background. I want you to be singing that close”—he’d hook his cane on his left arm, holding his right thumb and forefinger an inch apart—“to a whisper.” Then he’d hobble up to the front and ask Z what song she wanted to sing next.
On the night of the Christmas concert Father said he felt like he had his sea legs all the way back but also said he wouldn’t be caught dead listening to the children of the rich sing Christmas carols to white-shoed tourists in Ghirardelli Square, and Mother’s opinion was that the whole ball of wax was too vulgar for words. They both ended up going, of course. Only Beth didn’t come. She was typecast as a frustrated little fat girl in
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
and couldn’t skip dress rehearsal. What was this aspiration of hers to become an actress? It would have been about as likely as me winning a slot on the six o’clock news. Once she even tried out for cheerleader and came home crying; I served her dinner in her room and tried to come up with reasons to live.
While Beth was spreading malicious rumors concerning the art teacher and Miss Brodie, I was singing ballads about a virgin birth. Christmas in San Francisco never has anything to do with snow or sleigh bells. The moon hung above us soft and full, the stars were white light on a warm black sky. We sang atop a three-tiered platform to the patrons of a shopping plaza in the Square. The conductor had his own little stand. Some people, when they got a look at his limp, figured us for a needy group and rang quarters at his feet. I’m sure he would have kicked the money back to them if he could have. He seemed a little distracted, but everyone else was happy. All the parents, shoppers, and visitors applauded our performance taking pictures, requesting numbers they used to sing when they were kids. Right below us, a water fountain rose pink and fell blue. Above us, on the terrace, sounds of crystal and silver came from an outdoor café. The boys and I in the muted harmony–low melody section must have gotten carried away by the festive atmosphere because we forgot about our instructions to remain musically anonymous and sang so loud that, even though we were standing in the last row of the last tier, the conductor came up to me during intermission to say: “I could hear you.”
I thought the chorus in general and my little coterie in particular was having its best night ever. I assumed he was complimenting me on knowing when to let out all the stops, so I said, “Oh, thanks. You could actually hear us all the way in back, out of all those voices? Great.”
He was propped against a lamp. With one hand he was twirling his cane, and with the other he was trying to get his gold tooth to refract the light of the lamp and blind me in the left eye. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t want to hear you. I thought I told you to be that close”—he let go of his gold tooth, pressed his thumb and forefinger together—“to a whisper.”
“You did,” I said. “B-b-but I thought, what with all the water f-f-fountains and people and all the applause—”
“A TV crew is supposed to be here shortly and there’s a chance we’ll get on the eleven o’clock news. On the rest of our songs, I want the five of you to mouth it.”
“Mouth it?”
“Yes. Just move your lips. Don’t sing any of the songs, don’t say any of the words. Just mouth it, okay? I don’t want to hear any of you coming through on the news.”
I looked up. Mother was waving. Father was snapping pictures with his Nikon. They both seemed so much a part of the Christmas spirit that I didn’t want to ruin their night. Somehow I’d been appointed spokesman for the Last Tier Quintet. I said, “Okay, we’ll mouth it.”
I think the idea of hearing themselves on the eleven o’clock news threw dread fear into the hearts of the other four fellows. They didn’t seem to mind mouthing it and, as a show of solidarity, I went along with
On the night of the Christmas concert Father said he felt like he had his sea legs all the way back but also said he wouldn’t be caught dead listening to the children of the rich sing Christmas carols to white-shoed tourists in Ghirardelli Square, and Mother’s opinion was that the whole ball of wax was too vulgar for words. They both ended up going, of course. Only Beth didn’t come. She was typecast as a frustrated little fat girl in
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
and couldn’t skip dress rehearsal. What was this aspiration of hers to become an actress? It would have been about as likely as me winning a slot on the six o’clock news. Once she even tried out for cheerleader and came home crying; I served her dinner in her room and tried to come up with reasons to live.
While Beth was spreading malicious rumors concerning the art teacher and Miss Brodie, I was singing ballads about a virgin birth. Christmas in San Francisco never has anything to do with snow or sleigh bells. The moon hung above us soft and full, the stars were white light on a warm black sky. We sang atop a three-tiered platform to the patrons of a shopping plaza in the Square. The conductor had his own little stand. Some people, when they got a look at his limp, figured us for a needy group and rang quarters at his feet. I’m sure he would have kicked the money back to them if he could have. He seemed a little distracted, but everyone else was happy. All the parents, shoppers, and visitors applauded our performance taking pictures, requesting numbers they used to sing when they were kids. Right below us, a water fountain rose pink and fell blue. Above us, on the terrace, sounds of crystal and silver came from an outdoor café. The boys and I in the muted harmony–low melody section must have gotten carried away by the festive atmosphere because we forgot about our instructions to remain musically anonymous and sang so loud that, even though we were standing in the last row of the last tier, the conductor came up to me during intermission to say: “I could hear you.”
I thought the chorus in general and my little coterie in particular was having its best night ever. I assumed he was complimenting me on knowing when to let out all the stops, so I said, “Oh, thanks. You could actually hear us all the way in back, out of all those voices? Great.”
He was propped against a lamp. With one hand he was twirling his cane, and with the other he was trying to get his gold tooth to refract the light of the lamp and blind me in the left eye. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t want to hear you. I thought I told you to be that close”—he let go of his gold tooth, pressed his thumb and forefinger together—“to a whisper.”
“You did,” I said. “B-b-but I thought, what with all the water f-f-fountains and people and all the applause—”
“A TV crew is supposed to be here shortly and there’s a chance we’ll get on the eleven o’clock news. On the rest of our songs, I want the five of you to mouth it.”
“Mouth it?”
“Yes. Just move your lips. Don’t sing any of the songs, don’t say any of the words. Just mouth it, okay? I don’t want to hear any of you coming through on the news.”
I looked up. Mother was waving. Father was snapping pictures with his Nikon. They both seemed so much a part of the Christmas spirit that I didn’t want to ruin their night. Somehow I’d been appointed spokesman for the Last Tier Quintet. I said, “Okay, we’ll mouth it.”
I think the idea of hearing themselves on the eleven o’clock news threw dread fear into the hearts of the other four fellows. They didn’t seem to mind mouthing it and, as a show of solidarity, I went along with
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