The organist, a pretty young woman who was as new to St. Hilda's as the twit chaplain, was making mistakes; even Jack could tell she was nervous, and that her errors were increasing with each new mistake she made.
"Calm down, Eleanor," Miss Wurtz told her, "or I'll have to take over, and I haven't played an organ in years."
While Eleanor took a short breather, Jack introduced himself to his mom's friends. "The good-lookin' Jack Burns," he heard Night-Shift Mike say, appraising him.
"Daughter Alice's little boy," one of the Skretkowicz sisters said.
"I'm the other Skretkowicz," the other sister told Jack. "The one who was never married to Flattop Tom, or to anybody else," she whispered in Jack's ear, biting his earlobe.
"Your mom sure was proud of you," Badger Schultz said. His wife, Little Chicken Wing, was already dissolved in tears--and it wasn't even noon. They had hours to go before Alice's memorial service.
Caroline clapped her hands. "We're still rehearsing--we're rehearsing until I say, 'Stop!' " Miss Wurtz called from the altar area. Eleanor, the organist, seemed almost composed.
"I didn't know you could play the organ, Caroline," Eleanor said--more audibly than she'd meant to, because Jack and the bikers had suddenly stopped talking.
Glancing in Jack's direction, Miss Wurtz blushed. "Well, I had a few memorable lessons," she said.
God save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen!
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us;
God save the Queen!
Under The Wurtz's direction, they sang and sang. The pure, girlish voices of the boarders' choir were no match for the beer-hall gusto of the bikers, who--as they recovered from the damp chill of the March roads--shed their leathers. Their tattoos rivaled the colors of Jesus and his surrounding saints on the chapel's stained glass.
Jack slipped away. He knew that Miss Wurtz could dramatize anything; by the time of the blessed event, Caroline would have polished to perfection both the boarders' and the bikers' choir. As Jack was leaving, the tattoo artists were listening reverentially to the girls, who were singing "Lord of the Dance."
I danced in the morning
When the world was begun,
And I danced in the moon
And the stars and the sun,
And I came down from heaven
And I danced on the earth,
At Bethlehem
I had my birth.
Out in the circular driveway, two more riders had arrived; they were parking their motorcycles alongside the others. Slick Eddie Esposito from The Blue Bulldog in New Haven, Connecticut, and Bad Bill Letters from Black Bear Season Tattoo in Brunswick, Maine. Their creased leathers were streaked with rain and they looked stiff with cold, but they recognized Jack Burns and smiled warmly. Jack shook their icy hands.
He'd thrown on some old clothes at Mrs. Oastler's--jeans, running shoes, a waterproof parka that had been Emma's and was way too big for him. "I'm just going home to change my clothes for the service," Jack told the newly arrived bikers. They seemed mystified by the girls' voices coming from the chapel. "The others are inside, practicing."
"Practicing what?" Bad Bill asked. It must have been the third or fourth refrain to "Lord of the Dance"; Miss Wurtz had obviously decided to bring the bikers into the chorus. The men's big voices
reached them out in the rain.