Sing for Me (24 page)

I know. And I will thank him. First chance I have, tonight or tomorrow, I’m going to call Nils and thank him and apologize for turning him into a good excuse. The best of excuses, that’s what he is, and of course he’s so much more than that. He’s the best of Danish-American men. I’m going to tell him so, and ask his forgiveness, and together we’ll make a plan to really and truly do something special soon. Adler Planetarium Point on a starry night. We could do that. Or the train yards and freight cars where insects are aplenty—that, too. Whatever Nils wants, we’ll do it. We’ll go there. And if he asks to come to Calliope’s and hear me sing, well, that would be wonderful, too.

I grab my coat and pocketbook, fly past the startled butler, and out the front door—yes, the front door! Down the sidewalk I go to the corner.

Long minutes pass during which I wait beneath the streetlamp.

Then there’s a rumbling of gears and the rattletrap DeSoto with Rob inside rounds the corner, and now I’m inside the car, too. Never mind that I’m wearing an old black work dress. I’ve made my escape.

FOURTEEN

I
t is just after eight when Rob drops me off in front of Calliope’s, then drives on to park the car. The place is already crowded and noisy. From so far back, I’m unable to catch even a glimpse of the stage. I make my way forward until I’m just behind the first row of tables, and only then do I see: the stage is empty. The opening band must be taking a break between sets, mingling with the crowd. Here’s my opportunity to get back to the little practice room. I weave my way past one person after the next, hike up my black dress, clamber over the footlights, and duck behind the red velvet curtain.

But the little practice room proves empty.

“Just what do you think you’re doing here?”

I spin around at the sound of a man’s accusing voice. George, the hollow-chested stage manager, stands in the doorway.

“Backstage is off-limits—” He stops abruptly, and peers over his horn-rimmed glasses at me. “You’re that singer from Tuesday night.”

I nod.

George smirks. “Didn’t recognize you in that getup.”

I look down at my dress. I hadn’t noticed the bleach stains and dirt on the black fabric before this moment. It’s worse than I’d imagined. No wonder he didn’t recognize me. The fact that I don’t have on a smidgen of makeup probably doesn’t help matters, either.

I run my hand through my hair, smoothing stray strands into place. “Where are the fellows?”

George shrugs. “Thought maybe you could tell me. Theo said they’d be here by now, practicing.”

“Have they been late like this before?”

“Never. And wouldn’t you know it? Tonight of all nights. The other band’s bus broke down, so they’re stranded in the middle of God-knows-where Kansas. Thought maybe you all could cover. The natives are getting restless out there.”

“Theo and the fellows will show up soon. I’m sure of it.” I sound surer than I feel.

“They better. There’s a lot of hungry musicians out there right now, drowning their sorrows at the bar, begging for a chance to play. The boss is keeping his eyes peeled for the best candidates.” George’s glasses have slipped too far down his nose; he pokes them into place. “You all may be good, but that doesn’t make you irreplaceable. Look at Lilah. Even Lilah wasn’t irreplaceable. My advice, missy, make some phone calls, track your mates down. You’ve got twenty minutes to report some good news. Otherwise I’ll get someone else to cover for the God-knows-where band, and if that someone happens to make the natives happy, and the boss, too—well, I might just ask them to play the night away. And things won’t end up well for you, if you know what I mean. The Chess Men have already pushed the boss a little too far as it is.”

George turns and goes. Twenty minutes and counting, and he’ll have consulted with his boss, scouted the bar for hungry musicians, and picked the best of the lot.

I start searching the room for a phone. When I find it, I’ll try Theo’s house again. Maybe someone will be home by now—Mrs. Chastain or Mary, but not Theo, because he will be on his way here. He has to be on his way here. Mrs. Chastain or Mary will simply tell me how long it will be before he arrives. They’ll tell me Dex, Ira, and Jim are with him. They’re running late, that’s all. They’ll be here in plenty of time.

That’s what Mrs. Chastain and Mary will tell me.

But there’s no phone to be found in this little back room.

I run out into the club. In my hurry crossing the stage, I bump against the microphone. It’s on. The rasping sound of my shoulder against it bounces around Calliope’s. People look, look away. In this dress, I am the girl who does the cleaning. Fine by me. One benefit of wearing an ugly, dirty dress and looking unkempt (to put it nicely) is that you can slip through the crowd like a shadow. Shadow-like, I make my way to the bar. It takes some time to get a bartender’s attention. I have to shout to be heard. He points at the coatroom. Apparently there’s a phone back there.

I duck and scurry my way to where the coat-check girl sits behind her half-door. Tonight her blond hair is curled, the scrolls and loops as elaborate as fancy frosting on a cake. She exhales and a cloud of cigarette smoke engulfs me. I peer through it and over her shoulder and, yes, mounted on the far wall of the coat closet is a phone. When I ask to use it, the coat-check girl holds out a hand, palm up. I don’t have a thing to give her for a tip. Not a penny or a piece of candy or a stick of gum. When I
tell her this, she shrugs. “Sorry. Them’s the rules.” I say
please please please may I
,
please
, until she says, “Shut up, or I’m going to have you kicked out.”

I shut up. I shadow my way backstage to the empty practice room again. I could take this as a sign from God:
You shouldn’t sing these kinds of songs
. Or worse:
You shouldn’t sing at all
. I could go home, lie down, give up.

Or not.

Or I could cover for the Chess Men, and I will, because they wouldn’t be late—not if they could help it. Theo and the others are only late because something has gone very wrong.

A weight like a cold stone settles heavily in my chest at this thought.

The microphone was on. All I have to do is walk up to it and sing.

The weight grows heavier.

Just that little thing all by myself. That’s all I have to do.

“Ha.” My voice seems to float in the air before me, small and lonely. “Ha!” Louder this time. I believe in my voice, I remind myself, and others are relying on it. I say this to myself until the weight in my chest lightens. Just barely it lightens, but I can take a deep breath now and that helps.

The mirror hanging by the door helps, too, once I’ve forced myself to look into it. With the mirror’s help, I try to make myself passably presentable. I take my hair down from its messy bun and run my fingers through it until it frames my face well enough. With a relatively clean towel, I rub my cheeks until they turn pink. My eyes are wide and bright with excitement—with fear, truth be told. But no one needs to be told that. Let the people out there simply see my eyes, wide and bright. As for my
dress . . . well, there’s not much to be done with it except brush away the dirt with the towel.

I am brushing at my sleeve when, reflected in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of something sparkling bright as a diamond on the top shelf of an open locker behind me. I go to the locker. The sparkling bright something is nearly hidden behind wads of dirty socks and T-shirts. Intent as a magpie, I reach for it. It is thin and cold and hard to my touch. I pull it out. It is a belt made of rhinestones. A belt as bright as diamonds that is surely Lilah’s.

When Mother and Dad were first married and lived in a little house in Luck, the diamond fell from Mother’s wedding ring. It was a little diamond—nothing more than a flawed chip—but it was the only valuable thing Mother owned, the testament of her husband’s love, and she searched for it for days that turned into weeks. The space on the silver band where it had been gaped at her, day in, day out, as nagging and worrisome as a missing tooth. Months passed. The whole season of winter passed. Then early one Monday morning, she stood at the sink doing dishes, looking out at the clean laundry drying on the line. A breeze snapped the sheets and shook the blades of grass below, on which dew sparkled. One drop in particular sparkled more brightly than all the rest. The wind stilled, yet the tiny drop sparkled on, brighter than ever. Strange thing was, the sun had gone behind a cloud. Mother stared. Blinked. Gave a yelp and ran outside, her soapy hands dripping. She knelt down over the bright drop of dew and found her lost diamond. “A miracle,” she said. “Just when I had all but given up hope.”

I cinch Lilah’s belt around my waist and turn back to the mirror. What it does for my black work dress isn’t a miracle, exactly. But it’s close enough.

I go to the door, open it. George isn’t standing there, waiting for a report, but in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he will be. My twenty minutes are up.

I take a step forward. Feels like I’m diving off a cliff, diving into shallow, rocky water, as I walk onstage. The place is as noisy as it’s ever been, and the lights are as bright, for which I’m grateful. With the microphone in front of me, I can almost pretend I’m still a shadow. Only the diamond belt has enough pizzazz to catch someone’s eye. George’s. He’s standing at the foot of the stage, staring up at me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he says.

This is his job, I guess, to keep tabs on who’s where and why. I lean away from the microphone so it won’t pick up my voice. “Singing.”

“Where’s your backup?”

I don’t answer. Whatever I say, it won’t make a difference to George. He’ll let me stay up here and do the best I can alone, or he won’t. I lean back into the microphone again.

“Nice belt!” a man hollers from the audience. Someone laughs, and others join in.

In readying myself, I didn’t plan what song to sing. Now, not a note or verse is coming to me. I close my eyes, trying to clear my head and still my mind.

“Great. Another off night at Calliope’s,” a man snaps.

A woman says, “I’m heading for the Sunset Café. Anyone care to join me?”

And then: “Laerke! Open your eyes!”

I look down to see Rob, standing by George at the foot of the stage.

Rob folds his arms across his chest and takes the strongest
stance he can. “You owe me a song, remember? ‘Happy Days Are Here Again!’ That’s my request. Sing it. Now, Laerke. Now.”

I want to close my eyes again. Like a little kid, I want to lose myself in delusion:
I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
But in so many ways, for so many reasons, I’m not a kid anymore. So I keep my eyes wide open. I look right at Rob. I sing for him:

The skies above are clear again

Let us sing a song of cheer again

If I were bathing Sophy, if I were holding her, calming her, keeping her safe, I would sing this song simply and sweetly. I would strip away embellishment, cast off showy impulse. I would open my heart to her. Let the music carry us someplace deep inside ourselves, a safe and sound place that endures even as cold seeps through windows and passing El trains rattle glass, endures even when Dad is angry and hurtful, and Mother is weary and haggard, and the cupboards are all but bare. I would sing us safe and sound, and ready us for whatever is next. Heaven on earth, or as close as we can get, that’s what I would sing. I would sing us whole and able, even as we know all too well that we are broken. I would sing us free of our struggles and grief, even as we are aware that these experiences are inevitable, maybe even necessary. These experiences are, after all, what make us fully human, our true selves, receptive to blessing and healing and song.

I sing that way now, and Rob hears me. I owe him this; we owe each other a great debt. We’re family, after all. We give and take, offer and receive. Tomorrow may be as hard as yesterday, but tonight Rob will have this song to remember. My gift.

I have to come to the end of it now. Quiet, eyes wide open, I
smile down at Rob, who smiles up at me. Almost, I have forgotten that we are not alone. But then Rob starts to clap, and lo and behold, George joins in, and the next thing I know, other people are clapping, and those who aren’t are waiting and watchful, not booing me off the stage. And here is a woman, and there, another woman, wiping tears from their eyes.