A Farewell to Yarns

light bulbs, cat food, clean sheets, yes. But never orange juice.”

Jane let the other kids sleep in, and she and Mike enjoyed a quiet morning together. Passing sections of the Sunday paper to each other and gorging themselves on sweet rolls, they didn't really talk much or about anything important, but Jane felt the time with him was probably more beneficial to both of them than a hectic race to church would have been.

Quality time vs. quantity. One of those trendy pop-psych phrases that sometimes meant a great truth and most often were used as a cop-out by parents who couldn't bother to make time for the kids. Like nature vs. nurture. That was the most recent one, Jane thought as she stacked up the rumpled newspapers and the glasses that the orange juice crud was drying on. It was an interesting concept. For years, if not generations, mothers had been made to feel every fault a child showed was truly their parents' failing. Recently the women's magazines had been running pieces on the opposite theory—that none of a child's problems were the parents' fault, that people are born being what they are, and nothing in their domestic environment can change that basic character.

The truth had to be somewhere in between, or different for different people. But there must be something to the nurture theory. How else could you account for somebody like Bobby Bryant being Phyllis's son? Nobody ever mistook Phyllis for an intellectual, but at the same time, there wasn't a mean or selfish bone in her body. Bobby's creepy character certainly couldn't be attributed to her genes. But that wasn't entirely fair to some unknown adoptive parents. They wanted him and, while Joan Crawford's daughter might dispute the point, most people didn't go out of their way to adopt children in order to mistreat them.

Then, too, it took two people to make a baby. Maybe it wasn't Phyllis's genes, but those of the boy she'd been married to so briefly. Jane wished now that she'd asked more about him. What sort of kid was he? Phyllis had called him 'ambitious and smart' or some such thing. Of course, from her sweet, simple vantage point, practically anyone could qualify for those adjectives. But could he have been a boy of strong character to let himself get swept into playing house? Hadn't he even the wit to wonder if Phyllis might have been pregnant—or didn't he care?

“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