The Night Singers Read Free Page A

course this summer. Astronomy.”
    â€œThat’s nice.” He is distracted, clearly anxious to get on the road.
    â€œI’d like to help with the priest’s gift. How much did you give him?”
    â€œNo, that’s all right. It was my idea. You don’t even go to church.”
    â€œNeither do you. Come on.” I pull out my cheque book.
    â€œOK. I guess. I gave him $100.”
    I write a cheque. “Thanks for doing all this.”
    â€œSure,” he shrugs. “I’m not clear it’s what he would have liked. He was always so hard to figure out, you know?”
    â€œI know.” I hesitate, not wanting to crowd him. “But I’m glad we did it. I’m glad to see you.”
    â€œYeah.” He is caught between pleasure and embarrassment.
    â€œNext time you’re out West, save some time to visit me in Idaho. “It’s a beautiful state.”
    â€œGreat skiing,” I offer.
    Laughing, we both grow looser.
    He kisses my cheek.
    â€œNext time,” I say.

Appoggiatura
    From time to time during his open studio, Paul noticed her sitting in the wooden rocker; a small woman, late fifties, greying, attractive. Then someone would ask a question about his music. Or congratulate him on the concert, one of two he would have performed here at the Chester Resident Composers’ Festival this spring.
    â€œYes, yes, I often use percussion,” Paul answered the tall, thin man who had introduced himself as Thaddeus, “the music director” of a local elementary school.
    Gay. Paul could tell the teacher also thought he was gay—by the way Thaddeus touched his arm and gazed into his eyes. Paul got this often because of his trim build, fine features, curly black hair. When they were kids, his sister used to say he had a very beautiful face, kept saying it, even after a hard punch in her twelve-year-old stomach. He wasn’t gay. Not even bi or latent. He loved women. Found them fascinating, arousing. The idea of women, anyway. And this last relationship with Muriel had continued over a year. They were talking of moving in together. He still wasn’t sure why he broke it off.
    â€œI admired the vibraphone in your second piece,” the teacher was saying.
    Paul smiled, “Thanks.”
    A young, blond family entered his Open Studio.
    â€œWelcome, I’m Paul Timmins, a composer, and you’ll see examples of my work in sheet music over by the piano. Let me know if you have any questions.” He and the other resident composers were holding “office hours” all day. Some composers were playing CDs of their work, but Paul agreed with Copland that background music was blasphemous, like melodic wallpaper.
    The kids followed their parents to the Steinway.
    â€œThanks,” called the father. “I’m sure we will.”
    These Vermonters were full of questions. Doctors. Cab drivers. Lawyers. Teachers. Waiters. It seemed as if the state bred inquisitive, music-loving people. So different from South Dakota where he’d been teaching at Clarksdale College for fifteen years. Where his notes seemed to vanish into prairie winds.
    An Asian couple walked in. “Is this the composer’s studio?” asked the tall woman.
    â€œYes, welcome. I’m Paul Timmins.”
    â€œGreat concert last night,” declared the man, extending his palm.
    They shook hands.
    â€œYou’re generous to say so,” said Paul.
    The schoolteacher cleared his throat. “I should make room for your other fans,” he placed a brotherly hand on Paul’s shoulder. “But, hey, you’re in residence on the Festival Grounds for six weeks. Maybe we could have a drink sometime.” He offered Paul a card in the shape of a harp. “Thaddeus Wilson, Maestro.”
    Paul nodded. “Thanks.” He didn’t want to offend the guy or lead him on.
    â€œThe card design wasn’t my idea. One of my friends made it, an