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fountain of rumors had become a geyser. Jerry and Tony, one the couples I’d met at Booth’s, were close to breaking up over Grant’s intrusion into their relationship. The only reason this particular piece of news was raised above the level of high school gossip was that Tony and Jerry had been together for a number of years, and I always truly hate to see couples break up.
    But most of the rumors concerned a reported major confrontation between Roger Rothenberger and Crandall Booth—it wasn’t hard to figure out what it might have been about. How anybody knew anything about it at all was, as with all rumors, rather vague, but I’d not be surprised if Grant had been behind it.
    *
    Jonathan returned from rehearsal the next Tuesday with a story right out of a soap opera. Just before they were set to rehearse the last song of the night, Jerry had stormed into the room in a rage and made a lunge at Grant, apparently with the intent to beat the crap out of him. Some of the other members grabbed him while Grant took off and sped away in his baby-blue Porsche.
    Then Jerry started yelling at Tony and had the poor guy practically in tears. Roger finally had to order Jerry to get out. Jonathan wasn’t quite sure what it was all about, but it really rattled everyone, and Roger ended the rehearsal early.
    “I’d have been home earlier,” Jonathan added, “except that a lot of us hung around outside talking about it.”
    Significantly, earlier in the evening they had rehearsed “I Am What I Am” with Grant singing the solo. But also significant, Jonathan said, was Roger’s all but totally ignoring Grant, saying nothing at all about his performance, making no suggestions and no comments. Instead, he had concentrated on honing the parts of the rest of the chorus.
    This snub was lost on no one, and Jonathan was truly concerned that the rift was seriously and negatively affecting the entire chorus. I assumed he was overreacting, but then, I wasn’t there, nor was I familiar with all the dynamics of the situation.
    I was paying more attention to the goings-on of the chorus than I normally would have had I been, say, working on a really interesting case. But because it was so important to Jonathan, it was important to me.
    Life at home went smoothly enough, with fish feedings and plant waterings and Saturday chores and evening Story Times. There was also a brief trip to Mercy Memorial on Saturday afternoon, squeezed in between the dry cleaners and the grocery store, for Jonathan to visit Jim Bowers. Bowers was making steady improvement, though he still could not—or would not—give any details of the accident. Jonathan told me he didn’t believe him—odd for Jonathan—but had said nothing to Jim.
    Growing thunder in the storm clouds hovering over the chorus were evinced by even more phone calls than on the previous week. That Jim would quite likely be able to return before the next concert—and thereby take back the solo honors on “I Am What I Am”—appeared to be fomenting a minor insurgency among Grant’s supporters, with hints that, if he were denied the solo, he and his supporters might boycott the concert. Such a rebellion could have possibly forced its cancellation, or at the very least sabotaged its impact.
    All this over one song! I still couldn’t help but shake my head every time I thought about it. This had moved well beyond the stage of being a tempest in a teapot and was now passing a typhoon in a soup tureen. I hoped it would all blow over before the chorus suffered irreparable damage.
    *
    A week later, as Jonathan was getting ready for rehearsal, Eric called to ask if he could give him a ride there, as he was having problems with his car—a huge old white 1968 Dodge only slightly smaller than a lifeboat from the Queen Mary . Jonathan immediately agreed, which meant he had to leave practically right from the dinner table.
    When he got home, I asked him, as always, how rehearsal went.
    “Well,” he