Chorale

I can’t get the dinner party out of my mind. In particular, the moment when one of the guests whose name I shall never know says to me affably, Keith collects children. I turn to Keith, aiming for neutral. Be an owl, be an owl, I repeat to myself, as I have done since I was, well, since I was a child. Also saying nothing, Keith goes to the credenza and selects a neatly sleeved LP from the few dozen or so lined up on its lower right shelf. There is no album cover, just the black disc in its white paper sleeve, a few notations in a preternaturally neat cursive on the label surrounding the spindle hole. He records and presses them himself, says the guest. Keith handles the disc with the practiced reverence due molten obsidian. Gently descending, needle contacts groove and a chorus of children intones what I take to be a sacred composition from the High Baroque. He flies them in at his own expense, says the guest, continuing his role as Keith’s shill. And what does he do with these recordings? I ask the man. He decants them, is all, says the man, meeting my eye. The others pay no attention. Now, hours later, in the middle of the night, two coyotes set up a plaintive descant on the hillside. At first, preparing to bound out of bed, I mistake their voices for those of my daughters, down the hall, in some form of profound distress. I can never be Keith’s friend, I understand just then. I can never be friends with any of them.