Sing for Me (15 page)

“Lilah Buckley is an old friend of Bill Pritchett’s. Bill’s our drummer,” Theo says suddenly. “Bill came to us yesterday and said Lilah needed the gig. Needed it bad, the way we needed a singer. A year ago she was on her way up, moving with the likes of some really big swing bands. She’s not soaring so high anymore. Not in that way, at least. When Bill said she’d work with us—she wanted to work with us,
needed
to—well, we could really only say yes. She could change our . . . trajectory. And there aren’t many women, especially white women, who would sing with a mixed band.” He glances into the rearview mirror,
and his eyes meet mine. “You wouldn’t.” His gaze is back on the road again, but not before I glimpse the disappointment there.

I sit up straighter in my seat. “I never said I would.”

“If you’d auditioned you might have changed our minds about Lilah. No, don’t deny it, Rose. You’re that good.”

Is it possible to fly into a million pieces? I think it is. I grip the edge of the car seat and hold on tight. “You have your singer, Theo.”

“I said no at first.”

“What?”

“When Bill told us about Lilah, I said no.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see if you would show up after all. I wanted to play ‘Blow the Man Down’ and hear you sing that song like it’s never been sung.”

We listen to the slush shushing beneath the car wheels, the windshield wipers doing their steady best to keep things clear.

“Yes was the right thing to say.” My voice is so quiet I almost don’t hear it. But he does.

“I let the fellows persuade me. They reminded me of the cost if we had no one at all. It wasn’t just me that would have been out of a job, and they all have families to support. Wives and kids. But then tonight the way she was, and it was only the first night . . .” Theo sighs, and his sigh is weary. “Lilah does things I’m not going to mention, Rose. Not to you or my mother or my sister, either. She does things I pray every day not to do. I pray for Lilah, too, truth be told. She’s a good person underneath all the tracks. If she lives long enough, she’ll come through to the other side. I’ll be honored to meet her there and lend a helping hand. Until then, as the fellows put it, ‘The Chess Men will keep
her working and she’ll keep us working.’ And I’ll keep praying for us all.”

I stare out at the lake. Something flashes in the distance—a bright point of light. A lighthouse, perhaps, guiding a slow-moving barge safely toward morning.

“Lilah is meant to be with you. With the Chess Men, I mean.”

“By which you mean you aren’t.”

“I’m not called to this, Theo.”

The nape of his neck brushes against his collar as he slowly shakes his head. “That’s like saying you’re not called to love.”

“Don’t say that!” I look toward the lake until my eyes burn. It is all I can do to keep from looking, looking, looking at him.

Some minutes pass, slush shushing, wipers swiping, the silence between us crackling with implications. We turn off the drive onto streets peppered with stoplights and stop signs, intersections where people stand, waiting and watching as we drive by. Now, for our own good, for our safety, the silence is something neither of us breaks. I close my burning eyes, opening them only when we pull up in front of the apartment where my family lies sleeping if I’m lucky, since the horizon is already paling in the east.

I get out of Theo’s car and shut the door. He leans across the front seat and looks at me through the sleet-streamed window. He raises his hand, more like a blessing than a wave. He leans across the seat and presses his hand to the window glass. His hand is so close. I could press my hand to the window, too. Palm to palm but for the glass, we could almost touch. I could reach for the door handle. I could climb back into the car with him. I could sit beside him in the front seat, fearless.

But he draws back his hand. He leans away, drives off before I can do anything at all.

I trudge through icy slop to the fire escape and climb the slippery steps. Through the bedroom window, I see the shape of Sophy on the bed. I open the window and steal inside. Strip off my beautiful dress and hide it at the bottom of a drawer. Drape my ugly coat over the chair. Put on my nightgown. If I’m lucky, I’ll have an hour of sleep. Then Wednesday will be here, and my workday will begin.

I ease my way beneath the covers. I would like to curl close to Sophy’s warmth, but I’m afraid my chill will wake her. So I balance on the edge of the bed.

My face is wet with something besides rain. I touch my cheek and realize I’m crying.

Now, if I only understood why.

“There’s something I want to show you,” Nils says.

We are sitting in Old Prague, nipping at silver bowls of orange sherbet, plates of three meats and potatoes pushed aside. The food was delicious. Our conversation never flagged. But now there’s a polka band playing in a far corner of the restaurant, and it’s hard to hear each other for the
oomp pa pa, oomp pa pa
of the accordion and horns.

“Are you ready to leave?” Nils practically has to shout to be heard. When I nod, he goes and pays the check. Outside Old Prague, he says it again, with more fervor. “There really is something I really want to show you.”

A view, I’m thinking. Perhaps the view of the skyline from Adler Planetarium Point. It’s a clear night. Tall buildings will
glitter against the sky. After all the noise of the restaurant, we will sit quietly together and watch for shooting stars. We’ll make silent wishes. I’ll try to guess his wish. He’ll try to guess mine. Maybe we’ll guess right and, if not, maybe we’ll tell.

“Let’s go,” I say.

It’s only when we’re in his car and driving away from the planetarium, not toward it, that I ask Nils what he wants to show me.

“It’s a surprise back at my house. But don’t worry, Rose. My parents will be home. I’ll leave my bedroom door open. . . .” He falters, embarrassed at the implications of this.

“I trust you, Nils,” I say.

Is it possible that only a handful of nights ago I was driving with Theo on roads not so far from here? Is it possible that I can sit in the front seat now, but not then? Is it possible that I can drive to Nils’s house, go into his bedroom, and no one will think the worse of me, not even Dad?

It’s more than possible. It’s the way things are.

And really, truly, Nils in the driver’s seat and me riding beside him feels very much like the way things should be. Julia would certainly think so. This past Thursday night, I met her at Marshall Field’s on State Street, and we looked at wedding dresses. I asked Julia all the right questions, and she talked on and on about her plans with Paul as we oohed and aahed over the different styles on display in the Bridal Salon. She tried on her favorites then. We determined that these sleeves best suited her, this neckline, and this fabric, train, and veil, and I realized that my mouth was literally watering with desire for a wedding dress of my own someday. In that mirrored fitting room, I wanted Julia’s life. Afterward, we agreed we were
hungry (so
that’s
why my mouth watered, I told myself). We treated ourselves to hot fudge sundaes in the Walnut Room. Beside the burbling fountain there, I told Julia about tonight’s date with Nils. It was her turn to ply me with questions then, and as I answered them, a future with Nils became even clearer in my mind. “If it weren’t for Paul, Nils would be my top pick,” Julia said. I bridled a bit at that. “Oh, I think Nils trumps Paul any day,” I said. “Just joking, Julia!” I added quickly. But I wasn’t. I’m not. Nils does trump Paul.

His house, a little brick bungalow, is in close proximity to our apartment. He parks in the alley and opens the car door for me. I get out. I take one last look at the stars, which are shining tonight with surprising clarity, for once not overshadowed by the city lights.

I can’t think of a wish that is worth trying for, beyond my wish to let this night continue to be a nice one. So I wish for that. And I follow Nils inside.

From the entryway, I can see Nils’s mother and father in the living room, hunkered down in chairs on either side of a radio.

“They just brought it home,” Nils whispers to me. “They’ve been saving for it for longer than you can imagine.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” I whisper back.

Mrs. Hoirus presses her finger to her lips as Nils and I step into the room.

“Dear Lord,” a man says.

Nils’s father raises his hand in a military salute to greet us. A veteran of World War I like Dad, Mr. Hoirus’s salute is his standard greeting. But Mr. Hoirus isn’t the one calling on the Lord.

“On this Saturday night, we come together to worship you.”

Nils’s parents are listening to a church service on their new radio. It’s a big model in a wooden case, and I can make out the numbers on the glowing dial. They’re listening to WMBI, Moody’s radio station. Nils and I wait, heads bowed, until the congregation choruses amen. Then Nils points down the hallway toward where his bedroom must be. “Be right back,” he says quietly, so as not to interrupt his parents’ listening. Mrs. Hoirus nods; Mr. Hoirus issues another salute. Nils has never been the kind of son to trouble his parents.

We’re walking down the hallway when I hear another voice, this time reading a passage from the first chapter of Mark. This voice stops me in my tracks.

“ ‘Behold, I send my messenger before thy face, which shall prepare thy way before thee.’ ”

“Andreas!” I’d know my brother’s voice anywhere, of course, but it’s the fervor undergirding his words that has stopped me in midstep. It’s still hard for me to believe that this passionate, committed, deep voice belongs to my brother, once a shy, soft-spoken boy given to daydreams.

“ ‘Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight,’ ” Andreas reads.

“That’s Rose’s brother!” Nils calls to his parents. “Can you believe it?”

“Really?” Mrs. Hoirus hoots, giving a little clap of her hands. “Andreas on Moody Radio! How on earth did he get the chance?”

Nils beckons me back into the living room. Mr. and Mrs. Hoirus don’t turn down the volume on the radio, so I have to
raise my voice to explain that Andreas has read Scripture on the air at this service one other time, too.

“Such an honor,” Mrs. Hoirus says.

I nod. “I just hope he remembered to tell Mother and Dad that he was reading. Last time he forgot.”

“He’s preaching in church tomorrow, isn’t he?” Mr. Hoirus asks.

“I think so.” I remember now. I did overhear Andreas telling Mother and Dad about this. And I’m singing, too, I realize. I still haven’t chosen my song.

“We’ll have to make sure and go early to get a good seat,” Mrs. Hoirus says.

She and her husband are leaning toward the radio again. Someone else is speaking now. Nils leads me back to the hallway and to his room. He flicks on the light and I stand in the doorway, blinking. I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but it sure wasn’t this.

The walls of Nils’s room are covered with insects. Framed wooden boxes that contain rows upon rows of exotic butterflies, spiders, beetles, and other bugs—winged and wingless. I’ve never seen the like of most of them before.

Nils grins. “I love surprising people like this.”

“I’m surprised, that’s for sure.” I almost expect the butterflies to flap their glorious, iridescent wings, equally startled. Without thinking, I sit down on Nils’s narrow single bed, then quickly stand up again. “Where did you get all these—what do you call them? Specimens?”

“I call them wondrous.” Nils’s grin widens. “Guess where they came from.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

I walk over to a wall and peer at the hairy body of a tarantula bigger than my hand, bigger than Nils’s hands, bigger than Theo’s, even. The tarantula is the size of a dinner plate.

“You traveled the globe without anyone knowing.”

Nils laughs. “Now, when would I do that? And why, when the globe comes to me?”

I turn to a many-legged insect nearly as long as a ruler. “So how?” I shiver. “Where?”

“There are benefits to my job besides a paycheck.”

“Benefits?”

“You’ve never unpacked a crate of bananas, have you?”

I turn to Nils. “You found these at the National Tea? Oh, my heavens. I’ll never walk through those doors again.”