Copyright – All Rights Reserved – 2012 Jennifer Zartman Wailing Willy and the Gargoyles By Jennifer Zartman Copyright – All Rights Reserved – 2012 Jennifer Zartman 1 Hobnail was the sort of town where nothing much happened. The houses were small and the gardens were big, and the people worked hard for a living. Nearly everybody in town went to the high school football games. It wasn’t because they liked football so much as that it was the best place to see everyone and learn about the latest tractor or who had a new television set, and besides, it was the only thing happening on any given Friday night in the fall. Albert Merriweather played on the football team—well, actually he mostly sat on the bench and cheered for the other fellows. He got to play sometimes, and he even kept the team from having to forfeit one night when most of the team got the stomach flu. He played basketball in much the same way, and ran track in the spring. He never won any races, but he made a fairly decent showing. He also had a little part in the school play, ran for president of the student council and somehow ended up being the secretary, worked for his dad at the hardware store on Saturday mornings, and sang in his church’s choir. Mr. Alroy directed the church choir on Sundays, had rehearsals on Wednesday evenings, and edited the Hobnail Press during the rest of the week. One Wednesday evening he came home from rehearsal and collapsed into a chair in the living room. “What’s the trouble, dear?” Mrs. Alroy asked. “Do you have a headache again?” Mr. Alroy sighed and rubbed his forehead. “It’s just, well, I hate to say anything bad about the people who come to choir. They’re so faithful, and they’re all such nice folks.” Mrs. Alroy dried her hands with a dishtowel and came and sat on a little chair opposite him. “So what is it?” “Albert.” “Florrie and Jake’s little boy?” “Yes, dear, but he’s hardly a little boy anymore. He’s taller than I am.” “Oh, I know. And he’s turned into such a nice young man—so pleasant. Not exactly handsome, but such nice manners! He helped me with my groceries the other day.” Mr. Alroy nodded. “So what’s the trouble, Fred?” “He can’t sing.” “Oh. But that’s true of some others, too.” “Yes, I know, but Albert loves to sing, and he sings with gusto.” “Oh dear.” “And he sits in the back with old Jim MacPherson, and when Albert starts singing out Mac turns down his hearing aid.” “You know, I don’t blame him.” “Yes, but then Mac sings off key too. The two of them are great pals, you should just hear them!” “I think I’d rather not.” Mr. Alroy rubbed his forehead again. “Exactly.” “So is that what happened this evening?” Mr. Alroy nodded. “And then Mrs. Dickery said, ‘Mr. Alroy, those two are giving me a headache. Can’t you do something about it?’” He paused long enough that Mrs. Alroy said, “So did you?” “Of course. I gave her an aspirin.” Mrs. Alroy chuckled. Copyright – All Rights Reserved – 2012 Jennifer Zartman “Then we tried the new piece for Christmas, the one we’re supposed to do with the church over in Rocky Gulch.” Mr. Alroy groaned. “It was that bad?” “Albert and Mac tried to hit a high note and the dogs next door started howling, so half the choir was laughing. Then the sopranos screeched, and Georgiana MacLaughlin got all excited and fainted.” Mrs. Alroy started to laugh and pretty soon Mr. Alroy laughed too, but he shook his head at the same time. “It was a bad rehearsal.” 2 “Hey, look at this,” Albert said to his buddy, Gilford, a week later. The two of them stopped to look at the announcement taped to the door of Hobnail High’s auditorium. “It’s for a choral competition,” Gilford said. He was a solid fellow in build and thought with brown hair a few shades lighter than Albert’s and pale blue eyes that never quite seemed in focus. “I know—look, they have a category for trios.” “So? We can’t sing trios.” “Sure we can—and it would be so much fun!” Albert pulled a spiral notebook out of his backpack and began writing down the information. “Trio means three,” Gilford said. “We’re only two.” “We’ll get Marshall—he even plays the piano.” “And where are we going to get the music?” “Oh I’ll talk to our choir director at church, Mr. Alroy. He’s cool, and he’d know about all that stuff.” “But this says it’s in Rocky Gulch. How are we going to get there?” “My mom’ll take us. She likes going to things like that.” “You sure?” “Yeah, I’m sure! What’s wrong, you scared?” “No, not exactly.” “Then we’ll do it.” Albert grinned and hit Gilford in the stomach with his notebook and headed off to class. Mr. Alroy groaned inwardly when Albert asked him about the music, but he looked through his files and found some old copies of trios that weren’t too difficult and loaned them to the boys. On Saturday afternoon Albert and Gilford met at Marshall’s house to start learning the music. “The piano hasn’t been tuned in a while,” Marshall said. He stood taller than Albert, had very blonde hair and sported thick rimmed glasses. He led the way down to a family room in his basement. “We’ll have to clear it off, too. Mom’s been cleaning house, and she’s piled all sorts of stuff down here.” “No problem,” Albert said, picking up a box that sat in front of the piano. “Hey, I remember this movie.” They dispensed with boxes of movies, books, old tax returns, broken tennis rackets, last year’s school projects and a few boxes of clothes that didn’t fit Marshall’s little brother. Then they dusted off the keyboard, and Marshall settled his lanky frame on the piano bench and played “In the Moonlight.” Copyright – All Rights Reserved – 2012 Jennifer Zartman “Is the piano supposed to sound like that?” Gilford asked. “Well like I said, it’s a little out of tune,” Marshall said, “but I think we can get the gist of it.” “Sure we can,” Albert said. “Can you play my line for me?” They worked on it all afternoon, and Sunday afternoon as well. “We’re going to need to work on this during the week, too, if we’re going to be ready in just a few weeks,” Gilford said. “I don’t have my part down at all.” “I have an idea,” Albert said. “Let’s walk to school together and practice on the way.” “And there’s the lunch hour,” Marshall said. “We can practice then, too, unless you want to spend the whole time mooning over Cecily.” He struck a lovesick pose. Albert punched him. “Lunch is fine.” “Yeah, and Cecily’s been going to the pizza place for lunch with Josh Morgan,” Gilford said. “Woot—the quarterback of the football team!” Marshall said. “Pretty stiff competition there, Albert.” “I think I have to go now,” Albert said. “But we’ll meet tomorrow morning at my house at 7:00 sharp.” The next morning dawned clear and bright, and the boys decided to work on “I Love You Truly” as they walked to school. Mrs. Dickery’s house was on the way, so they stopped and sang the nicest part of the song under her kitchen window. “Oh, what is that frightful noise?” they heard her say. Suddenly a whoosh of stinking water and old wilted daisies came out the window and landed on their heads, and then the window slammed shut. “Maybe she doesn’t like our singing,” Gilford said. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “Oh, it’s just because we haven’t learned it very well yet,” Albert said, leaning over to get the icky daisies out of his hair. “Well, let’s just practice during the lunch hour,” Marshall said. “We can go to my house tomorrow.” “Ok,” Albert said. “We’ll get to sleep a little later, too,” Gilford said. “Hey, Marshall, you look cute with that flower hanging on your ear,” Albert said. “Well here, I’ll hang it on yours.” He tried to carry out his threat, but Albert was a faster runner. They got to school plenty early that day. Later that week they practiced in a neighbor’s cow pasture where there were no daisies. A shade tree spread over the stream that ran through the pasture, and Albert pointed to it. “Dad and I come out here to fish in the summer,” he said. “Right over there. It’ll be a good place to practice.” “That’s a pretty big cow,” Gilford said, eyeing a beast that grazed beyond the tree. “Are all cows that big?” Albert grinned. “That cow’s a bull.” “You sure this is safe?” Marshall asked. “Oh yeah,” Albert said. “The bull’s pretty calm.” “I’m not sure I like bulls,” Gilford said. “If we don’t bother him, he won’t bother us.” They settled down to practicing, and just as they got to the high part the bull bellowed. “Do bulls usually do that?” Gilford asked. “Do what?” Albert looked up. Copyright – All Rights Reserved – 2012 Jennifer Zartman The bull shook his horns and pawed at the ground.