Читать книгу A New Requiem - B. Lance Jenkins - Страница 3

Requiem. A mass for the dead. A time of mourning. And a fitting concerto for the days ahead.

The calm before an unprecedented storm neared its end. Little did Ben Bailey know, at this moment, just how near that particular end was. The days of normalcy, validated by this typical night at the local concert hall, were numbered.

The stage lights shone so brightly Ben could hardly see into the audience. He stood there alongside his fellow bass and baritone specialists, and realized that for some reason, he always tended to be positioned at the end of the bass section and directly beside the tenor section. He dreaded it; it proved torture for him. He simply had to belt out what he had learned from memorization, all the while battling the sounds of the tenor vocalists standing next to him who so starkly contrasted his part.

On this night, though, Ben sang his part and did it well. His vocal mentor thought he could read music, but Ben knew nothing about reading music. He simply listened to those around him, then caught on almost immediately. He was a quick study and a brilliant mind for sure, but if it were required for him to know how to properly read music to be on stage at that moment, he would instead have graced the audience with his presence as a fellow attendee.

A typical concert hall, there was nothing special about its appearance in comparison to other more prestigious venues in the state, yet it was legendary for this small town of about 9,500 people. The fact that a small, rural Southern town even had a successful concert hall still efficiently running was a testament to the people who cared for and nurtured it. Local community theaters were shutting their doors throughout the region, and other cultural spots like non-profit museums were struggling to stay afloat. This concert hall, though, regularly produced performances highlighting some of the greatest works of the finest classical musicians in history.

This was where the arts were on full display in an area that largely seemed to possess no appreciation for them. From the annex where the local arts council held its monthly art shows, to inside the hallowed walls of the concert hall, this venue was holy ground for the more affluent citizens in the nearby region. Every concert since 1988 had sold out.

The hall defied the odds of the arts having no chance for success in a predominately poorer town. It worked here, and it was because of one thing and one thing only: Dwight Kerry.

Few if any people worked harder for the benefit of this community than Dwight Kerry. Dwight was the face of the arts, and was widely-recognized in the community. A music teacher at the local high school, Dwight could be credited with offering a better raising to many of the community’s children than their own parents had afforded them. His care for his students was unmatched. He loved teaching and cherished the opportunity to inspire the next generation, but more than anything, he genuinely wanted every student to be a better person when they left his classroom.

Dwight was an accomplished musician; both as an organist/pianist and a director. He did not belong here. He should have been playing in Carnegie Hall on a regular basis, or teaching music at Saint Olaf’s, the academic home of some of the most talented musicians. He was that good. Yet, here he was, in the little town of Freeden, North Carolina, playing and directing at the local concert hall that was known statewide as the house Dwight built.

He had grown up here and elected to come back after college to care for his then ailing mother. After she died, he’d chosen to stay in the community. He loved the town, but sadly, he found that the majority of its members did not have such feelings toward him.

Dwight was gay. In the words of much of the local citizenry, he was queer as a three-dollar bill. His mannerisms were flamboyant and outlandish, and he wasn’t accepted with the town’s mostly fundamental, ultra-conservative population.

On this night, he directed the orchestra, that in which he could do just as well as he played the organ or piano. He stood in front of the orchestra and the choir, adorned with heavy eye liner on his eyebrows, combed-back, heavily-sprayed white hair, and a face made up with cosmetics and foundation laid on thick. His face was “pretty”, but his attire was deemed by locals as something a straight gentleman would wear. He donned a black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a gold-striped tie, and his coat pocket on the chest was accented with a gold handkerchief. His shirt sleeves were pinned together with gold cufflinks, each engraved with his initials, DK – a gift from a longtime friend who once sang in the community chorus but had passed, and in Dwight’s mind, gone on to be with the Lord.

Other than his hair and face, he looked like a genuine southern gentleman. But no real man, as the good ‘ole boys of Freeden would say, had a face that looked that pretty in this town. His mannerisms rarely mimicked his male counterparts in the town’s populous.

The wealthy folk in the one-hundred mile radius dominated the audience that night, as usual, to hear Dwight’s chorus and orchestra perform Mozart’s Requiem. Ben knew this was not the type of event most of the local folks found an interest in, but the few wealthy ones here adored the opportunity to play the part of possessing some culture when attending these local artsy events. Most of the audience, though, usually consisted of “out-of-towners” who came here specifically for the concerts. People from as far as the Triad, Raleigh-Durham, and even the Hampton Roads area of Virginia came to see Dwight’s concerts.

The upper echelon folks from Freeden always approached Dwight after his performances, complimenting him and seemingly taking pride in being a part of the arts community in front of their peers from the city. It frustrated Ben. In his mind, as soon as they returned to the normal routine of life, they etched themselves again in a way of life all too familiar in rural America, where those who are different are simply, and often silently, mocked and ridiculed.

No one around Freeden called Dwight names or treated him differently to his face; that wasn’t the way here. Southerners like the people in Freeden often criticized “Yankees” for being so direct and inappropriately forward, but in many cases they did the same, just behind one’s back. No one would approach Dwight at a restaurant and say, “You need to stop teaching because you’re gay and a bad influence,” but they would surely say it in private conversations with their friends.

There were people genuinely worried about Dwight because he was gay. They respected him for his talents and his commitment to the community; nonetheless, he was gay, which meant he was different. And Ben knew how things worked in Freeden. If you were different, you were dangerous and threatening.

Dwight, though, never changed his persona to adapt to anyone and was always the same regardless. Ben often wondered if Dwight was even aware of what was said about him in the community. Ben certainly thought he must, at least, suspect the heat directed toward his sexual identity; even still, Dwight remained true to his individuality and proudly maintained it in a silently critical populous.

Ben, on the other hand, wondered how the hell he did it. Ben was a straight man, but he could not fathom the life of a gay man in a town like Freeden. He had witnessed firsthand the mocking of Dwight behind his back. He recalled a time when he was invited to a local bar for drinks with some male acquaintances of his in the area who he was trying to befriend to fit in more, but he left early because he grew disgusted with the chatter about the man they repeatedly referred to that night as "Dwight the gay."

I wonder how many other fudgepackers like Dwight are in this

town?

That gay son-of-a-bitch isn’t teaching my kid!

He even recalled being asked, “Hey, do you hang around with that gay?”

Ben worried about what others thought of him, so he only elected to be seen with Dwight in professional settings. Nonetheless, Ben privately considered Dwight to be one of his greatest friends. He was ashamed to publicly admit it, worried that people might think he, too, was gay, and hold contempt against him the same way they did Dwight. As silly as it seemed, Ben’s experience with the people in Freeden had warranted his concerns.

Ben was born and raised in the town, and he grew up adoring it. He loved living in a town where you could ride your bike to see your friends, where your parents would let you gallivant around the nearby woods and build forts with your friends and never worry about where you were. As he grew older and moved home after law school, he loved how everyone knew everyone and that they seemed to really appreciate him returning and giving back to the community. He adored the small town feel of walking to your favorite lunch spot and seeing several people you knew along the way. He loved Freeden.

That was, until his experiences forced him to realize it wasn’t full of great people like he thought. Sure, there were some exceptions, but as a whole, Ben came to know Freeden’s populous as a body of people who promised to follow Jesus on Sunday but threw his teachings out the window during the week. If you were different, you weren’t welcome here. Not at the workplace, not at the restaurants, not even at church. Ben believed if you were different and became successful here, it was by your own intuition, or stubbornness – or both.

Ben had made a life in Freeden, but had become the guy Freeden wanted him to be: a good ‘ole boy just like the rest of them that fit in here. Once he came to know his hometown as a place full of hypocritical, backward-thinking people, he still allowed it to direct him and the way he lived. And he was silently ashamed of it.

Ben respected Dwight, though, as a man who had found success in Freeden and had done it his own way, without regard to the person everyone else probably wanted him to be. Ben saw Dwight as his own man, and revered him for being that way.

There Dwight stood, as postured as ever, directing the orchestra, which to many in the audience may have looked like an endless waving of arms that made absolutely no sense. The orchestra though, was very in tune with whatever his flailing arms were trying to convey, and from the feedback the audience had given thus far, the performance glistened. Ben stared at his fearless leader and could tell he was proud. The eyebrows rising and that unforgettable smile where his grin stretched from ear to ear was the memorandum of understanding Dwight’s chorus needed: he was satisfied.

Dwight had the ability to whip practically anybody with a voice into performing shape and get them to do well under his direction, though he did not want you to think he was a proud man for it. He often said, “A man full of pride is a foolish one.” But he, too, was human and struggled not to be overly satisfied with his accomplishments. He knew he was a big fish in a small pond, and he was pleased with what he had been able to achieve over the years.

As Ben saw it, Dwight was disciplined, never too immersed with pride, and he was a beacon of wisdom. He may have been oblivious to the behind-the-back criticism of his sexuality, but he was fully aware that everyone was not his friend. He could quickly point out if people in his life were acquaintances or if they were real friends, and had no problem telling others which of those he thought they were in his life, either. A few months ago, Ben recalled Dwight telling him, “Ben, I don’t tell many people this…but I consider you to be a true friend. One of my best.”

In their short friendship that really took off when Dwight started coaching Ben for the Requiem performance, Ben had already realized that Dwight’s personality was characterized by bold pointedness, and he was quite simply unaffected by anyone else’s thoughts and feelings about his opinions and way of life. He was going to do it his way, period. Even those who criticized and mocked him behind his back respected that.

The music behind Requiem was beautiful, but the Latin words were deathly. It was believed that Mozart wrote the piece for his own funeral, and the work remained unfinished at the time of his death. But the piece the choir was set to perform next, perhaps the most famous of all pieces from Requiem and often played in movies, television, and other media, was titled "Lacrimosa."

Dwight directed the choir to begin singing:

Lacrimosa dies illa,

Qua resurgent ex favilla,

Judicandus homo reus.

Despite Ben’s lack of knowledge on how to properly read music, he had studied Requiem leading up to this performance and knew the English translation of the classic piece:

Full of tears will be that day,

When from the ashes shall arise

The guilty man shall be judged.

How ominous this would turn out to be.