Chapter 5

Hance would have sung an Ave Maria and burned candles among roses if he thought it would put Emmy Kydd at ease. But the slouching, lowered-eye figure at the music stand was a human ooze of misery that defied a cure. He played the introduction to Voi che sapete, “You who know the ways of love,” from Mozart’s opera The Marriage of Figaro, waiting for her to sing.

Such an exquisite sense of shame, he thought, admiring how unmoved she was by the pretty, playful introduction. How did she earn that sense of shame? What has she done? What has been done to her?

A noise broke his daydream. The same noise that had come from Emmy during her audition weeks before. The voice of the dying Mary Guaire.

He went back to the beginning of the piece. “Again, Emmy.”

Again, the sound of Mary Guaire.

“Right. Let’s try it again …”

Again, Mary Guaire.

“Again.”

Mary Guaire, once more.

Hance returned to the introduction. Which did he want to do, help his student or indulge in the memory of Mary Guaire?

He noticed Emmy look toward the door. Hance had heard the laughter, too. He doubted the students in the hallway had paid attention to the lesson and were making sport of her, but the look on her face suggested he would not be able to convince her.

He told her to take her things and follow him.

Silent, expressing no surprise or curiosity, she did as he said. He found it a bit disconcerting that she would walk behind him. Any of her peers would have been right up there with him, full of questions, perhaps chatting without end. At odds with her diffidence, he stopped in the middle of the commons and waited for her to come level with him. He directed her along a slim, stony path to the little fat-domed church between the campus and the girls’ academy.

The church was more of a chapel, with room for no more than 300 people at a time. Its design had been inspired by the Italian Renaissance architect Palladio. There were columns between the pews and statuary in slender niches. The complex surfaces, the stone floor and that domed ceiling provided plenty of area for sound to bounce off, making for splendid acoustics. Hance had Emmy stand at end of the center aisle at the foot of the sanctuary and went into the choir loft above the floor at the entrance. She still had her messenger bag over her shoulder. Her thin, violet-colored jacket was an incongruous companion for her reddish hair.

“Sing to me.” He refused to shout across the distance. He spoke to her as if she were up in the loft with him.

“Sing what?”

He could barely hear her. “Whatever you like. The first thing that comes to mind.”

He saw her mouth move. A rusty whisper. Did he really hear “Lasciatemi morire,” Let me die, otherwise known as the Lamento d’Arianna? She had the gall to attempt the same aria that had humiliated her during her audition with him? He considered the lyrics:

Lasciatemi morire.

E che volete

Che mi conforte

In cosi dura sorte,

In cosi gran martire?

Let me die. Who do you think can comfort me in such a horrid state, amid such great suffering?

She had the gall to sing it to him. Why? Had she been sent to mock him, to remind him of the one thing he most wanted but could never have? Was she part of the punishment?

If she meant to mock him––if she were indeed in league with the punishment, then he owed her no respect. He would kill whatever courage she had to sing that song. He would hurt her. He hardened his voice. “I can’t hear you.”

“Lasciaaaaaaa-te-mi-“

“I can’t hear you.”

“Lasciaaaaaaa-te-mi-“

“I still can’t hear you.”

“Lasciaaaaaaa-“

“There’s nobody here, Emmy! Don’t be afraid of what you sound like. Open your mouth.”

“Lasciaaaaaaa-“

“NO.” Hance pounded his fist on the railing. “You’re singing to yourself. You should be singing to me. I’m not sitting in front of you. I’m up here.”

“Lasciaaaaaaa-“

“NO!”

“LA-SCIAAAA-“

“Don’t shout! There’s no need to shout. Stand straight. Place the tone atop your breath and let it ride out to me.”

“Lasciaaaaaaa-“

“No! You’re not thinking about what I told you to do. Think before you do it.”

“La-SCIAAAA-“

“No! No, no, no, no, no!”

A door in the apse behind the altar opened. Out dashed a priest, the skirts of his chasuble flapping about his trouser legs. “What’s going on here? First Friday Mass is about to start—“

Hance gestured to the priest but addressed Emmy. “He’s doing it, too!”

The priest charged down the aisle, looking up into the darkness. “What am I doing?”

“Shouting. Needlessly.”

The priest braked in recognition. “For crying all night, John, I wish you’d let me know when you want to usurp the premises. Mother Evarista’s on her way with the first graders. They’ll be here any minute.”

Hance descended the winding staircase from the choir loft, sorry his colleague had caught him in such a mood. Perhaps that was part of the punishment, too. “Mea culpa, Frank.”

The priest, who was heading back to the door behind the apse, waved without turning around, joking “I forgive you, my child” as he returned to the room behind the altar.

Walking back to the college campus, Hance made light of the eviction. Emmy said nothing. They stepped aside to let Mother Evarista, the convent abbess who was also the grammar school principal, marshal a line of silent, stumbling children toward the church.

“Good morning, Mother.”

“Good morning, Father.”

Hance enjoyed the absurdity of their respectful exchange. If none of the first graders had been there, the greeting would have had a different script:

“’Morning, Ev.”

“Hey, John! How’s it going?”

He was pleased to see Emmy give the nun a shy smile. Perhaps now was a good time to ask how she was managing at the convent.

“It’s nice.”

Excellent. The response was two syllables, instead of one or worse—silence.

“Were you able to retrieve your things from the camp?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“There was yellow tape all around the place, and cops in cars waiting to arrest anyone who tried to get in.”

“Didn’t you tell them your possessions were there?”

“Sister Katharine did.”

“Why didn’t you speak to them yourself?”

“Sister Katharine drove me there. They told her to talk to the police chief.”

“Did she?”

“He wasn’t available.”

“Did nobody tell you when he would be?”

“No. We couldn’t wait, anyway. Sister Katharine had a class at four.”

“Didn’t you go back?”

“No. They’re only things,” Emmy insisted as Hance said, “You’ve been wearing the same clothes all this time?” “Stupid things. Probably all moldy from being on the ground.”

“Clothing isn’t stupid. It has a purpose.”

“I know. M’Liss gave me some of her sweaters.”

The news did not bode well. “You went back to the street?”

“I had to see how M’liss was doing. I brought her food.”

“Food from where? The student center? The convent? Food that you needed for yourself?”

“Nobody’s watching out for her.”

“She should be watching out for herself.”

“But aren’t we supposed to watch out for each other? Aren’t we supposed to feed the hungry and clothe the … people who don’t have any clothes?”

Hance noted her reluctance to say the “naked” part of “clothe the naked.” “She shouldn’t be on the street,” he said. “Nobody should be on the street.”

“But she likes it there. She’s on her own.”

They had reached the music building.

“Can I go now, Father Hance? I’ve got a class in Aquinas Hall.”

“I’ll see you next week, then.”

She left without expressing any kind of leave-taking. Hance was not surprised to see her pass Aquinas Hall and scoot through the Gothic iron gates that separated the campus from the town.