“What are these people thinking?” Lightfoot wailed. He had now grasped his hair with both hands, as if about to tear it out in despair, although I noticed that he wasn’t really gripping it hard enough to muss it up, much less yank any out.
I’d seen him carry on like this last night, at the rehearsal, when one of the soloists had made some mistake undetectable to me. He’d berated the poor girl for a good five minutes, and she’d been visibly on the verge of tears. Afterward, when I was dropping off Aida’s daughter Kayla I asked her if this was typical.
“Yeah,” she’d said. “Especially on the eve of a concert. The worse his nerves get, the more he takes it out on us. I was up for that solo, you know. Really bummed me out when I didn’t get it. But maybe losing it wasn’t so bad after all. At least I don’t get chewed out like that.”
And Lightfoot was no better today. Everyone was giving him a wide berth, murmuring polite little apologies as they went past.
“Do I have to do everything myself?” As Lightfoot said this he glared at the people surrounding him. Clearly, since no one jumped to his side offering assistance, everyone assumed this was a rhetorical question. Lightfoot snorted with impatience and strode toward the archway where I was standing.
Given how dim the hall was compared to the brightly lit vestibule, perhaps it wasn’t entirely his fault that he slammed into me, knocking me into the wall with a thud. But he could have been more polite about it.
“Watch it!” he said, as if I were the one who’d done something wrong.
The lack of sleep combined with the shooting pains through my shoulder did me in and I lost my temper.
“‘Watch it’?” I snapped. “You practically knock me down and all you say is ‘watch it’? Where the hell did you learn your manners—a stable?”
“Well, why were you standing there blocking the hallway?” he shouted.
“I wasn’t blocking the hallway,” I snapped. “I was just standing in it. If you weren’t so hell-bent on making sure everyone saw your little temper tantrum, maybe you’d have seen me.”
His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward me, fists clenched. Out in the vestibule, I heard several people gasp, and I found myself wondering if he’d ever been physically abusive to any of the choir members. I remembered how some of the younger ones almost flinched when he came near them.
But my temper was up, and I had no intention of letting him see me cower, so in spite of the throbbing waves of pain in my shoulder, I took a step forward, too, lifted my chin, and glared right back at him. I didn’t really think he’d try to strike me, but if he tried, in spite of the shoulder and the eight-inch difference in our heights, I was betting I’d come out on top. Working as a blacksmith had made me a lot stronger than most women, and I still hadn’t completely forgotten what I’d learned in several years of martial arts training. Lightfoot, on the other hand, had the weedy, hollow-chested, pasty look of someone who never bothered to exercise and was thin only because he didn’t really care about food.
And just now he looked a little startled, as if not used to people standing up to him.
“Hmph!” he said. Then he turned and stalked down the hall. I watched him barge into Riddick Hedges’s office. Then I turned and saw that everyone in the foyer was staring my way in stunned amazement. Or maybe in accusation—had I just spoiled everyone’s holiday mood?
“I can’t wait to find out,” I said. “Which one of us gets the title role in How the Grinch Stole Christmas.”
Not much of a joke, but it broke the tension. People laughed far more than it deserved, and a few even applauded.
Minerva Burke appeared at my side.
“You go, girl,” she said. “I think he’ll get the part, but you deserve a medal. Not many people stand up to old Bigfoot.”
“Probably just as well, since that means he doesn’t dislocate that many people’s shoulders.” I was trying to move my arm—fortunately, the left arm—and feeling a little faint from the resulting waves of pain.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Minerva said.
I was fumbling in my pocket for my cell phone.
“I’m calling Dad,” I said.
Chapter 9
I pulled out my cell phone, but I didn’t want to move my left arm, and trying to hold the cell phone and dial it with my one good hand wasn’t working too well.
“Here,” Minerva said, taking it out of my fingers. “Let me do that. Let’s get you sitting down someplace. Ronnie! Virgil! Come help Ms. Meg!”
I had to admit, it was nice to be half carried into my temporary office and sit back with my eyes closed while Minerva called Dad and ordered him to come over and see to me.