Free White Wind Blew by James Markert

originally thought would have been several months had by now turned into years.
    Wolfgang prayed for ten minutes before dropping the rosary beads on the bed. He still felt unsettled, like he needed a night of meditation in the crypt chapel of the abbey church, or an afternoon chanting from his Liber Usualis . He pulled the black box from under the bed, removed the pages, and put them atop the piano. He poured a glass of wine, swirled it repeatedly, the meniscus sloshing expertly to the rim of the glass but no higher. He never spilled a drop. He let it breathe, swirling, smelling, and then he took a sip. He savored the warmth as it barreled down his throat and spread out through his stomach.
    The window next to the piano had been repaired during the day. The new panes were still smudged with remnants of fresh putty, but they fit well enough to keep the cool air out. Wolfgang sipped his wine again and placed it on the piano bench. His right foot throbbed as it did near the end of every day, so he dragged it across the room to the fireplace. There was no shame in dragging it while he was alone. A few more glasses of wine would help numb the pain, and then he would hardly care.
    Next to the fireplace was his father’s Edison phonograph. It was the Gem, the smallest of the Thomas Edison models. Beside it was Wolfgang’s canned music collection, stacked ten rows wide and six high, some taken from his father’s collection when he’d left home, the rest acquired over the years. The music ranged from Mozart to ragtime, from Beethoven and Bach to Gregorian chants Wolfgang had been given by one of the Saint Meinrad monks, the chants recorded at a German monastery in the late 1890s. The cylinders were all protected and labeled in cardboard tubes. Wolfgang chose the Gregorian chants, popped the lid, and removed the cylindrical record. He was careful not to touch the outside surface as he fit it inside the phonograph. He touched the stylus down on the grooves of the rotating cylinder and, moments later, fighting through the static, male baritone voices burst forth from the arched horn.
    At the piano, he warmed his fingers with Beethoven. Soon the wine took hold. Susannah, Dr. Waters, McVain, Marlene—the day was all fading into distant memory. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and scribbled notes, tested a few keys, and then scribbled some more.
    Thirty minutes later, Wolfgang sat with elbows propped on the keys, his fingers interlocked around his drooping head. He could see the pages he’d crumpled into balls and tossed on the floor minutes ago.
    They just were not right.
    Five years and he’d yet to complete a simple requiem Mass.
    Not that it could be so simple; the requiem had to be perfect. Rose’s memory demanded so, and if nothing else in this life, Wolfgang was a driven man. His mother told him when he was eight that he’d never walk again. He did. His father was convinced that he’d never learn the piano. He did. His mother said he’d never become a doctor. He’d never amount to anything without the King James Bible. And look at where he sat now.
    Wolfgang saw that the rose atop his piano was wilting, the petals no longer bright red and flowering. They’d darkened to rust, hard and crisp. He limped across to the front door and stepped outside, where the cool temperatures made his arm hair stand on end.
    Behind the cottage was a birdbath full of dirty leaves and water. Wolfgang knelt beside it. Spread before him, in the embrace of the candlelight, was a small rose garden. Dozens of red roses stood there, protected from the cold by heat lamps and metal mirrors that reflected the sun’s rays. Lincoln had put the contraption together, borrowing everything from the sanatorium without Dr. Barker’s knowing. Wolfgang had not believed it would work. Roses would not continue to grow in the winter. But Lincoln had been adamant. So Wolfgang had blessed the garden the day it was planted, even scattering some of Rose’s ashes