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Authors: Alexie Aaron
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two, “was my father Edward. He
died recently.” Father Michael paused in memory. “Now this boy here is Uncle
Steven, the black sheep of the family.”
“I always find black sheep intriguing,” I interrupted,
hoping for more information, but the cold stare I received in reply told me he
wasn’t going to oblige me.
“My aunt Diane,” he continued, tapping lightly on the image
of the little girl, “is the only sane one left in the family. She’s an architect
living in Savannah now.”
“I love Savannah,” I said wondering where this conversation
was going.
“Lots to love about Savannah. Okay, first, let me assure
you that I am indeed Father Michael Williams, and you guessed correctly I’m of
the Jesuit order. I’m a researcher and a teacher. Presently, I’m on an
extended leave. My father’s death left me with many duties to perform, family
and otherwise. My father’s family never knew what became of Donald, and my father
left me this task upon his death. I’m to locate Donald, or his remains and
bring him home.”
“So this is why you’re here?”
“Bathgate is why I am here.”
“Bobby Bathgate?” I asked as cool as I could considering the
small heart attack I was having.
“Not exactly Bobby and not Angie but their father.”
“It’s my understanding their father is dead and has been for
some time now.”
“Yes, I think we’ll have to backtrack a bit. Tell me how you
became involved with Bobby.”
I told him about the band, the offer, and the music school.
He listened intently and when I told him what happened yesterday to Angie he
was surprised, unless it was an act. I told him that I really had to get this
audit done quickly.
“Why the rush?”
I told him about the fire and the estate agent’s offer, and
it looked like Angie really wanted to take it. I explained how the music had
been left to Bobby.
Father Michael bobbed his head. “Sounds feasible. So
you’re just interested in the music and musical instruments.”
“Yes, well, part of me also wants to explore Cornwall. I’ve
been wanting to ever since I read Jamaica Inn . I’m a soft touch for a
good gothic. Give me a walled up corpse, brooding hero and mysterious white
lady anytime.”
I believe Father Michael was smiling. It faded before I could
confirm what I had caught peripherally.
“Your turn. How do the Bathgates fit into your search?”
“Bobby and Angie’s father was a composer of some minor World
War One marches, British marches. But he was, also, the best instructor and
mentor for many of the up-and-coming composers after the war. He was a Royal
Conservatory man but did a lot of time touring and teaching at various
universities around the world. He came to Julliard where my uncle Donald was
going to school and invited him to what was the cream of all musical
experiences, a summer residence at his farm out in Cornwall. Famed composer
Aaron Copland spent a summer there in the twenties while he was studying with
Nadia Boulanger in France. There my uncle would work shoulder to shoulder with
the best that the world had in young composers. Bathgate was the music
experience of the twenties, thirties and forties. I believe several of its
alumni are Knights of the Realm. Matter of fact, Maurice Sherborn, an alumnus,
is going to be knighted for his life’s work this summer, I believe.
“My uncle was there with Maurice and his brother Michael the
summer before he enlisted. I have some letters he sent to my aunt during that
time. My uncle wrote that of the two Sherborn men, Michael was the talented
one and Maurice was only there because their father refused to let Michael
study at Bathgate otherwise. My father named me Michael Donald because he
hoped the name itself would ensure I would inherit Donald’s talent and
Michael’s vision. Didn’t work, I can barely carry a tune, which is a handicap
in my line of work.”
“I can’t sing either. A
died recently.” Father Michael paused in memory. “Now this boy here is Uncle
Steven, the black sheep of the family.”
“I always find black sheep intriguing,” I interrupted,
hoping for more information, but the cold stare I received in reply told me he
wasn’t going to oblige me.
“My aunt Diane,” he continued, tapping lightly on the image
of the little girl, “is the only sane one left in the family. She’s an architect
living in Savannah now.”
“I love Savannah,” I said wondering where this conversation
was going.
“Lots to love about Savannah. Okay, first, let me assure
you that I am indeed Father Michael Williams, and you guessed correctly I’m of
the Jesuit order. I’m a researcher and a teacher. Presently, I’m on an
extended leave. My father’s death left me with many duties to perform, family
and otherwise. My father’s family never knew what became of Donald, and my father
left me this task upon his death. I’m to locate Donald, or his remains and
bring him home.”
“So this is why you’re here?”
“Bathgate is why I am here.”
“Bobby Bathgate?” I asked as cool as I could considering the
small heart attack I was having.
“Not exactly Bobby and not Angie but their father.”
“It’s my understanding their father is dead and has been for
some time now.”
“Yes, I think we’ll have to backtrack a bit. Tell me how you
became involved with Bobby.”
I told him about the band, the offer, and the music school.
He listened intently and when I told him what happened yesterday to Angie he
was surprised, unless it was an act. I told him that I really had to get this
audit done quickly.
“Why the rush?”
I told him about the fire and the estate agent’s offer, and
it looked like Angie really wanted to take it. I explained how the music had
been left to Bobby.
Father Michael bobbed his head. “Sounds feasible. So
you’re just interested in the music and musical instruments.”
“Yes, well, part of me also wants to explore Cornwall. I’ve
been wanting to ever since I read Jamaica Inn . I’m a soft touch for a
good gothic. Give me a walled up corpse, brooding hero and mysterious white
lady anytime.”
I believe Father Michael was smiling. It faded before I could
confirm what I had caught peripherally.
“Your turn. How do the Bathgates fit into your search?”
“Bobby and Angie’s father was a composer of some minor World
War One marches, British marches. But he was, also, the best instructor and
mentor for many of the up-and-coming composers after the war. He was a Royal
Conservatory man but did a lot of time touring and teaching at various
universities around the world. He came to Julliard where my uncle Donald was
going to school and invited him to what was the cream of all musical
experiences, a summer residence at his farm out in Cornwall. Famed composer
Aaron Copland spent a summer there in the twenties while he was studying with
Nadia Boulanger in France. There my uncle would work shoulder to shoulder with
the best that the world had in young composers. Bathgate was the music
experience of the twenties, thirties and forties. I believe several of its
alumni are Knights of the Realm. Matter of fact, Maurice Sherborn, an alumnus,
is going to be knighted for his life’s work this summer, I believe.
“My uncle was there with Maurice and his brother Michael the
summer before he enlisted. I have some letters he sent to my aunt during that
time. My uncle wrote that of the two Sherborn men, Michael was the talented
one and Maurice was only there because their father refused to let Michael
study at Bathgate otherwise. My father named me Michael Donald because he
hoped the name itself would ensure I would inherit Donald’s talent and
Michael’s vision. Didn’t work, I can barely carry a tune, which is a handicap
in my line of work.”
“I can’t sing either. A
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