The Soprano Wore Falsettos by Mark Schweizer

smiled in spite of myself as I remembered it.
    As wedding videos went, the beginning was pretty typical. Nancy fast-forwarded to the homily and handed me the program that went with the video. Father George was one of the two ministers involved in the service, the other being someone I didn’t recognize and who the program identified as Rev. Caleb Latimer, minister of St. Matthew’s United Methodist Church in Greenville. I assumed that this was the groom’s minister.
    Misty Passaglio’s wedding was the social event of last winter. Even though a February wedding in St. Germaine was rare, Misty’s fiancée, Jerry, who worked for the State Department, had been assigned to the American Embassy in Italy beginning in April. It was a job of which Annette approved, and although it would have been preferable for Misty to have her wedding in June, or even late May, Annette thought that a winter wedding might be distinctive enough to offset the seasonal awkwardness. I had been invited, of course, but in reality, only as “the help.” Once Annette found out I wouldn’t play for the wedding, both Meg and I were quickly relegated to inconsequential status, and since I make it a policy not to be present at any weddings that I am not paid to attend, we both skipped it entirely.
    I had heard that, although Misty wanted to be married in St. Barnabas, Annette had decided that the church was just too small for the number of guests that would be attending. There were any number of churches available, but Annette had chosen Covenant United Methodist Church in Boone. The sanctuary was white and crisp, they had a piano as well as a pipe organ, and, most importantly, it could seat about twice the number of people as could attend if the wedding were held in St. Barnabas.
    I turned my attention back to the tape. Rev. Latimer had just finished his homily as Nancy and I watched intently.
    “Here it comes,” she said. “This is just great!” Nancy hated Annette.
    According to the program, it was time for the vows and, after they had been recited, the soloist would sing O Promise Me, not my favorite, but then, it wasn’t my wedding. The videographer was in the back balcony with a good telephoto lens. He panned back for a wider shot. The soloist, who was sitting in the first pew, walked up to the piano and stood in the crook, waiting for his cue. The piano wasn’t on the dais, but placed on the floor of the sanctuary, nestled into a niche constructed for just that purpose. The organ console, on the other hand, was up on the platform, the entrance on the same level as the minister’s overstuffed furniture, and separated from the congregation by a raised panel that mimicked the choir railing stretching across the front of the church.
    It might have all gone smoothly if the organist, who was also the pianist, had left the music for the soloist on the piano when they rehearsed. She did not. Although the camera had zoomed in on the wedding couple — they were now facing each other — to their left, clearly visible in the shot, the organist was frantically sorting through sheets of music. The soloist waited patiently, knowing that they still had time, but noticing that his accompanist was not yet seated at the piano. He finally glanced over his shoulder and saw what the rest of us were privy to: Agnes Day rooting through a pile of music sitting on the console of the organ. Finally, she apparently found what she was looking for, disappeared out a door into the sacristy and appeared a minute later through a side door that put her at the piano. The videographer, meanwhile, had widened his shot again, his microphone up at the front, picking up the vows of the betrothed.
    “Will you, Jerry, have Misty to be your wedded wife? To have and to hold…”
    The congregation, as is always the case in a religious service when something out of the ordinary happens, had turned its attention to Agnes Day. She had turned out to be much more entertaining than the