Sing for Me (22 page)

Rob says, “She’s my cousin. You’ll take good care of her?”

“I will,” Theo says. The other Chess Men say they will, too.

“I’ll take good care of them, too,” I say, which makes everyone laugh, even me. Tired and giddy with laughter, I lean into Theo again. His hand touches the small of my back, supporting me.
What’s happening here? Something’s happening.
His touch is tender. I don’t want him to take his hand away.

Rob goes to the door. Only when he’s in the hallway does he look back. He clasps his hands together and raises them to his
chin in an appeal that surely extends to me and may extend to God. The gesture takes my breath away; it’s something a much older person would do—someone from our parents’ generation, perhaps, or, more likely, our grandparents’. “Be careful,” Rob says over his clenched hands. “Be careful together.” And then he’s gone.

Theo is beside me. That’s what turned Rob into our grandfather.

The other Chess Men are packing up their instruments now. Theo busies himself organizing sheet music into folders. He takes notes on tonight’s playlist, and jots down ideas for what Friday might hold. He says good night to the others, then turns to me. He doesn’t ask if I need a ride. He simply nods.
Yes, I’ll take care of you.
I follow him from the room, keeping a safe distance as we wend our way out the back door and into the alley, where his car waits.

We are silent the whole way home, him in front, me in back. Only when Theo pulls up in front of the apartment does he speak.

“So, Friday?” It is still dark, but the streetlight illuminates his face. He looks weary, yet hopeful. “You’ll be our vocalist again?”

I nod, and there’s his smile.

“Could you arrive a little earlier on Friday, though—say, eight? It would be good if we could put in a little more practice.”

“Eight is fine by me.”

Theo’s smile fades as he glances warily at the apartment building. “Are you sure it will be fine with your family, though?”

I tell him not to worry. I’m not sure how, but I’ll make it fine.

THIRTEEN

W
ednesday and Thursday pass as Wednesday and Thursday will. Friday is on the horizon. When I finally sleep on Thursday night, I dream that I am running through dark streets in my blue dress, running and running, trying to get somewhere—where I don’t know, but I know it’s a place as important as my life. Someone is chasing me; I hear footsteps not so far behind. Someone will catch me if they can, stop me if they do. I run harder. I am almost there. Then a hand comes down on my shoulder.

Someone is shaking me awake. It is dark and cold. Friday—it’s Friday. I was supposed to arrive at Calliope’s at seven. If it’s this dark, I must be late. I must have taken a short nap after work, and it turned into a long one.

“Rose.”

Mother’s voice. Mother’s hand on my shoulder, drawing me from my dreams.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly six.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. I can make it to Calliope’s by eight.

“Wake up, Rose.” Mother raises her voice. “Sophy, you, too. We have to get some breakfast into you both.”

I’m aware now of Sophy’s warm weight in the bed. Sophy never takes naps in the late afternoon or early evening. If she does, she won’t sleep at night. She mumbles something into her pillow. Something that sounds like a version of “not hungry yet.”

I rub my eyes, confused. “Breakfast? Don’t you mean dinner?”

“Not unless you want to have dinner for breakfast. I’ve got oatmeal on the stove. Come on.” Mother gives me another shake. “Hurry now. We can’t be late.”

Nearly six in the cold, dark morning. That’s what time it is. The day still stretches before us.

Sophy groans.

“Late for what?” I dread the answer; it’s lurking like a shadow at the back of my mind.

“The Nygaards, sleepyhead! Zane’s party.” Mother clucks her tongue. “I told you about this after church last Sunday, Rose. Remember?”

“I guess I forgot.”

Mother heads for the bedroom door. “Bring only a work dress today, Rose. Tomorrow you’ll pack a nicer one for the party. Quickly now!”

Mother hurries from the room. A snore escapes from Sophy. Clearly, Mother’s words had no effect on her. On me, they had plenty. Wide awake, I sit bolt upright in bed. If I know Mrs. Nygaard, she will have us cleaning until late tonight to prepare for her party, and tomorrow, the party itself will go late into the night. I will not make tonight’s eight o’clock rehearsal and performance. Or tomorrow night’s, either. And if I don’t show up at the performance, the Chess Men will never perform at Calliope’s again.

I need to come up with a good excuse to slip away.

I go to the closet, rifle through my small collection of work dresses, pull the cleanest one from its hanger, and put it on.

If only excuses could be found in closets.

In spite of the cold, we’re sweating, Mother, Sophy, and I, pressed so close together at the back of the El car that the heat we gathered during our dash to the station continues to intensify. Mother has taken the seat by the window. Sophy sits on her lap, her back braced against the glass. I sit beside Mother, with Sophy’s legs stretched across my thighs. So far, so good. Sophy hasn’t had a spasm we weren’t able to control. The wheelchair stands in the aisle beside me; I hold tightly to it to keep it from rolling off down the aisle. Once, on a trip like this, the wheelchair got away from me; it banged into a conductor, nearly knocking him off his feet, and he asked us to leave the train. Learned my lesson that day, standing with Mother and Sophy on the El platform in the pouring rain.

Mother’s breathing hard—too hard. I suck in a slower, deeper breath for her, and for Sophy, too, just in case. And for myself.

Still haven’t come up with a good excuse.

At least we’re on the right train, barreling inelegantly toward posh Hyde Park and the Nygaards’ mansion. At the El station, two trains passed above us while we waited for the kind stranger in the brown, grease-stained coat who helped us carry the chair, then Sophy, up two flights of stairs to the platform. The next train that came was packed with people. Finally this one arrived, and there was a car that wasn’t so crowded. We could leverage
ourselves inside and down the aisle. Now Sophy is nodding off; Mother, too. I stare out the window, too tired to close my burning eyes. Buildings flash past, and the people below, the cars and trolleys, and time. Tonight—what might have been, what might still be—feels as distant as last night’s dream.

The train lurches in a new direction. If I’m correct, we’re nearing Bronzeville now. I search for landmarks, but nothing catches my eye. The sidewalks are filled with people bustling off to punch the clock. Not a white person to be seen at this time of day. Once this would have disconcerted me. Now I only hope to catch a glimpse of Theo, or Mary, or Mrs. Chastain.

The train banks abruptly east toward the lake. Sophy and Mother sleep on. In spite of her frailty, Sophy’s legs are growing heavy. I adjust her weight and rest my head on Mother’s shoulder.

A rotten stench startles me upright. I must have nodded off, too. We are passing close to the stockyards now. The odor brings tears to my eyes. I cup my right hand over my nose and mouth, my left hand over Sophy’s. This smell, if anything, will surely upset her, and when she’s upset, she’s at risk for something worse. When Sophy and I give muffled groans of discontent, Mother’s eyebrows draw together in irritation. From behind the sleeve of her coat, she reprimands us. We should count our blessings, she says. Dad could be working in a slaughterhouse. Or I could. Or Mother herself. We could be meat packers instead of what we are.

“What are we, exactly?”

Mother gives me a sharp glance. “We are clean folk with good manners. We don’t bring this smell into our home.”

With her voice still muffled by her coat sleeve, she reminds me that before she met Dad she was housekeeper for the mayor
of Luck, Wisconsin. She learned about the finer things of life doing that job. Dad learned about them as a sailor, exploring port cities. They’ve passed this knowledge on to their children. We should always remember, never forget, the fine things we’ve learned, Mother says. We have surrounded ourselves with them in the past. We will surround ourselves with them in the future.

I interrupt her. “Sometimes the fine things in life are different for different people. A stockyard worker might think his life is just fine. Who’s to say it isn’t?”

“If the stockyards are so fine, then why are we trying not to breathe this very air?” Mother’s tongue works at her cheek, prodding the back molar that has been troubling her so. “I imagine there are many down in the yards who would trade much more than a day’s work for a trip to the dentist.”

Sophy and I exchange grim looks. We didn’t realize that this trip would also include a dental visit to Dr. Nygaard—an additional benefit of our employment we’ve yet to take advantage of. Makes sense, I suppose, that our checkups should occur this weekend. Dr. Nygaard’s office is in his house. Mother’s teeth, and Sophy’s, too, need attention. As for me, I like sweets well enough. It’s only a matter of time before my own teeth are in trouble, too.

We rattle on. The air improves as the train moves forward, but it’s some time before Sophy will let me lower my hand from her nose and mouth. Finally the train grinds to a halt. We are in Hyde Park. I push the wheelchair aside and slide from beneath Sophy’s legs. Mother manages to stand, too. Hefting Sophy in her arms, she staggers to the door of the train and out onto the platform. I’m right behind with the wheelchair. The platform’s wide, wooden boards tremble beneath our feet as the train thunders off. Mother settles Sophy into the wheelchair, then catches
her breath and balance. I look around, hoping, but there is no kind man in a brown, grease-stained coat to be seen. In fact, the platform is empty.

“The stairs.” Mother points. “We can’t wait around for help that won’t come.”

I wheel Sophy to the stairs. There, Mother and I weave our arms together and make a place for her to sit. A princess chair, Dad named this configuration of our arms. We wrestle Sophy forward and scoop her up. We manage to carry her down thirteen stairs, navigate the landing, and carry her down another flight of thirteen. At the bottom Mother and I collapse onto a bench with Sophy still wedged between us.

“The hardest part is almost over.” Mother is trying to be reassuring, I know, but given the household tasks that await us, her words fall flat. She adjusts Sophy’s hat and coat, murmuring, “There, there.” Mother gives me a look, then, and I know what I must do. I can feel Sophy’s worried eyes on me as I climb back up the stairs. I can feel her eyes on me as I push the wheelchair down twenty-six stairs, twenty-six jarring bumps to the sidewalk.

“Hardest part, over and done with.” I add my reassurance to Mother’s. Again, it falls flat. I still haven’t thought of an excuse to escape, after all. Thinking of an excuse is proving to be the hardest part for me.

We head into Hyde Park. What was a cold, gray morning has turned drizzly. Mother reminds us that we only have a few blocks to walk, and then she sets off down the sidewalk. I trudge along behind, pushing Sophy. The wheelchair spews slush on my shoes. Icy water runs down the back of my neck.