Frau Talmadge at the podium. With joy in her heart, she waited for the Director’s signal, then sang, “Come to him, all ye that labor, come to him, that are heavily laden, and He will give you rest.”

Recitative for Alto Voice

Kiko had never been so focused. Her mother’s surprise appearance, after saying she wouldn’t come, had given her hope, but it didn’t last. She could sight read her mother’s face as easily as sheet music for Ring Around the Rosie.

She’d frozen, but Haley’s wholly-unexpected gesture of support anchored her before Carson finished his back-to-back solos. It was just her luck that the chorus that followed — For Unto Us a Child Is Born — is both the most cheerful piece in the entire oratorio and one of the most intricate and challenging.

So she had channeled every ounce of discipline and all of her ferocious intensity to tune out everything except the score in her hands and the director at the podium. She would not think about her mother, or her friends that she might lose without her mother’s financial support. She would not even think of Gabrielle, who had brought her to the edge of tears with an otherworldly rendition of Behold, A Virgin Shall Conceive.

She was aware of the voices of the other girls in her section, completely synchronized and in tune with her own, supporting every phrase, every word, every note that she sang. To achieve the perfection of their blended sound was her one and only mission, and she would not think of anything else.

The solos, duets, and purely instrumental interludes were the hardest, since the choir — and, thus, Kiko — had nothing to do except look decorative and fret. Kiko did her best to keep her mind completely blank instead, but that was far from her natural state.

Fortunately, the second part of the composition, designed to reflect the liturgical themes of Lent, Easter, the Ascension and Pentecost, uses the full choir most intensely. Kiko was thus able to retain her focus as one chorus followed another, with relatively few breaks — Behold the Lamb; Surely, He Hath Borne Our Griefs; And With His Stripes; All We, Like Sheep; He Trusted in God; Lift Up Your Heads; Let All the Angels of God; The Lord Gave the Word. She started to think she might make it.

For How Beautiful Are the Feet, however, their arrangement had the choir responding to the alto soloist, and Kiko’s awareness expanded to encompass Gabrielle’s unique voice, clear, pure, and infused with the quiet joy the lyrics called forth. Try as she might, she couldn’t suppress her emotional reaction. It was as if her gentle lover had stretched out a hand and touched her embattled soul.

Damn you, girl! I need to focus!

Kiko could not help herself; she longed to join her voice to Gabrielle’s, to answer love with love. When the director’s baton flashed to the choir, it was with a glowing smile and a full heart that she sang out, “Then glory to God! Then glory to God! Then glory to God! Glad tidings!”

The music shredded the barriers she’d erected and she felt them all — Gabe, Haley, the whole choir, the orchestra. Frau Talmadge, powering through her injury. She felt the presence of the audience, including her mother and the weight of all of her unmet expectations. Her heart ached, and stretched.

But her smile would not waver.

Recitative for Alto Voice

It was the movement that caught Gabe’s eye. She was looking at Frau Talmadge, naturally, but behind the Director someone in her line of sight used the custom that the audience stands for the Hallelujah Chorus as an opportunity to slip forward and snag a better seat.

It didn’t register until the chorus reached its thunderous conclusion. But as Tamara started the third and final part of the oratorio with the Aria, I Know That My Redeemer Liveth, something clicked in Gabe’s brain. That was . . .

Barely moving her eyes, she looked out in the direction where the man had been headed, and sure enough it was him. Here. Why would he come here?

His face was covered in tears, and Gabe couldn’t remember him ever crying. Her first thought was that he was reacting to her female presentation, but that felt wrong. He didn’t even cry when . . . .

Oh.

Gabe’s worry vanished in a shock of understanding, a flash of insight that left no room for doubt. Her father wasn’t crying because of the son who became a daughter. His tears weren’t about her at all.

He was finally, after twelve years, mourning his wife.

Somehow, she knew, the music had reached him, burning through the emotional numbness that had allowed him to keep going when the love of his life was gone. For the first time, Gabe saw past the mask of her father’s paternal role to the man underneath, who did not simply exist in relation to his child. And the words she had sung earlier in the evening seared her heart — A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.

She had thought him cold and distant, and had doubted his love. But as she studied his face from a distance, she wondered whether it was her love that had been wanting. Yes, she had lost her mother. But he had lost his wife, too.

Then Carson’s powerful bass interrupted her thoughts, singing of mystery, redemption, change and resurrection. Her heart, bereft of doubt or defense, heard the words with a new understanding.

She left us each other, Dad. And if we remember her together, she’s still with us. Her love is still with us, and in us.

Carson’s solo ended and Gabe felt a profound stillness, and an upwelling of peace and surety. She stepped forward into the silence. Back straight. Shoulders loose. Chin up. Breathe.

Her voice held all the compassion that flooded her heart, yet it was still clear, still pure. “Then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: Death is swallowed up in victory.”

Her eyes were on the director, but in that moment, Gabrielle and her father might have been alone in the hall.

Trumpet Voluntary, with Trombone Embellishments

The baton moved in the 4/4 beat almost without her having to think about it, at a moderately brisk allegro moderato tempo. She looked to the bass section and flashed the baton at them, launching their initial run of “Amens.” Six measures later, with the basses in the middle of an “Amen,” she sent the tenors into their own series of runs. At measure twelve she looked straight at Kiko Agatsuma, who had been rock solid the entire performance, and brought in the altos. The sopranos were last, and she invited them to join the party with her left hand.

Which ached more than she wanted to admit. A lot more. But above all it just felt heavy. The cast didn’t actually weigh all that much, but after two and a half hours of vigorously waving her arm, the fiberglass felt like an iron manacle. She brought her hand down to rest on the podium briefly, conducting the brief orchestral interlude by baton alone. All four parts of the choir came back in together at measure 31, then she needed both hands again; the runs for each of the sections were staggered, weaving together in intricate patterns.

The lower three parts united again at measure 83, with the sopranos joining in measure 84 for the final three measures in adagio. Amen, Aaaa-aaah-men.

She brought the baton upward slowly, triumphantly, vibrating with intensity, extending the last note. Then she raised her left arm and her index finger flashed down to kiss her immobilized thumb for an instant before springing back. At once, and all together, all sound ceased.

The silence lasted two beats, then three, before the applause began. It washed over her like a tide on a full moon, but she did not turn around. This was a special moment, one she shared only with the young men and women in front of her. One of the few times when she let down her reserve and let them see just how much she appreciated their hard work, their professionalism, and above all, their heart. She beamed at them. Every one of them.

As the applause peaked, she turned around and gave a bow, then directed applause to the orchestra, the choir, and each of the soloists. A final bow by all participants, and she led them off stage.

The singers and musicians were quiet; back on the stage, the Performing Arts Director was thanking the audience and giving directions to the location of the reception. But Frau Talmadge could see wonder and satisfaction on each of their faces, the magical awareness of having been part of something extraordinary.

She gathered them backstage, and when they could tell that Glenda Wilkes had finished her remarks and the audience was heading for the exits, she got their attention. “I hope you know just how good all of you were tonight. For many of you, I know, your parents were in the audience. Grandparents, maybe. Brothers, sisters, family. Friends. They came for you, and I assume they came to hear a good performance. You gave them something more. Something sacred. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of each of you, and what an incredible pleasure it has been to direct you in this performance.”

Her eyes took them all in. They were hers, if only for a few moments more. Every face familiar, with memories attached from hours of rehearsals.

Suddenly, she realized that one particular face was missing. Giving her incredible team a final smile, she concluded by saying, “They want us to wait five minutes before joining the reception, where I think you will find a reasonable supply of very good champagne. You have earned it – and my thanks! Now, I think Mr. Winthrop has a few additional remarks.”

But Winthrop embarrassed her, as she should have guessed he would. “Frau Talmadge, I second your remarks in every respect. But I want to say, in addition, what an honor it has been to work with you, and how much I have enjoyed it. Thank you!” He began to clap, and everyone joined in enthusiastically.

She bobbed her head in acknowledgment, slightly embarrassed, and touched her right hand to her heart. “Thank you. Thank you all. And I’ll see you at the reception.”

She headed toward the ladies’ room, but something told her to turn left rather than right when she hit the service corridor, making her way to the door that opened to the ground level of the auditorium. Poking her head out so as not to be seen — she had no desire to be button-holed by a parent without some food in her system! — she immediately spotted her lost sheep.

Smiling, she closed the door softly and retraced her steps.

Duet for div. Alto voices; First Alto, melody. Ent. saxophone

Gabe led the alto section off the stage, following the last of the sopranos, then stepped aside to let the people behind her pass. As soon as Kiko was off stage, she pulled her to the side. “Dad’s here,” she whispered.

Kiko’s eyes grew wide, but she kept her voice equally low. “Oh shit!”

“Maybe . . . But I don’t think so. I need to grab him before he tries to slip off without saying anything.”

“Should I come?”

Gabe thought about it, then shook her head. “Not yet. Maybe I can talk him into going to the reception.” Giving Kiko a quick hug, she said, “I gotta run.”

“Go. I’ll see you there. And . . .Gabe?”

“Yeah?”

Kiko looked like she was about to say one thing, but changed her mind and said something else. “You were amazing, and I love you. Now scram!”

Something was up — Gabe could tell — but clearly Kiko figured it would wait. Gabe squeezed her in gratitude, then quickly made her way down to the service door leading back to the auditorium. It would be just like her father to try to avoid an encounter that might be emotional. Not today, she promised herself.

She cracked the door open just enough to peak, and spotted him right away. Like the rest of the audience, he’d remained standing for Director Wilkes’ brief remarks. As soon as they were over, he turned toward the exit.

That was Gabe’s cue. She dashed through the door and closed the distance quickly. “Dad!”

He turned and saw her, then froze.

Gabe searched her father’s face anxiously. Desperately wanting to say something, but unsure of what. “You came.”

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. Ragged. He looked like he wanted to say more, but could no more find words than Gabe could. They stood motionless, staring at each other, for a moment that felt eternal.

Then Gabe resolved to put aside her fear and trust the intuition that had pierced her as she’d seen her father’s face from the stage. Crossing the gulf between them, she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. “I don’t know what to say, Dad.” Her voice, perfect through hours of singing, broke. “Except I want you to know, whatever’s happened, whatever will happen, I love you.”

When she felt his powerful arms on her back returning her desperate embrace, and felt his cheek rest against the top of her head, she began to cry. I can’t remember the last time we hugged each other.

“Oh, Gabe! You’re just like her,” John whispered. “Just like my Lynn.”

She pressed her head against his chest, closing her eyes. “Is that . . . I mean, are you okay with that?”

She could feel his nod. “You gave her back to me, just now. You brought her back!”

They clung to each other without words, as the auditorium emptied.

— To be continued

Author’s note: A shout-out to Dallas Eden, who absolutely nailed how this chapter would play out. I didn’t leave THAT many clues, but I think she’s read everything I’ve ever posted here — for which I am incredibly grateful — and I expect she’s got me sussed. :)

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.