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ortheatre. Here, in the church, the sanctuary was dimly lit and old-fashioned. It felt rigid, somehow.
    Before long, a tight-browed woman in a beige pantsuit appeared behind them, wanting to know were they looking for somebody. They told her they’d come for the music recital. Billy added that they weren’t there to steal bibles or anything. She gave them a doubtful look but she led them out of the sanctuary, past some offices, and finally to a banquet hall in the basement. There were four dozen classroom chairs arranged in the hall, facing a riser where a microphone and a piano and a music stand were arranged. Billy poked Pete in the ribs and pointed at the piano. Around them, most of the seats were already taken up. Families. Pete saw a mother holding a wad of Kleenex to her child’s nose.
    He and Billy took two of the seats at the rear.
    —So where is she? said Pete.
    —I don’t know, she’s here somewhere. She’s small, man.
    The woman in the pantsuit stepped onto the riser. She tapped the microphone and the scattered conversations around the hall went quiet. She said she was happy to welcome them to the September recital. The young musicians they were about to hear were all just really terrific. The three adjudicators were members of the regional board of the Christian Musicians Association, whose mission, for those who didn’t know, is service to the Lord through good deeds, good words and musical talent. After the introductory remarks, an elderly woman in thick orthopaedic shoes came onto the riser and sat at the piano.
    —So that’s your girl, said Pete.
    A man a few seats up turned around and looked at them over the top of his glasses.
    The first performer was a girl of about fourteen. To the pianist’s accompaniment, she played the flute—six or seven minutes of what they had been told was a concertino. She was very good. Next up was an adolescent boy who was indelicately carryinga violin and a bow. He was trembling and grinning frantically. The old pianist led him in with a slow piece. Pete thought he remembered it from the term of music class that he’d taken, but he couldn’t recollect the name. Something by Bach or Mozart or some other long-dead composer. The boy drew the bow across the violin strings and a dreadful squeal of sound came forth.
    —Oh shit, said Billy.
    The boy shook, struggling through the piece. Every note cut like glass. Heads about the room lowered and people studied the floor.
    —If I had my .22 here, I’d put him out of his misery.
    —Shut up, Billy.
    When the boy finished, he held his violin in one hand and the bow in his other hand and bowed stiffly from the waist. People applauded politely. A fat woman in a paisley dress stood up and clapped with furious resolve and looked around grimly. The boy ran off the riser and took the seat next to her.
    Billy poked Pete in the ribs. He was gesturing.
    A girl was standing up from one of the seats near the front. She was small. Pete could see nothing of her face. She walked with her back straight and her dark hair in a simple cascade, catching the light, down her shoulders. She had to tap the old pianist on the shoulder. The pianist gaped at her, startled, and then exited the riser. The girl sat down on the bench.
    —What do you think? said Billy.
    —What do I think? I think she looks respectable.
    —I know. Wait till you meet her.
    The girl’s hands hovered over the keys for a moment, as if she was collecting herself, and then her hands moved down and she began to play. The tempo of the piece quickened, slackened, quickened again. She was playing from memory for there was no sheet music before her. Pete thought he could listen to the piece for a long time. Maybe it was the dope they’d smoked but maybe it was something more. He thought how not every feeling shouldbe explained away. And when the girl had finally finished playing, and people were clapping, he was aware that it was over.
    The girl traded off with the old