Postludium

by JOHN V. HICKS

THE service ended. The congregation arose in a wave, like a field of tall grass just released after being laid flat by a reproving tempest. To a man, woman, and child they brightened perceptibly and began chattering to one another in a lively crescendo, taking up where they had left off as though no intrusion had intervened.

The organist, perceiving that he had missed a beat in the scheme of things, burst into the Mendelssohn Fourth and went scampering up and down purposefully. I Could see his face in the console mirror, serious, dedicated.

Fortunately nobody else was asked to concentrate, and a splendid abandon was everywhere, gradually asserting itself over the din of the music. Current news vied with the weather in a feverish exchange of pleasantries that overrode the organ’s chorus reeds with telling effect. Somebody directly behind me had had a baby, or perhaps it was her daughter; the tail end of a recipe for doughnuts whiffed past my ear in a brassy shriek.

For a moment I thought I heard someone bleating “What Mendelssohn is that?" and I turned around to supply “Number Four in B flat.” but just then the remark was repeated and this time it came out so much like “What a meddlesome brat!” that I refrained from sticking my neck out. I laughed aloud, catching the spirit of it, feeling myself swept up in the tide of exhilaration that flooded the auditorium.

By now such members of the choir as had not made an open dash for it were doubled over in howls of laughter, audible above the crash of the diapasons. One of the basses had scored again in what was conceivably a weekly contest open to tellers of juieies. Basses always win at this.

Little by little they dispersed and were gone, the news-swappers, the cooks, the basses. The church was empty but for Mendelssohn and his disciple and me. Mr. Mendelssohn had gained the floor after a five-page try. The music went for a final scamper high on the manuals, sliding down to a low tonic chord as though slightly relieved. The pedals walked up alone for a solo bow, then back gracefully. The manuals answered with a Full close, and the movement ended. I sidled up beside the organ, waiting a moment while the organist’s eyebrows were mopped.

I knew bettor than to comment upon what he had just played. I merely nodded. You never blurt out to an organist that you have been deliberately listening to the postlude. Shock, and so forth.

“Nice day,” I said in a kindly tone.

He smiled the wan smile of one used to agreeing with people. “Yes, isn’t it?” he replied, gathering his music together on the rack.

The Mendelssohn and an oblong Bach were both minus their covers, both well caressed at the corners. He handled them as though he loved (hem. 1 looked over his shoulder at one of the big banks of stops, running an eye over them speculatively.

“Your bombardc really bites its way through, doesn’t it?” I remarked, trying to sound nonchalant. It was inadvertent, even at that, He jumped as though I had stabbed him.

“EH?” ho squeaked.

“I said your bombarde — ”

“Do you — are you — were you — heh-heh —”

The man was dithering. I had been rash. I know better; I simply wasn’t thin king.

“Oh, I just thought—”

But the damage was done. He bounced off the bench and had me firmly by the coat lapels. Life had sprung into his eyes, and two bright spots into his cheeks. “You’re not — you wouldn’t be an organist?" he whispered.

Not if I could help it, brother, I thought to myself.

“Oh, I do a bit,”I admitted quietly, and from there on out I should say that his reactions ceased to be normal. He fidgeted and mouthed at me pitifully, and made signs with his arms from which 1 gathered he was insisting I should try the organ.

I sighed and sat down, as every organist sighs every time he sits down. I poked at the thumb pistons experimentally, then tried the generals down under. Number three was a fair fugal setup. I knocked off a mixture and a sixteen-foot and began spreading out the Wedge, the big E minor.

Some minutes later I trilled into the final major chord, held it, lifted it, looked around. My friend was in the front pew, arms folded peacefully, a fixed smile on his features.

“Bit sloppy, I’m afraid,” I offered in apology. “Strange organ, you know — ”

He gave no sign of having heard me. I had apparently put him to sleep. I looked at my watch and it came to me with a starl that I would miss my bus connection. I cleared my throat noisily.

“Well—” I ventured. No cream. I went over and touched his shoulder. I shook him. He slumped over sideways quite gently and lay sprawled in the pew.

A couple of the church ladies came through a side door, looking for the minister. I summoned them at once, then rushed out and phoned a doctor from the house next door. I didn’t give my name. I didn’t go back into the church. It was the third organist I had prostrated in less than a year, through sheer thoughtlessness, and some of these days somebody is going to begin holding me responsible.