Free Sofia's Tune by Cindy Thomson Page B

headed for the magnificent organ at St. Anthony’s. His father had always loved hearing him play there, but there hadn’t been much opportunity in the past. There was the regular organist and then an alternate who got the job because he had played the organ in cathedrals in Europe. But that man was getting older now and most often preferred to sleep through mass, which would not do at all when he was at the keyboard.
    Antonio had been allowed to practice on the church organ during the week ever since he was a boy, not long after they had immigrated. Apparently the organist had noticed potential in him the first time he’d asked to give it a try. And with years of practice, he’d learned to use his feet on the pedals. The organ became his first love despite his access to the piano. He’d only taken up the piano because he had one. But it was nothing compared to the sound of a magnificent pipe organ. Even after all this time, he still had to keep to the simplest pieces, but when the regular organist was unavailable, the congregants and the priest seemed satisfied with his playing. He was in a jubilant mood because with a somewhat steady job, now he’d be able to save for Oberlin College where his talents would be challenged and improved.
    He’d spent yesterday considering the men who’d said his father owed them something, making notes the way a police detective would do—facts that were known, speculation, details on what he remembered about his father’s poor mutilated body—only to decide he’d wasted his time. There was probably no answer to the mystery of his father’s death, and now he had no time to investigate anyway. Or maybe he didn’t want to think about it, and the new job was his excuse. That was probably the truth. He would be better off letting matters lie. He spoke a quiet prayer in his mind, one he hoped God would attend to. If I am to stay out of this business, God, let the matter drop from my mind.
    When he entered the church he immediately climbed to the organ platform and took in the morning light from the rosette shaped stained glass window. As he silently slid his fingers over the keys, he remembered the remarks people sometimes made about his playing. A gift. God’s music flowing through him. Pleasing to our Savior and the Blessed Mary. What he was designed to do. An ability few others had.
    Antonio shut his eyes. He did not want to become prideful. Besides, he was not the greatest musician. Far from it. If he were, he would not be cooling his heels during the week in the nickel theaters. But maybe the Roman Athenaeum would put an end to that.
    The custodians at St. Anthony’s took extreme care cleaning the place on Saturdays. He breathed in the scents of lemon oil, freshly cut flowers, and women’s perfume. The smells always worked to bring clarity to Antonio’s mind, the aroma of worship. Just sitting at the organ settled Antonio into the proper predilection for entering God’s presence. In that respect, he did seem to be doing what God intended him to do. This would honor his father best, rather than uncovering old wounds.
    Antonio played that morning with pleasure and delight. It ended all too soon. He gathered his music and prepared to leave, telling himself he should take Luigi to the park. A man approached him as he entered the gallery.
    “Young man, was that you playing the organ?” The man was older, about the age of his father, with gray sideburns, and a husky build. He leaned on an elaborate walking stick.
    “Yes, sir. I hope it was acceptable.”
    “Indeed it was. I’m visiting here from a small church over on Rayburn Street. Protestant, but I hope you will not hold that against me.”
    “Not at all.” The man’s appearance did differ from that of most of the parishioners. Definitely not Italian. Irish or English perhaps. American in speech certainly. He had welcoming blue eyes and a kind smile. Antonio took a deep breath and focused on the visitor. “I am happy you