Sing for Me (23 page)

By the time we arrive at the ornate wrought-iron fence that guards the Nygaards’ enormous brownstone, my feet and ankles
are sopping wet. Mother straightens her hat, marches up the walk and past the bronze lions that roar silently on the front porch. I stay with Sophy on the sidewalk. Mother raises the knocker and lets it fall with a thud against the massive door.

The door swings open. A slight, silvery-haired man dressed in full butler’s livery stands at the threshold. He scowls at the sight of us. Mother bravely wishes him good morning; still he looks down his nose at us.

“You were expected at the back entrance.”

A flush saturates Mother’s throat and cheeks. She apologizes, and asks for the butler’s help carrying Sophy inside. The butler’s training gets the better of him and he complies, negotiating another princess chair with Mother. Sophy grimaces. Me, too. When Sophy is awkwardly in their arms and finally inside, I start to wrestle the wheelchair up the front steps. But the butler pokes his head out and gestures toward the back of the house, the door there.

Down his nose he looks. “Mind the rules, you.”

The back entry leads to a mudroom. I park the wheelchair there and go inside to the kitchen, which is blessedly warm and empty. There are freshly baked rolls cooling on the counter. It seems hours since that oatmeal. I lean over the rolls now, breathe in their buttery scent, and my mouth waters.

Footsteps sound at the kitchen door. I whirl around, expecting to see the butler. Instead Mrs. Nygaard stands before me, a drooping calla lily in her hand.

“Well, well.” Her voice is languid and cool. “I see you’ve made yourself right at home.”

Her sarcasm is not lost on me. My ability to respond to it, however, is.

She turns on her heel to leave the kitchen, tossing the faded flower into the garbage bin as she goes. “Follow me,” she says without so much as a backward glance.

I follow.

My first job, Mrs. Nygaard reveals, is to clean the ashtrays. They had a smaller get-together last night and are still cleaning up the mess. “There should be fifteen,” Mrs. Nygaard clarifies. “About two in every room on the first floor. You can worry about the second floor later.”

I blink at her. Good Danish Baptists don’t smoke. But then good Danish Baptists don’t find excuses—or desperately try to find excuses—to slip away to Calliope’s, either.

The corners of Mrs. Nygaard’s mouth tip down in her version of a smile. “You needn’t worry, Rose. The ashtrays are for our guests, not us.” And she drifts off to another part of the house.

What Mrs. Nygaard neglected to mention, I realize shortly, is that ashtrays—at least the Nygaards’ ashtrays—can prove difficult to locate. I find them in the strangest places, places I’d never have thought to look and might not have found if it hadn’t been for Sophy. While Mother polishes silver, I wheel Sophy about the first floor of the house, and we turn ashtray hunting into a game. Sophy seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to finding them.
Look under that settee
, her eyes tell me, and there, sullying the carpet, lies a crystal bowl of lipstick-stained butts.
Now behind that game table
, Sophy says with a jerk of her head.
On that marble mantel. Beside that toilet.

My fingers are gray and chalky by the time we’ve worked our way through all the rooms. All told, we’ve stacked thirteen ashtrays on the kitchen counter.

Mrs. Nygaard, who is discussing the party menu with the
cook, frowns at the stacks. “You’re missing two.” Mrs. Nygaard has high cheekbones and pale, thin lips she shades with coral-colored lipstick. Her eyes are the very color of the ash that coats my hands. Her blond hair crowns her head in a cap of chic coils. I always think she’s beautiful until I take a second look, and my gaze snags on the hook of her nose. And now the smoldering ash of her eyes. “Please do locate them,” she says. “Then use a toothbrush and vinegar and make them gleam.”

Sophy and I finally find an ashtray beneath a teacup on a library bookshelf. The last one caps the head of the marble angel guarding the doorway to the conservatory. The game isn’t fun anymore. Sophy seems tired and sad. I balance the ashtray on my own head, mimic the angel’s pose, and manage to wrest a smile from her. To make her laugh, I do a little dance, one I saw at Calliope’s. Dancing, I can’t help but sing:

Forget your troubles

Come on get happy

Sophy looks past me, and her eyes widen. She stops laughing. I turn to find Zane standing just behind me. He’s wearing a white shirt and vest, white slacks, white shoes. He holds a tennis racket.

“Working hard, Rose?”

“Yes.” I take the ashtray from my head and slip it into the pocket of my apron. I smell like ashes. Sophy smells like ashes, too. Zane smells like bay rum. He studies Sophy and me. His eyes are nearly the same gray as his mother’s, but they have a warmer cast.

“Sorry,” he says.

“About what?” I keep my voice nonchalant. Acknowledging humiliation only makes it worse. I’ve learned that.

“This.” Zane gestures at the rooms all around, then points the round head of his racket at his chest. “You should be our guests, not our—”

I hold up my hands—
stop!
—because I can’t bear to see myself and my family through Zane’s eyes.

“We better get back to work.” I wheel Sophy in her chair away from Zane.

I’m halfway down the hall when I hear Zane’s uneven step, the drag of his right foot across the floor. I turn back to him. “Is there something you need?”

He shrugs. “I was wondering if Sophy might like to escape, that’s all. Our neighbors the Sloanes have an indoor tennis court, and they’ve invited me to play. Their house is just a stone’s throw away. They’re a lovely elderly couple. I imagine you’ll like them just fine, Sophy, and I know they’ll like you.” Zane pats his racket against his right leg. The gesture reveals how thin and frail his thigh is. “Neither Mr. Sloane nor I are up for much of a contest, so the game won’t go on for too long, I promise you. Then we’ll have something to eat and drink, and enjoy their new record player. They have quite a music collection. Everyone from Mozart to Mezzrow.”

Envy courses through me. But then I see Sophy’s sparkling eyes, her sweet, happy smile, and my envy abates. When has she ever really escaped in her life?

“You’d like that?” I ask her.

She kisses the air yes.

“It’s settled, then,” Zane says. “Least I can do is make one person happy while everyone else is working to make me happy.”

He seems to know where the butler has stashed Sophy’s coat. He heads off to retrieve it and returns quickly, having done just that.

“Keep her safe,” I tell him, buttoning Sophy’s coat.

“Sure thing.”

Zane sounds so cavalier, I can’t help but worry. I watch as he pushes her away. Then they are gone, and I am left with two ashtrays and a handful of hours until eight o’clock.

I work like the dickens, washing, dusting, polishing. By lunchtime, even Mrs. Nygaard is impressed with all I’ve accomplished. The cook serves Mother and me split pea soup and a few of those delicious rolls. As we eat at the kitchen table, Mrs. Nygaard reveals what’s left on the to-do list for today. There are rugs to be beaten, bathrooms to be cleaned, and ovens to be scoured. Tablecloths, napkins, and hand towels to be ironed. Lightbulbs to be changed, candelabra to be arranged. We must finish the first floor today so we can come back early tomorrow and address the more public rooms on the second floor, then set up for the party.

“And our appointments?” Mother asks. “For our teeth?”

Mrs. Nygaard frowns. “Oh, yes. He told me to tell you. At the end of the day when everything’s been accomplished, that’s when he can fit you in.”

My heart sinks. The day just got longer.

The doorbell rings and Mrs. Nygaard goes to receive a delivery. Mother has more silver to polish in the dining room, so I quickly wash up our lunch things. I’m cleaning the sink when I notice a phone mounted on the wall before me, and beneath it the directory for the Danish Baptist Church.

In the past month, I’ve acted without permission and broken the rules more so than ever before in my life. I do so again now. I dial Theo’s number—a number I know by heart. The Chastains’ phone rings and rings, but there’s no answer. My heart thuds in my chest. Time is wasting. Help, I pray, and another idea strikes me. I wonder, dialing Rob’s work number, which I also memorize fearing a situation just like this, if these new impulses of mine are born of choice, or if they’re becoming pure habit, or if they’re gifts from God. I swallow hard, press the receiver to my ear. Then there’s the operator’s voice on the other end of the line. She says she’ll have Rob paged. After a few minutes, he comes to the phone.

“Mother? Are you all right?”

“Can you talk? I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Rob draws in a sharp breath. “Rose! What on earth are you doing, calling me here? I’ve only been at this job a few days!”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t an emergency.”

I tell him then where I am, where I want to be tonight, and how important it is that I get there. “If you ever want to hear the Chess Men play again, you’ll help me,” I say. And then I ask Rob for a ride.

“How are you going to get out of there? I highly doubt the Nygaards have a fire escape. And how in God’s name are your mother and Sophy going to make it home without your help?”

My knees go weak. How could I have been so thoughtless, or thoughtful only of myself—where I needed to be and how I needed to get there.

I lean against the wall, try to get my balance. And then I see the boxes of candles for Zane’s cake, all lined up in a neat row on the counter, and I know the answer.

“Just be here by seven and I’ll be waiting at the corner, I promise.”

“You owe me a song, Laerke.” Without further ado, Rob hangs up the phone.

“I’ll pay up. Don’t worry,” I say to the buzz of disconnection.

I find Zane and Sophy in the library, safely returned from their escape. Sophy’s cheeks are still pink from the fresh air. Zane has positioned her wheelchair by a large window, and together they watch a cardinal feasting at the birdfeeder just outside. I go quickly to them, and only the flash of red glancing past the glass and their startled gasps reveal the stillness that I’ve disturbed.

“I have to ask you something, Zane.” My words are garbled; I’m talking all in a rush.

Sophy glares.

“I’m sorry.” I press my hand to my throat. I can feel my blood surging there, the rapid throb of my beating heart. “I’ll leave you in peace, quick as can be. I just need to ask—Zane, can you do me a favor? Can you drive Sophy and Mother home tonight? I have somewhere I need to be.”

Zane’s eyes widen at my tone. He understands. With a reassuring glance to Sophy, he draws me from the room. In the hallway, we exchange whispered words about where, and when, and why. Again, he promises he’ll keep Sophy safe, and Mother, too. I thank him, thank him, thank him. And then I get back to work.

I fly through Mrs. Nygaard’s list, tackling rugs, bathrooms, and ovens, while Mother does the ironing. It’s seven o’clock by the time I’ve changed all the lightbulbs. Mother is still working on the candelabra. I return to the library and find Sophy sitting by a crackling fire now, tucked under a soft blanket. Zane has taken good care of her over the course of this long day. I touch
her shoulder, rousing her gently. Blinking sleepily, she smiles up at me. She finds a way to tell me about the birds she saw at the feeder and in the trees, the winsome squirrels, the swift fox, the rabbit that just managed to escape him. Spring must be on its way, I tell her, if there was a rabbit. Her smile widens. But then I tell her that my work here is done. “I’m going to leave now,” I say, and her smile fades.

“Tell me,” she says, and the why is in those words.

I hesitate. There’s no time for the truth, I decide. The truth would take too much explanation. Anyway, I’m not sure how Sophy will take it when it comes. And the truth will have to come. I’ve never been able to keep secrets from Sophy for long. When I tell her my secret, the truth, I want to be able to stick around. She might need me.

For now, I’ll try out my excuse on her.

“Nils called . . . And this way, with Zane’s help, you and Mother will be able to get home a little earlier. It’ll be fun, riding home in Zane’s car, Sophy. And heaven knows it will be nice to get a little extra sleep before tomorrow.”

“Fancy car,” Sophy says.

I nod. “You better believe Zane’s got a fancy car.”

“Oh. I believe.”

Her dry tone makes me laugh. But then her expression goes sober.

“Nils.” She draws out his name as if she’s testing it for believability.

“Yes, Nils. You know how Mother and Dad feel about him.” I force out the half-truth. No, call it what it is: the lie.

Sophy screws up her mouth, doubtful and confused, but then she says okay. “Have fun,” she tells me.

Guiltily, I hurry from the room, find Mother, and tell my tale again. It feels no better that Mother practically shoos me out the door, saying she’ll make my excuses to Mrs. Nygaard. “We’ll be fine with Zane. You be home early enough to rise and shine, Rose!” Mother calls after me. “And make sure and thank Nils again for all his lovely gifts of late. The dill, the butter—you know.”