Jill Churchill: A Farewell to Yarns

“Aren't you going to the door, Mom?" Mike shouted down the stairs. She'd been so deep in thought that she hadn't noticed her son leave the room, nor had she registered Willard's frenzied barking.

She opened the door to a blast of cold air and a Suzie Williams she'd never seen before. "Good God, you look like you've been stepped on by the cavalry," she said graciously to her guest.

“Thanks," Suzie croaked. Her face was pale but with hectic red circles on her cheeks, like a little girl who's been playing with her mother's rouge. Her hair, straggling out from a knitted hat, was lank. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was mopping pitifully at a Santa nose. "I feel like shit," she said unnecessarily. "Could I come in, or are you going to watch me like a biology experiment while I die on your front porch?"

“I guess you might as well be in my house, since you haven't the common sense to be home in bed at your own.”

Suzie staggered through to a chair in the kitchen. Collapsing in it melodramatically, she said in a voice that hurt to listen to, "A branch fell on the phone lines. I couldn't call. Jane, I need help."

“You need a doctor."

“I've called him and picked up the medicine already." She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out an orange plastic bottle full of capsules as proof of this statement. "But I'm supposed to sing in the church choir concert tonight."

“You not only can't do that, I'm sure you wouldn't even be welcome to try. You're spreading germs like Typhoid Mary."

“The point is, the physical arrangement of the choir is as important as the voices. We're standing on risers in a sort of pyramid. All I need is somebody to stand in my place."

“Oh, no—not me, Suzie. I can't carry a tune, and the director despises me."

“You don't need to carry a tune. Just silently move your mouth and stand in my spot. Jane, I'd do it for you," she added pathetically.

This little favor turned out to be a bit more trouble and a great deal more interesting than Jane anticipated. The sample items from the bazaar had been set up in the morning and then put away again, so she was there early to put them back out, which was a good thing. The choir director, a music major turned insurance salesman named Ed Shurran was understandably upset when she informed him that she would be standing in Suzie's spot but not—she assured him—singing.

“But you're a good five inches shorter than Mrs. Williams!" he said in a tone that verged on hysteria. "It'll spoil the whole look. And what about your robe? You'll be tripping over it in the processional.”

Most of the church offices were closed and locked, and a hurried search didn't turn up needle and thread but did reveal a stapler and cellophane tape. Jane managed a decent job of temporarily shortening a robe while Ed Shurran stood over her, wringing his hands. She then draped and started arranging the display table as the choir members started arriving. As she was stashing the last empty carton under the table, Albert Howard came over to her. "I hear you're standing in for Suzie Williams. Poor old Ed has his knickers in a twist about it.”

Jane chuckled at the English phrase. "With great reluctance, which is growing greater every second."

“Nothing to it. You're behind me in the processional and beside me on the risers. Come on. I'll walk you through it."

“That's awfully nice of you."

“No, it's self-defense. If I hang around the robing room, he'll try to sell me insurance. He always does.”

They practiced their measured walk down the aisle and onto the stage. Albert showed her a list of the songs, all of which were familiar to her. She wouldn't have too much trouble mouthing the words. "... And you just follow me out," he finished. "Want to run through it again?"

“No, I think I've got it. Albert, I'm so grateful. This isn't going to be half as complicated as I thought.”

They retired to the robing room with the others. Ed Shurran was talking to someone about collision and liability, and Albert Howard winked at Jane. When it was time, they lined up, and Jane had a momentary urge to hang onto the back of Albert's robe so she wouldn't lose him. "I'll get Suzie for this," she muttered under her breath.

Despite stage fright, Jane made it down the aisle and onto the risers without disgracing herself or the choir. Once they were into the second piece, she had calmed down. By the fourth, she was actually enjoying herself. As little talent as she had, she loved music, and it was downright thrilling to be standing in the center of all those lovely, powerful voices. It was especially nice that she was next to Albert. He had an awfully good voice. She'd always enjoyed his singing.

What a silly thought that was, she realized. She'd never heard him sing alone. Only as an anonymous part of the choir. And yet, there was something so familiar in the tone, it was as if she'd listened to him many times before. How perplexing. When would she have heard him?

Perhaps he'd had solos in church—no, she couldn't recall one.

“For unto us a child is born...." the choir sang.

Jane was growing more puzzled. It was almost like knowing something once well understood but not being able to quite reach out and mentally grasp it. She concentrated on listening. The slight throatiness on the low notes, the infinitesimal quaver in the higher range, the continuity of the notes, without any obvious breaking for breath.

The choir paused between songs. The director, his back to the pews, grinned hideously, reminding them to smile. Jane grinned back.

“It came upon a midnight clear....”

She stared at the back wall of the church, the better to focus her sense on listening. Maybe he just sounded like someone else. It would drive her crazy for days if she didn't figure it out. Somebody famous, maybe. She started mentally perusing a list of her favorite vocal tapes she had all over the house and car.

“...to touch their harps of gold ..." Suddenly Jane knew. He sounded just like Richie Divine!

But how absurd! Why would—how could Fiona's second husband sound so much like her illustrious first husband? Had he worked for years at sounding that way or—!

Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, Jane studied those nondescript features. The hair was the wrong color, but that didn't mean a thing. Hair could be dyed or bleached. The pot belly? Age. The receding chin? The mustache added to the impression, which might have had help from plastic surgery. The mustache itself completely concealed the upper lip.

Albert Howard didn't sound like Richie Divine.

He was Richie Divine.

Twenty-three

It took all the self-control she had to keep from turning and saying, "I know who you are! I love your records." Had they not been on stage in front of a lot of people, she would have.

As the last piece dragged on, however, she started having second thoughts. It was impossible. Richie Divine had been dead for years and years. He died when Katie was a baby. Fifteen years ago this month. Everybody knew that. But did they? Everybody knew his plane had crashed. She remembered her conversation with Mel about it. He'd said the plane and passengers were blown to so many pieces that nothing was identifiable. Was it possible that Richie Divine hadn't been a passenger on that plane?

If the man standing beside her actually was Richie Divine, he obviously hadn't died over the ocean when the plane exploded.

But why? How?

She almost missed her cue to step down. Albert Howard jiggled her arm, and she came to with a start and followed him down the risers. Trailing him, she noticed he was getting a bald spot on the top of his head. How sad that this golden idol of youth should have become paunchy and middle-aged in the obscurity of his own shadow. That was what he'd done--lived all these years as the pitiful second husband of Richie's wife. How terrible that must have been for him, to go from being an international superstar to an unknown nerd.