The Quietest Woman in the Choir

How it begins

Clara Bennett left out the F sharp, and the town continued singing as though nothing had happened.

She had expected that. She had played the centenary anthem eleven times in rehearsal, and nobody had noticed the accompanist except when she stopped entirely.

The choir rose toward the chorus. Clara moved around the missing note with the care of a person carrying a full cup past a loose floorboard. The melody became thinner, but it stood.

From the back of the hall came a small, involuntary cough.

The piano tuner sat beside his tool case, staring at her hands.

After the rehearsal, the conductor thanked the singers and reminded Clara to arrive early on Thursday. He did not ask whether she could.

Henry Foster waited until the hall emptied.

'That key works,' he said.

'I know.'

'I repaired it yesterday.'

'You did excellent work.'

He put one finger on the F sharp. A clear note sounded in the empty room. Clara found it almost embarrassingly beautiful.

'Is it a musical decision?'

'No.'

Henry sat on the other end of the bench without crowding her. His coat smelled of wool and cold air. She had known him for twelve years, mostly through invoices the choir treasurer expected her to forward.

'Would you like to tell me?'

Clara looked at the framed list of honorary life members beside the stage. Her husband's name appeared halfway down. He had sung for six years before losing interest. She had played for twenty-three.

The missing note seemed smaller than the thing she wanted to say. It was also the only thing she had managed to withhold.

'They asked me to write the centenary arrangement,' she said.

Henry waited.

'The program says traditional.'

He took his finger off the key. For a moment the silence belonged to her, and nobody told her when to end it.