baritone’s ongoing battle.
Either the singer and his wife were the last gringos attentive to the Vatican’s stance on reproduction or they had learned from the Irish that all triumphs are, in the end, statistical; the Protestants would have to be beaten through sheer numbers. At the Hispanic Mass, their seven unwashed children wouldn’t have seemed such a terrible disaster, but compared to a typical English-speaking family—a few adults and a single child—they were absolutely scandalous. Seven? she asked him, thinking he must be exaggerating. Seven, he answered, five boys and two girls.
Before the watchful eyes of the parish, the clan had grown to an uncontrollable size, and the children’s disarray had naturally increased in direct proportion to their quantity: the younger ones’ clothing had already been worn threadbare by their older siblings, who were also better fed. The mother, a beanpole of suspiciously Calvinistic propriety and severity when times were good, had gone flabby, swollen, and purple beneath some dresses that were, by now, quite snug. The baritone was still red-faced and robust but his beard was badly trimmed and his tennis shoes were a disgrace; the alterations stitched into the underarms of his shirts gave notice of a sudden, unhealthy increase in weight. They would have been a normal enough family in the 1970s, a time when modesty was not yet considered a defect, but among the perfectly trimmed and outfitted congregation at nine o’clock Mass they seemed more like a band of castaways.
There was a time—by now a part of the parish mythology—when the baritone attended Mass from his place on the musicians’ risers, to the right of the altar, his back to the organist, lavishly pouring out his implacable voice alongside a Ugandan woman draped in curtain-like dresses. His proliferating offspring, however, obliged him to move down to mingle with the multitude: his wife found it impossible to maintain order among the children herself. There were three or four unbearable Masses before the singer decided to leave stardom behind, urged forward—it was murmured—by the priest, who could no longer continue casting the pearls of his religious office before a herd of swine being distracted by a bunch of little brats fighting over some completely wornout toy.
The opening section of the first Mass that the baritone spent back on terra firma felt something like a surrender: likely prompted by resentment, he didn’t allow himself to be tempted by the music, and the truth is that he was missed: his singing talent was far too good for a church like that. His children still behaved quite badly, only tempered now by a certain shyness; it seemed that the fat man, who did nothing to control them, only barely commanded their respect. The Ugandan woman sang alone up to the Acclamation, when the Pole couldn’t stand it any longer and quietly, humbly joined in singing with the rest of the faceless congregation. To hear his voice again amid the Hosannas was like a soothing balm: in the end, the main reason for attending Mass during eras when faith seems to be on the wane is to demonstrate that, regardless of how prodigal he has been, the son can always return home; that one is permitted to follow a little in the footsteps of his parents and grandparents.
So, are you taking the girls? she interrupted him. He’d been so focused on sustaining the flow of his narrative that he didn’t see her curveball coming. Where? To church. Of course, he said, it’s good for them, a civilizing influence: the Mass is the story that explains all the other stories, even if I don’t believe in it. I do. I’m jealous. And does she go? Who? Your wife. He hesitated a bit before answering. Sometimes. Isn’t she Lutheran? Yes, and that’s why.
The duet remained stable for a few more Masses: the Ugandan woman on the riser—a goddess in drapery—and the Pole in the pews below, an exiled Romeo. But nothing lasts forever, he said;
Either the singer and his wife were the last gringos attentive to the Vatican’s stance on reproduction or they had learned from the Irish that all triumphs are, in the end, statistical; the Protestants would have to be beaten through sheer numbers. At the Hispanic Mass, their seven unwashed children wouldn’t have seemed such a terrible disaster, but compared to a typical English-speaking family—a few adults and a single child—they were absolutely scandalous. Seven? she asked him, thinking he must be exaggerating. Seven, he answered, five boys and two girls.
Before the watchful eyes of the parish, the clan had grown to an uncontrollable size, and the children’s disarray had naturally increased in direct proportion to their quantity: the younger ones’ clothing had already been worn threadbare by their older siblings, who were also better fed. The mother, a beanpole of suspiciously Calvinistic propriety and severity when times were good, had gone flabby, swollen, and purple beneath some dresses that were, by now, quite snug. The baritone was still red-faced and robust but his beard was badly trimmed and his tennis shoes were a disgrace; the alterations stitched into the underarms of his shirts gave notice of a sudden, unhealthy increase in weight. They would have been a normal enough family in the 1970s, a time when modesty was not yet considered a defect, but among the perfectly trimmed and outfitted congregation at nine o’clock Mass they seemed more like a band of castaways.
There was a time—by now a part of the parish mythology—when the baritone attended Mass from his place on the musicians’ risers, to the right of the altar, his back to the organist, lavishly pouring out his implacable voice alongside a Ugandan woman draped in curtain-like dresses. His proliferating offspring, however, obliged him to move down to mingle with the multitude: his wife found it impossible to maintain order among the children herself. There were three or four unbearable Masses before the singer decided to leave stardom behind, urged forward—it was murmured—by the priest, who could no longer continue casting the pearls of his religious office before a herd of swine being distracted by a bunch of little brats fighting over some completely wornout toy.
The opening section of the first Mass that the baritone spent back on terra firma felt something like a surrender: likely prompted by resentment, he didn’t allow himself to be tempted by the music, and the truth is that he was missed: his singing talent was far too good for a church like that. His children still behaved quite badly, only tempered now by a certain shyness; it seemed that the fat man, who did nothing to control them, only barely commanded their respect. The Ugandan woman sang alone up to the Acclamation, when the Pole couldn’t stand it any longer and quietly, humbly joined in singing with the rest of the faceless congregation. To hear his voice again amid the Hosannas was like a soothing balm: in the end, the main reason for attending Mass during eras when faith seems to be on the wane is to demonstrate that, regardless of how prodigal he has been, the son can always return home; that one is permitted to follow a little in the footsteps of his parents and grandparents.
So, are you taking the girls? she interrupted him. He’d been so focused on sustaining the flow of his narrative that he didn’t see her curveball coming. Where? To church. Of course, he said, it’s good for them, a civilizing influence: the Mass is the story that explains all the other stories, even if I don’t believe in it. I do. I’m jealous. And does she go? Who? Your wife. He hesitated a bit before answering. Sometimes. Isn’t she Lutheran? Yes, and that’s why.
The duet remained stable for a few more Masses: the Ugandan woman on the riser—a goddess in drapery—and the Pole in the pews below, an exiled Romeo. But nothing lasts forever, he said;
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