When the choir stopped singing altogether, they sat in their seats, and the congregation called out, “Ah-men, ah-men, ah-men,” in sober gratitude and praise. Leah bowed her head and smoothed the robe over her folded knees. Kyung-ah tapped Leah’s thigh re-assuringly. She, too, was a good singer but accepted that comparisons could hardly be made between them.
At the rehearsal following the service, the second one of the day, the choir reconvened in the practice room, many of them carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a piece of cake. For the members of the choir, life was organized around practice and church. In a week, there were two rehearsals on Sundays, one on Wednesday nights, and Tuesday night Bible study. Their robes off, their postures more relaxed, the singers gabbed about where to go to dinner after this rehearsal. Most of them were friendly, and many of the women belonged to a geh—the monthly savings pool. Even the ones with families with small children tried to figure out how they could get together for dinner at one another’s homes. The mood was always lighter in the second rehearsal than the first. The men would grumble to Mr. Jun about the level of difficulty in some of the hymns, and the women gossiped, goading the director to chasten them. Charles noticed the shift in mood, too, and he wondered how he would fit in his new role. In age, he was more or less their contemporary and didn’t view himself taking on the role of an eccentric father.
“It does seem abrupt, but I’ve already spoken with Dr. Hong about his conducting today’s rehearsal. I have to meet with some people tonight to arrange my leavetaking next week. And naturally, he will be with you on Wednesday night as well.” Mr. Jun appeared heartbroken. “But I will see you next Sunday at services.” He smiled and paused. No one could tell if he was done or not. “You are like, like. . . my sons and daughters,” he said, and began to cry. Charles moved closer to him and took his hand to hold it. “I am sorry,” Mr. Jun said through his tears, “I am an old man, and when you are old like me, you will consider the things you care about with greater. . . feeling.” He wiped his nose with a handkerchief, and Charles patted his back.
Kyung-ah stood up to clap for him, and the others followed. Everyone wept. It was like watching your father give his possessions away before he died. Mr. Jun was a fussy man who had served the church faithfully for over twenty years. At every opportunity, he spoke about his personal sacrifices for Jesus in terms of time, talent, and money that he could’ve earned doing something else. “But with our gifts, we must reflect His glory!” Yet over the years, through his dedicated service, the choir had changed their view of him from a broken fixture to the tolerated uncle, then to a kind of beloved parent who ultimately wanted the best for them.
Mr. Jun remained at his lectern, his spine rounded, head perched delicately on his stooped shoulders. Leah sobbed uncontrollably, and Kyung-ah put her arm around her shoulders. When the applause died down, Mr. Jun picked up his cordovan briefcase and tan raincoat. His jaw was clenched to keep himself from saying more and to stifle his sobs. When he got inside his brown Dodge with the pair of Jesus fish decals on the bumpers, he put his right forearm over the steering wheel and dropped his heavy head on it. Mr. Jun wept no less than when his angelic wife had died.
After Mr. Jun had closed the practice room door behind him, Kyung-ah went straight to the corner of the room and picked up a spare collection plate. She opened her wallet and dropped seven hundred dollars into the plate. She passed it to Leah, who opened her purse and put in all the cash she had with her: a hundred and sixty-seven dollars. No explanation was necessary. They were collecting Mr. Jun’s departing gift. A person got sick, lost a husband, or even in happy times like a wedding or the birth of a child: A hat was passed, and soon after, a manila envelope stuffed with cash would be presented. Even if one Korean was nothing in this strange land, a church full of Koreans meant something to each other, and they intended to care for their own. Kyung-ah would see to it that a plaque was made up, and there’d be a ceremony next week. Charles was moved by this gesture, but he pretended to busy himself with the sheet music he’d brought. When the plate returned to the soprano in the black suit, he sought their attention.
Charles was nervous. He spoke in Korean; his Seoul accent was undeniable.
“We’ll be following a schedule that Mr. Jun has kindly drafted for me for the next three months. I understand that next week’s program is the same as last year’s, so none of you will be surprised by the music in it.” He did not smile, and he’d flattened his normal speaking voice, which like his tenor singing voice was mellifluous and tender. His father, the famous professor, used to say that the first day of class was the most important: “Establish your authority from the top, and never yield in the beginning. Later, you can be more flexible. Never, ever begin with softness.” Life, to Charles, was a series of related acts, and those who succeeded in life seemed to understand the necessity of consistent performances at a high level. Charles was an inconsistent performer. All three of his brothers were successful professors in Seoul. All four of them had doctorates, but he was the only one who could not handle the negotiations and finesse of a life in the academy. Charles ended up quitting every teaching job he was ever offered.