“What songs do you like?
“Oh, quite a few. I’m thinking about singing “Wouldn’t It be Loverly” from “My Fair Lady” tonight.”
“Really,” he said, more interested in another person than he had been in many months. She was ‘loverly’, he noted, but she was probably attached by marriage or preference to one of the men there. But it didn’t stop him from admiring her somewhat pixyish beauty. She was not a knockout, but she was vivacious, very intense with a definite lilt to her voice. “I’ll be looking forward to hearing you.”
“I’d like to hear your voice too, if you feel like it. But I don’t want to push you or make you feel uncomfortable.”
“We’ll see,” he said, feeling a twinge of discomfort even though she had tried to put him at ease.
Just then, as if on cue, Doubras was standing at the piano and he played a few commanding chords to get everyone’s attention.
“Well, people, are we well lubricated enough to begin?” His question was answered with cheers and yells of approval from the group.
“Who’s first?” he asked, playing another chord.
The man that had first approached him leaped up by the piano. He was over six foot with blond, curly hair and hazel eyes. A small grin played on his lips as he looked out over the group.
Doubras played another chord, “Well, David, what will it be?”
David turned his head to Doubras. “Maria” he said, turning back.
“West Side Story,” Doubras shouted, playing the opening chords to the love song.
David had an excellent tenor voice and he hit the phrasing of the song just right, his voice soaring on the final words, “the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world, Mareeeeeeeea.”
Generous applause followed the performance, David bowed, flushed with success, and left the piano.
“Was he singing that for you?” Alex asked.
Annamarie smiled. She had a small mouth, but white even teeth and the expression on her face told him what he wanted to know even before she spoke,
“I doubt it. David’s happily married to Susie.”
“Oh,” said Alex. He wanted to ask her who she was married to, but he remained silent.
Dorothy, a dark-haired woman with the long nose and matching, jutting chin, came up next. Her choice was “When You Walk Through the Storm” from Carousel and her contralto voice was perfect for the melody. Several others followed her, then Annamarie moved in her seat, smiled at him again and rose.
“It’s my turn,” she said as she moved toward the piano.
“Annamarie and ‘My Fair Lady’” Doubras, serving as announcer, roared.
Her voice was a strong second soprano, and she sang with verve and a perfect Cockney accent that carried the tune along with a dashing grace. Applause, Alex thought, was thunderous, and when she sat back down again he said, “That was terrific, really terrific.”
“Thank you,” she replied, looking down and blushing slightly.
More singers followed, most of them with really good voices and Alex wondered why he had never particularly noticed the choir when he was in church. With these voices in it, it was probably magnificent.
There was a pause and Doubras looked out over the assembly, “Is that everybody? Then I guess….”
Alex rose from his seat. He didn’t know why he was doing it, but then he looked down at Annamarie who nodded and smiled slightly and he knew.
Doubras spotted him and yelled, “Alex, come on over.”
Alex walked to the piano, still not really knowing what he was doing. Doubras asked him something, but he couldn’t hear, even though the room was quiet.
“What song, Alex?” This time the message came though. He paused, searching his mind for something that he knew and could sing.
“Impossible Dream,” he said, looking at Doubras doubtfully.
“Alex will sing ‘Impossible Dream’ from ‘Man of La Mancha’.” Doubras declared.
Doubras played the opening chords and Alex launched into the familiar tune. His baritone rose effortlessly and he knew he was singing well. About halfway through the song, he noticed that his face was wet. He was crying. Why was he crying? Then a great knot rose up in his chest and sprang upward into his throat. He stopped singing. It was Ellie’s favorite song. They had gone to see performances of “Man of La Mancha” several times and he had even sung it to her when she was especially unhappy.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out as he jumped off the piano platform and ran for the door. He was out in the cool night air, running down the street. The sobs were coming in great gasps now, one after another, it seemed as if he could never stop.
When Ellie had left him, he had not cried. When she divorced him, there were no tears. In all the months he had been without her, he had kept control of his emotions. Now all the pent up feelings came spilling out, the dam that had held everything in was shattered and he didn’t think he could ever stop. The waters of grief had roared out of containment, sweeping everything before them, waves of regret and despair breaking and tossing everywhere. Total destruction reigned leaving nothing standing..
By the time he got home, the flood had diminished to a trickle, with a sob here, a hiccup there, a few stray tears coursing down. He got a beer out of the refrigerator and sat down again, nursing it as he thought. He had made a fool of himself in front of all those people. But he didn’t care. It felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest. He nursed the beer and sat there thinking most of the night. When the faint light of another dawn crept into the kitchen, he got up and flung himself down on his bed, asleep almost before he hit the mattress.