Josiah, Emergent

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Malraux
Malraux
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Sing was developing plans for that song.

CHAPTER 6: Meeting Mattie

"Josiah, this is Father Phil," the voice on the phone said.

"Yes, Father. What's up? I was at Mass Sunday," Josiah said. "No harm, no foul."

Phil laughed. "No, no, I just discovered that you sing with a pianist sometimes. I was wondering if you'd like to sing at a Mass in two weeks? Our organist is about to retire and he's inviting people to perform. He has arthritis and it's affecting him more now. Oh, we can't afford to pay you, you know."

Josiah considered. "I'll do it. I'll have to confirm with my partner. Sometimes we perform with a floutist. Should I ask her, too?"

"Oh, I didn't know. Yeah, please do. Do you think they'll agree?" Phil asked.

"I don't know. They're professionals, but I'll try to get them to do it."

"Thanks, Josiah." Father hung up.

"Now why did I agree to that?" Josiah wondered. "And without hesitation?"

Cora and Sing were very pleased. They saw Mass at a big church as an opportunity, exposing the group to a wide variety of possible clients. Sing contacted the church music director, who sent him a list of hymns and other music that could be used that Sunday. All three of them met with the church music director on Tuesday, and Sing played the old pipe organ at Merciful God for the first time..

He looked over at the music director. "The delay is longer than I expected."

The director smiled. "Yeah, you have to ignore it. And allow at the end for the final echo to resound. Not like the new ones."

Josiah had never seen someone so happy to play an instrument as Sing was playing those old pipes. He played louder and louder as the session went on.

Josiah said after a particularly booming song, "I thought you were worried you'd go deaf?"

"Yeah," Cora added with a nod and a smile.

Sing smiled sheepishly, "It's like I'm addicted. I have to hear it more and louder. I'll tone it down."

Sing and Cora saw rehearsal as work, but to Josiah it was fun. Between pipe organ and flute and clarinet, the sound was wonderful and everyone finished happy. The church organist was obviously excited. They were ready for Sunday.

Josiah loved that Mass.

Cora and Sing picked him up at his apartment, so they arrived together an hour early and had to wait for the preceding Mass to finish. Josiah watched the two pros set up then, which was only a moment. Sing played a few chords on the pipe organ, Cora played the scale on her flute and then oboe. Josiah sang softly a few bars of a few songs.

Sing and Cora were playing twenty minutes beforehand with songs from Beethoven and Purcell and Ravel, and Sing was doubly impressive on that huge pipe organ. Cora's flute was particularly lovely on "Pie Jesu," a song from Andrew Lloyd Webber with high flute notes countered by low organ. The church was full well before Mass time; there was no talk as people listened to the performance. Some wanted to clap when it finished before the priest processed.

Josiah didn't sing until Mass began. Here people had occasionally noticed him over the last year, although he hardly participated in church activities. He doubted any knew his name. He was that poor handicapped guy in the back the last seven months: wasn't he in the war? Now he was in front of them. He thought they were surprised to see him singing.

The processional began. It was a powerful song. He thought they were moved; someone clapped in the back. Father went on with the opening prayers immediately.

Sing had little experience playing for a congregation to sing, nor did he know the order of the Mass, and with the pipe organ he was not at ease with the delay between playing and sound, so he avoided it. Phil would signal when it was time for another song, and Josiah would point to the next song title. It was practically a concert, with him singing processional, offertory and communion hymns.

It went well. Before the recessional, Fr. Phil said, "I believe we should thank our musicians for some of the finest music I've ever heard at Mass anywhere." He looked down at a paper in his hand. "Josiah Langer, Cora Taschenbaum, and Sing Minh," he read.

it was quite wholehearted. Sing stood and bowed, Cora smiled and curtsied with her oboe in hand, and Josiah smiled and nodded.

The closing was magnificent. Cora and Sing played with enthusiasm, and many congregants remained in the pews till the end. Then Cora and Sing played three other prepared songs, and about a third of the people just stayed in their seats, and as many hung around listening and talking in the back of the nave. The music finished about ten minutes later. Everyone remaining applauded, including Josiah. Fr. Phil came back in and thanked them. Cora hugged Josiah. She and Sing hugged, too.

It was as if he felt part of a team again, and a winner. Josiah felt appreciated. "Maybe I'm getting better," he thought.

*

It was only a few days later that Fr. Phil called and asked if the group would like to play for a funeral. Sing and Cora were willing especially when he said the performance would pay for the whole group as one. "Some families don't have a lot to offer," Phil said. The father of the deceased had asked for them, having heard them at that Mass. So they did it for what was offered, cramming in a rehearsal and meeting with the arthritic music director to guide them in song selection.

Josiah showed the director the lyrics to "Of Hope and Love" and he approved them for before the ceremony began; loss of love and life were so similar. It was a long, wonderful, easy preparation evening in the nave, playing songs to consider and rehearsing.

They expected a sad ceremony. The deceased was a 20-year-old young man named Eugene Tierney who had passed after a year of increasing agony and decreasing hopes. Glioblastoma, a brain cancer, killed him young.

Josiah put his crutches behind the chair he'd be using, determined to stand on his own at least for the singing. He said a prayer for more endurance.

The church music director came to be sure they didn't become confused at the differences in a Mass with a funeral and just a Mass. They played some classical music, and Josiah sang "Of Hope and Love" with just the piano. Cora played a solo, and Sing played a famous hymn for the congregation to sing, but really only for Josiah because so few sang. It went well. Josiah steadied himself without his crutches, using the back of a chair, and sitting behind the piano so people didn't see him awkwardly rising.

There were some parishioners whom Josiah recognized from his attendance at Mass, but one woman he did not. She was his age, thin and pretty, and she looked at him occasionally as he sang or stood before the mourners. He hid his difficulty standing up, but he didn't think he was completely successful.

The deceased boy's father actually paid much more than the agreed price, but he was in so much grief that he didn't want to discuss it.

The nave emptied quickly after the casket was removed. Josiah used his crutches to the back vestibule, where Cora and Sing caught up with him. With lots of people still around, Josiah held his crutches in his left hand and walked awkwardly a few steps toward some chairs by the wall. Cora and Sing headed to the restrooms.

"That song was lovely. The one you sang first," a woman to his right said. He turned stiffly, because he could only turn stiffly, and there was that girl about his age, a little shorter than he, with blonde hair and he didn't know the eye color because he's color deficient, but he knew a pretty girl when he saw one.

He smiled at her, saying, "'Of Hope and Love' is the name. Hi, I'm Josiah Langer." He held out his hand.

"Mattie Morrison," she said. She noticed him fidgeting and misunderstood the reason. "I'm sorry, I'm keeping you, you seem to need to go." She backed away.

"No, no, I have trouble standing for a long time, that's all. Old war wound," he said, laughing. He showed her the crutches in his left hand.

"Oh, did you hurt it playing football or something?" she said, smiling and turning toward the chairs by the wall.

"No," he said, "it's really a war injury."

Her eyes were dismayed as she quickly turned back to him. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought you were being metaphorical. Can I help or...?"

"Let's just sit a minute in the chairs there," he said, pointing and heading that way. He used his crutches, it was just too awkward for him to walk. Cora and Sing came by and saw him going to sit. He introduced them to Mattie, and they excused themselves with a wave and a wink.

"Meet you outside," Sing said, and Josiah nodded.

"So, Mattie Morrison, how did you know the deceased?"

"My cousin," she said. "On Mom's side. I knew him but we were not particularly close. My parents were going to come but they were stuck on the highway behind a wreck, so they're home now."

She acted like she wanted to say more. She smiled, and he thought she was lovely. "My dad and his had some sort of inside joke. He's named for an actress, and I'm named for an actor. Gene was five years younger. My first name's Marion." She looked as if she were testing him.

It rang a bell in Josiah's mind. Eugene Tierney. "Gene Tierney!" he said. Marion Morrison. "You're named for John Wayne?" he asked, smiling.

"Dad liked The Shootist, he told me once. He didn't think Mom would know so he casually suggested Marion. When Mom found out later that I was named for John Wayne, she insisted I be called Mattie. She still feels like he snookered her."

Josiah laughed, thinking he might like her parents. "At least they don't call you Duke."

"That's true. It could have been worse, I guess. Your singing was beautiful. That one song was so touching. I noticed the lyrics speak of loss but they could mean life or love, couldn't they?"

"Yeah." he nodded. "Written by a singer who died soon after. Perhaps that's why she wrote it that way."

"Apropos, then, huh?" she said. She looked directly in his eyes.

He held her steady gaze. "Yes," he said, otherwise at a loss for words before her. Some seconds passed. "Well, it has been nice meeting you, I'm sorry at a funeral. Do you attend Merciful God?"

"I do. I'm at nine o'clock every Sunday."

"I may make a point of going earlier now," he said. He started to get up.

She stood, saw his difficulty and lifted under his elbow. "Thanks," he said. He liked being touched by her. She could help him anytime.

"I hope you will," she said. "Make it a point."

That was something to think about. Sing saw him come out and signalled they were ready to leave.

CHAPTER 7: An Upsetting Story

Practically having a date to see Mattie (not Marion) Morrison increased the pressure to get him to Mass. He fulcrumed himself into nine o'clock Mass a few days after the funeral and discovered that a lot of people go that early, also. He sat near the rear of the nave and looked around for Mattie. She arrived a few minutes later, behind him and left, and suddenly she was beside him in the pew.

"Hello, Josiah," she whispered, preparing to kneel beside him.

"Mattie," he said, smiling.

She lowered the kneeler and began to pray.

It wasn't a religious experience for him. He was happy sitting beside her, and even the struggle to rise was pleasurable because she helped him, lifting his arm or putting hers around him. He sang with the congregation and listened to Mattie's pretty voice, and Father nodded and gave a little smile after their eyes locked momentarily across the room.

"Would you like to come home and have brunch?" she asked him. "I live about a quarter mile down the road. We could drive if it's too far, I have my car."

"Let's walk, but slowly," Josiah said. "I'm supposed to move as much as possible on my own."

She smiled and said, "As slowly as you need." He crutched and she walked along, talking of life and her work and the town, books and sports. She didn't mention the war and he didn't bring it up. They rested every hundred yards or so.

"Are your folks there?" Josiah asked when they came in sight of her home.

"Yes. Are you nervous to meet them?"

"Yes," he admitted. "I haven't... I don't have much experience having a friend."

So they walked on, sometimes Josiah using the crutches, sometimes not.

"Oh, sometimes my right knee locks up, so if I fall don't be shocked."

"Why's it do that?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No one knows. But they don't want to operate unless it happens a lot. They're hoping it just goes away," he said. "It's only happened three times. After a few seconds, it unlocks."

So he swung along or walked slowly, and she stayed with him.

She had been a cross-country runner at Merciful Saviour High School and still ran three miles two or three times per week. Miami in Oxford, Ohio was where she'd lived for undergraduate school. She was now the head librarian at the Sky Grey Public Library; it was a gentle calling, although occasionally she'd bill somebody for a lost book.

He told her about his college experience at the University of Cincinnati, getting into the Marines thereafter, and then how he'd handled being home with surgeries and therapy. He saw sympathy in her eyes. Somehow her sympathy gave him pause. He usually preferred sympathy, but for some reason not from her.

Her house had five or six steps up to a big porch, which he mounted tremblingly using his crutches. Mattie positioned herself to the side to catch him if he fell back, but said nothing. He was perspiring at the top, and Mattie saw it.

"Tough, huh?"

"Yeah. But I'm a pro with the crutches."

They entered the front door into a dark wood house with plaster walls and overstuffed chairs. The place smelled of sausage and coffee, and he hoped they weren't barging in on a late breakfast with people in pajamas. But she called out, saying she'd brought along a friend. They passed into a large kitchen with table and chairs. Her father was reading the paper. He found out later that Mrs. Morrison went to Mass on Saturday evenings, and Mr. Morrison had a different view of the church. Mrs. Morrison was standing with a cup of coffee in her hands, leaning against the sink.

Mattie spoke. "Mom, Dad, this is Josiah Langer. I met him at the funeral the other day and saw him at Mass today."

Josiah swivelled forward, a bit awkwardly, crutches in his left hand, and shook hands with Mrs. Morrison and then Mister, who said, "Larry," meaning he should call him that. He nodded. They saw he had the crutches and probably noticed his handicap to some extent.

"Please, sit wherever," Mrs. Morrison said. "Would you like sausage and eggs, or cereal and milk, or pancakes?"

He thought he'd found heaven. He plopped a bit hard into a chair beside Larry, and relaxed a little more than other people would, almost as if he'd just run a few miles, if he'd had normal legs. "Pancakes sound great," he said, smiling. Mattie sat on the other side of him .

"Okay?" Mattie asked. He nodded.

They talked then as families do with a new boyfriend brought home. Where are you from, how'd you get to Sky Grey, what did you do for a living, that sort of thing. It was the first time he'd had to confront what happened to him since he'd left the hospital. It was the first time with nonmilitary people, really.

He'd been conditioned to distrust civilians when it came to understanding his experience.

He thought the conditioning was in error, at least if the Morrison family was any indication. They were interested and accepting and sympathetic. They listened and commented without judging anything.

"So you are how old?" Larry asked.

"26. I lived in Greenville growing up, went to public schools there, got a degree from UC. The Marines looked good to me then."

Mrs. Morrison asked, "Have you any family?"

"No, I was an only child. My dad was much older. Dad died of a heart attack and Mom took care of me. She became... alcoholic, over time, and died right after I graduated high school. So I went in the Marines with no family to speak of. No family history of religion much. But we went to St. Mary when we went."

Mrs. Morrison looked dismayed as she flipped a pancake.

"Marines, huh," Larry said, thinking about that.

"I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my degree," he said.

"Your legs... How'd you get hurt?" he asked.

Mattie said forcefully, "Daddy!" She was actually mad, and Josiah smiled at that. He'd never been defended by a girl in front of her father.

"I don't talk about the wounding much." Just then three medium pancakes appeared on a plate in front of him, with silverware and coffee and orange juice. Mattie had a plate then, too. "Thanks, very much," he said.

"I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have asked," Mr. Morrison said, actually looking chagrined. Josiah found that touching, and smiled.

"Well, I guess I shouldn't treat it like a mysterious event," he said. He paused to eat some pancake, which had blueberries and that he'd drizzled with real maple syrup. He'd noticed Mrs. Morrison getting out the real maple and putting away the Mrs. Butterworth's.

Mattie said, "You don't have to..."

He shook his head. "I know but might as well." He took another breath, one that quavered unusually, and he determined to give no details. "I was an infantry platoon commander. We had some firefights. Several IEDs wounded some of my men over the months, but none were killed. In my last firefight, I took a round right through the knees before my guys killed the shooter. Nothing much, just bad luck." He let out his breath, as if he'd been holding it because the moment was stressful. That was that, he thought. Not so bad. Good story, not many details, all of it was true. Not complete, but true. They were looking at him as if something was wrong.

It was the volume that surprised them. He realized he'd gotten louder as he talked.

Mrs. Morrison had stopped cooking pancakes and the smell of burning food began to waft."That was all?" Mattie said quietly, and he felt her hand on his arm.

He was perspiring, heavily. "What was wrong?" he asked himself. He looked around at each of them. They were looking back, concerned for some reason. There was that noise in his head that he got sometimes, but it wasn't terrible. Tinnitus or something.

"Yep. More or less," he said aloud. "They took me to a fob, a forward operating base, then to a ship, where they operated. I've had several operations. I expect no more, but operations seem to be the thing where my knees are concerned." He smiled. He'd gotten through it, without demons or crying or sharks, anything. Just some sweat. Good. The tinnitus diminished.

Mr. Morrison was looking at him as if he'd done something. "He's begging us to believe him," Larry thought. He wondered what happened to the poor boy.

"Sorry," Josiah said quietly, meeting no one's eyes. "I have trouble talking about Iraq.

"These pancakes are great, ma'am," he said, talking at a more normal volume, finishing more than he should eat. Mrs. Morrison joined them at the table. She smiled and welcomed his compliment.

"Are you in constant pain?" Mattie asked.

"No, no longer. I can use my legs, but I shouldn't kneel and the doctors said I might always need crutches or a cane for any kind of distance. They don't want to see their work messed up by too much weight on a bone they've rebuilt, and it might hurt. I have pins in some bones, and both knees were engineered in New Jersey," he smiled.

Mrs. Morrison reached over and covered his hand. "I am so... sorry this has happened in your life." He looked at her eyes: grey, sincere, and he wished he'd had a mom like that. Very much. He remembered Mom's eyes: yellow, bloodshot, dark. Why had her life been so different? He answered it himself, and looked to Larry with a little more regard.

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