Sing for Me (17 page)

On the way home, Mother tells me that we are going to be busy next weekend, helping with Zane Nygaard’s birthday celebration. We’ll spend much of Friday and Saturday in Hyde Park, cleaning the Nygaards’ house, and serving at the party as well. Mother studies her swollen knuckles. She picks at the raw skin around her cracked nails. Her long, lost hope, never realized, was to be a name on the Nygaards’ guest list. She probably never dreamed she’d be cleaning and serving for their guests instead. “Oh, well,” Mother says, tucking her hands into her coat sleeves. “We’ll have our own little celebration today.”

Lunch proves delicious—
farsbrød
, with a dill sauce ladled over the meat loaf. Nils, Mother tells me on the sly, was generous again last time she went shopping, this time tucking a package of dried dill into her bag. She asked him to come to lunch today, too, but he already had other plans.
A date with a tarantula
, I think, smiling.

The meal tastes almost like old times, and the conversation is almost like old times, too, with all of us chiming in, sharing stories. All of us except Dad and Andreas, that is. As usual, Dad is solely focused on his food and his thoughts. Andreas is silent, too, closely watching Dolores, probably assessing her potential for evangelism.

The conversation takes a new turn when Dolores asks about our neighborhood. Dad glowers at his food. Andreas assesses. Mother stays quiet, too.
(If you can’t think of anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.)
It’s up to Rob and me to find something nice to say. We describe the beauty of Garfield Park. “We must go there!” Rob says, and Dolores says she’d like that—perhaps some Saturday when she’s not working. She’s working a lot these days, she explains. As a new nurse, she has to take the
shifts nobody wants, and cover for other nurses when they’re home sick or taking a holiday. She’s working a lot of overtime, too, just to scrape together a little extra change.

“What about your family?” Andreas asks abruptly.

Dolores pushes a potato around on her plate. When she finally looks up at Andreas, she is as sober as I’ve ever seen her. “My mother is dead. My father is a drunk. My brother is off I don’t know where. I’m on my own. I rent a room at the YWCA. I pay my own way in life, thank you very much.”

Andreas is the first one to break the quiet. “Sounds hard. And lonely.” His voice is low and compassionate, and to my surprise, tears brim in Dolores’s eyes.

“It is.”

“But you make the best of it, don’t you?” Rob says brightly. Dolores blinks away her tears, and then falteringly agrees that she does.

“And with all the hours I’m working, I’m finally able to get a thing or two I’ve needed for a very long time.” She smiles shyly. “I’d been wearing the same gloves for so many years, there were holes in nearly every finger. Just last week I went to Field’s and bought myself a new pair. They were a floor sample, a little the worse for wear. But with that and the sale, I got them nearly for free.”

Mother sighs. “I’ve not been to Field’s in so long. Is it still the same?”

To Mother’s delight, Dolores describes recent renovations to the store.

Mother chimes in then, talking about the frequent trips we used to make there. “I loved to look at all the beautiful things—the displays, the Tiffany glass ceiling. And lunches in the Walnut
Room with Rose and Sophy. Those were some of my favorite times.” Mother’s face brightens with a new memory. “And speaking of gloves—one particular day, I was wandering through Accessories, and I was smitten with a pair of lace gloves from Belgium. They were as delicate and dainty as anything I’d ever seen. I asked if I could try them on, and the clerk couldn’t hide her disdain. ‘But, my dear,’ the clerk said, ‘those gloves are
imported
.’ Well, I didn’t miss a beat. ‘But, my dear,’ I said, ‘so am
I
.’ I didn’t even bother to try on the gloves then. I simply bought them. I could do that kind of thing then.” Mother gives a pained laugh. “I’ve still got those gloves tucked away somewhere. I’m saving them for something special someday, for myself or Rose or Sophy.”

For a moment no one says a word, then Dad roughly pushes back his chair. “Enough of this talk,” he says, and mutters something about second helpings.

So second helpings work their way around the table. We eat and chat about other things, until finally everyone’s napkins are folded and laid carefully beside their plates. We are evaluating the cleanup when Andreas suddenly leans forward.

“You haven’t told us yet, Dolores. How did you meet Rob?”

“And Rose!” Dolores says. “She was there, too!”

I go stone still. Rob levels Dolores a look. Dolores snaps her mouth shut. Her eyes dart from Rob to me, then back to Rob. He must have warned her not to breathe a word about Calliope’s in my family’s presence.

“You tell, Rob.” Dolores sounds panic-stricken. Andreas gives her a close look, as does Dad. “I’d love to hear your version, Dolores,” Mother says quietly.

Dolores stares at Rob, her eyes wide with appeal. “Go on, Rob.”

I feel sick. All this delicious food is going to come right back up again. I take a sip of water. Barely able to swallow, I give an audible gulp.

“Well, let’s see.” Rob runs his thumbs between his plump stomach and his straining belt. His lips are drawn into a thin, tight line. I remind myself that Rob loves a challenge, especially if there’s risk involved. He takes pleasure in convincing people that he’s right. No wonder he wants to be a lawyer. Oh, please let him present a convincing case now.

“How can I say this?” Rob clears his throat. “I guess I’ll just say it. Rose and I met Dolores under questionable circumstances.”

“Pardon?” Mother says.

Dolores sinks down in her chair. I clutch my stomach.

“Tell!” Sophy says.

“Patience.” Rob gives Sophy the gentlest of reprimanding looks. “Rose and I went out to a jazz club, truth be told. That’s where we met Dolores.”

Dad stands abruptly, knocking over his chair. I hear my voice as if from a great distance, saying Rob’s name as a question. And then: “What are you saying?”

Ignoring me, Rob gives my parents his most charming smile. “I haven’t always been the most convicted of Christians, I know. Not like Andreas here. But Rose and I were talking, and we both felt like we needed to see how sinners live, what their temptations are, in order to better share the Gospel. So we went to a club. We learned a lot.”

At this point, good manners are the least of my worries. I rest my elbows on the table, hide my face behind my hands. My forehead is slick with cold sweat. For a moment, no one says a word. The only sound is my stomach churning.

Rob clears his throat. “Andreas, you were talking about this to me just the other day—the fact that our methods of evangelism often fall flat because we don’t really understand how others live, their loves and habits. In fact, you were saying something like that in today’s sermon, weren’t you? All that about John the Baptist at the Pacific Garden Mission. And Jesus, too. Isn’t that what you were saying, Andreas?”

Before Andreas can deny or confirm anything, Dad says, “That’s a bunch of hogwash.”

Dolores gives a high, nervous laugh. “It worked, though, Mr. Sorensen. I’m Exhibit A. If Rob and Rose hadn’t come to the club, I never would have come to church, heard Andreas preach, and shared in this delicious meal.” She leaps to her feet. “Now let me do something for you. I’ll clean up the kitchen.”

“Sit down.” This is not a polite invitation from Dad. This is an order.

Dolores sits down.

Dad stands up. His hand is on my arm, near my wrist. I can’t think of the last time he touched me. I try to remember. Which is why it takes me a moment to realize that he’s holding on too tight. I look up at him. His eyes are dark with rage.

“Dad,” Andreas says.

“Jacob,” Mother says.

“Uncle Jacob.” That’s Rob.

Sophy hisses no.

Dad doesn’t look at anybody but me. “You should know better.”

Someone says something I can’t make out. I think it’s Rob, but I don’t know for sure, because the room has tunneled to the darkness of Dad’s eyes.

“Men sow their wild oats,” Dad says, in answer to whatever someone—Rob?—just said. “Women become tramps.”

That’s not what happened to me. Not at all.

I can’t be looked at this way anymore. This look will snuff out the little light that is me. I turn my head away from my father, and he does something with his hand on my arm. I hear a yelp. The yelp came from me.

Sophy hisses. She hisses louder, and louder yet, until finally Dad releases me. Where his hand was aches. I hear his quick footsteps on the floor. Then the kitchen door swings open and bangs closed.

“He’s gone,” Dolores whispers in my ear.

I look up. Mother, Rob, Sophy, and Andreas are staring, stricken, at the remnants of our lunch—the crumbled bits of meat, hunks of potato, shreds of carrot on our plates, the congealing grease and sharp flecks of seasoning on the platters.

That’s not what happened to me.

I stand and run from the kitchen. There are my coat and pocketbook, lying on my bed. I put on my coat, grab my pocketbook, head to the front door.

“Rose! Where are you going?” Mother calls from the kitchen.

I don’t answer. I hear Rob say that I must be going after Dad. I must be going to explain.

Let them think that.

I open the door and run down the stairs.

ELEVEN

H
ead bowed against the cold, I run toward the only place I can think to go. I run to Garfield Park and take shelter in the Conservatory. Clutching my aching arm, barely seeing the lush plants and trees, I wander from glass room to glass room until I find myself standing at the edge of a pool. Pennies glitter at the bottom.

There’s a penny lying on the walk beside my feet. I pick it up and throw it into the pond with a wish that splits itself in two and refracts with the ripples in the water.

I wish I could sing. I wish I could talk to Theo.

I remember then. Theo wrote his phone number on the bulletin for the African Methodist Church. I put that bulletin in my pocketbook. I’m carrying that pocketbook now.

I don’t know Nils’s number. That’s why I’m not calling him. That’s why. And the fact that Dad would want me to do that, given the choice. Dad would expect me to do that. Dad knows me so well.

Men sow their wild oats. Women become tramps.

But that’s not what happened to me—not Friday or Tuesday night. And it didn’t happen last Sunday, either. (Was it only a week ago today?) When Theo heard me singing and found me on my knees, he was only a gentleman and I was only a lady. Together, we were only doing a job.

I push up the sleeve of my coat and there is the shape of Dad’s hand, darkening as a bruise. His fingers wrapped around my arm. His palm pressed down. Dad knows me well, all right. He knows me right down to the bone.

I consider the Danish Baptist way. The oldest daughter, big sister way. The Rose Sorensen way.

I take a detour off the only way I’ve ever known and find myself back at the entrance to the Conservatory. The entrance feels arctic after the tropical warmth of the Conservatory’s inner rooms. The cold air settles on me like a weight. Far weightier is the truth, which is what I will live for from now on, never mind where it takes me.

There is a pay phone in the corner of the entrance. I go to it. I fumble with the clasp on my pocketbook, dig inside its cluttered depths. Beneath three handkerchiefs—because of Sophy, I always carry more than one—a comb, bobby pins, and barrettes, and a small jar of Vaseline, I find my coin purse and the bulletin from Theo’s church. I take out a nickel, lift the phone’s earpiece, plug the nickel into the phone, dial the numbers on the bulletin, and listen to the ringing at the other end of the line.

A girl answers. “Hello?”

I stare at the phone as if the machine itself had just spoken.

From behind me, a man clears his throat so loudly that I jump. I glance over my shoulder. The man is waiting none too
patiently to use the phone. He twirls a finger in the air:
Come on, speed it up.