The Happy Hour Choir by Sally Kilpatrick Page B

Pete, who immediately smacked his brother upside the head with a “Shut up, man. I told you to be serious.”
    Taking in a deep breath, I forced myself to continue instead of telling them all to go to hell. “I’m going to try this one more time. The next person who interrupts me has to hand me his beer.”
    That did the trick.
    â€œWe are going to sing number two-thirty-three, “Love Lifted Me.” We’re going to sing it in unison, and we’re going to like it.”
    â€œSorry I’m late.”
    At the impossibly deep voice, I looked up to see a tall, lanky man who looked like a cross between an older Rick Astley and Grizzly Adams. It took me a minute to recognize him without his trucker hat, but it was Carl Davis, Tiffany’s father.
    I had never once heard Carl sing along with my songs, but if his speaking voice was any indication, he had the range I was looking for. “Can you sing bass?”
    â€œOnly thing I can sing,” he said, his gaze going to Tiffany.
    I looked at Tiffany. She shrugged with a weak smile.
    â€œOkay, then. Welcome to the choir, Carl.” Someone helped Carl find the proper page in the hymnal, and I played a gorgeous introduction. My choir gave me a lackluster effort.
    â€œThat wasn’t half bad,” Bill said, probably as much to smooth my ruffled feathers as anything else.
    â€œYou think so?” asked Tiffany, her cheeks pink. Had she taken the test? Was she glowing with relief or motherhood?
    â€œOkay. Let’s try that again with harmony. We’ll just see how it goes.”
    The song’s natural tempo picked them up, but they were also gaining confidence. I had them sing a couple more songs before we returned to the harmony on “Love Lifted Me.” First, I played individual parts. Greg took the higher tenor notes with Old Man MacGregor. Pete took the lower notes but couldn’t sing quite as low as Carl, whose voice had been ravaged by cigarettes but was otherwise surprisingly in tune. Then we put it all together.
    When we finished, we all sat there and let the song linger in silence. They didn’t sing perfectly, but they sang well. Moments of pure harmony had jumped out at me, a promise of potential. And by the last verse? As Ginger would say, they all had even put a little heart into it.
    â€œGood job,” I murmured, still amazed that my plan had worked to this point.
    All of the components were there but the polish. Of course, I knew Ginger would sing alto with me any time she could. The Gates brothers and Carl needed to practice their line, but the song had spoken to us.
    I felt it, deep in my bones. These were people who knew what it was like to sink, constantly bobbing, coughing, and sputtering through life. They weren’t bad people; they were people with bad problems. They, like me, wanted to be lifted out of the angry waves just like the song promised.
    Unlike Lottie Miller, who sang to hear herself sing, my little ragtag choir sang because they had to or just to help me out. They had bewildered me with how seriously they’d taken practice. The music had reeled them in from those angry waves, and the room was all smiles.
    As folks stacked my contraband hymnals and finished their beers, Bill sat somberly in the corner. “I was going to joke and say y’all were just a happy hour choir, but you sang good. Real good.”
    â€œThank you,” Tiffany said, genuinely smiling for the first time in a week.
    â€œThe Happy Hour Choir?” Old Man MacGregor laughed his crazy cackle. “I like it. What do you say there, Beulah? Do we look like a Happy Hour Choir to you? I think we’d need a round of beers for that.”
    â€œYou heard the man, Bill, another round of beers on me for the Happy Hour Choir.” I grinned at them, marveling at the puff of pride in my chest. I’d thought making a choir would be like pulling teeth, but I was proud of them, so proud of all of