Sing for Me (25 page)

“Sing another, sister,” a man calls from the back of the crowd.

I catch my breath. The man, hidden as he is, just might be an angel, for he has shared a vision. Never mind race or creed, status or religion. The strangers in this room are not strangers. They are my brothers and sisters. We are children of God.

I look out at the crowd and see family in need. I sing for them as I’d sing for Rob or Sophy. That gaunt woman whose makeup doesn’t hide the bruise at the sharp line of her jaw—I sing her safe and sound. That man whose arrogant stance is belied by the rosary he worries between his fingers—I sing him heaven on earth, or as close as he can get. The elderly lady who’s trying to look young, the young man who’s trying to look old, the old man who’s trying to stay alive, the middle-aged man who’s drinking himself to death—I sing for them, one song after another. When someone shouts a request, I sing it if I’m able. If I don’t know the lyrics, I promise I’ll learn. “Give me another suggestion,” I say, and I sing that instead.

After seven songs—none of them from the hymnal, but all of them feeling as sacred as can be—I realize that my mouth is going dry. I have maybe one song left in me to give, and it has to be a simple song, a small song, a fleeting birdsong that lingers in the air long after this bird has flown:

Just as I am

Without one plea

I realize that I’m singing this sweet hymn as I finish the first verse. I’m not singing it as an altar call, not tonight. I’m singing it as a way of saying thanks. There is something of God in each and every one of these people, and for this reason, and this reason alone, they have accepted me just as I am, alone on the stage, but in their company.

I finish the song and leave the stage as quickly as I stepped onto it. Just as I am, I go back to the little room, where I find Theo and the other Chess Men, waiting.

They applaud with the audience, long and loud.

“What happened?” My legs feel leaden as the last bit of energy drains from them. I collapse into the nearest chair and take the glass of water Theo offers. Over its rim I see Ira’s split lip. The blood crusting Dex’s nose. And Jim, whose face is really a mess. Theo is the only one who appears unharmed, but when he sits down beside me, he winces, clutching his ribs.

“We got jumped.” Dex opens his clarinet case and checks the instrument inside.

“What! Why?”

Theo gives a one-shouldered shrug. Again, that painful wince. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

His grim tone stands in sharp contrast to his offhand remark. Adrenaline courses through me, and I stand up again. I find the towel I used to clean myself up and hand it to Jim, who is testing the strings of his bow even as his lip and forehead ooze blood. Then I hurry to the bathroom, collect towels there, run them under the questionably clean water, and hurry back. Ira, Dex, and Jim gratefully take the towels and start tending to their injuries. Theo,
in my absence, has gotten a glass of ice from the bar. He wraps a towel around the ice, opens his shirt, presses the towel to his ribs, and I see the bruises there, purpling angrily against his dark skin.

“What place? What time?” I ask.

Dex takes a brown glass bottle from a cabinet. “Some guy called, said the manager at the Green Mill wanted to talk to us about a possible North Side gig. We went all the way up there, parked where he told us to, in the alley behind the joint. We weren’t twenty feet away from the car when it happened.” Dex douses a towel with what’s in the bottle—rubbing alcohol, from the odor that pervades the room—then strides over to Jim and swiftly presses the towel to the gash on his forehead. Tears spring to Jim’s eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. (Jim’s the garrulous one. He still calls me Blue Dress, though I’ve ask him to call me Rose.) “We were set up,” Dex says, pressing harder, his black hands stark against Jim’s pale, bleeding face. “There are more people who don’t like us mixing things up than there are people who do. I’ll find some tape to get you through the night, Jim.” Dex continues as if this were all one seamless thought. “But after we’re done here, we’re getting you to the hospital. You need stitches.”

“I should have known,” Theo says. The ice is melting quickly against his skin. He looks at the towel like it’s what did him wrong, then flings it hard against the wall. Roughly, Theo buttons his shirt again. “I
did
know. Some things never change. I just let myself forget that. I
wanted
to forget that. And look where my foolishness got us.”

Theo’s voice is so low that it’s almost a growl. I remember what he said about the chains that made him a prisoner, not a man.
I won’t be a prisoner to the color of my skin or the world we live in—not the way I was, not anymore.
That’s what he vowed.
But it seems like tonight he was that prisoner again. Or he feels that way. And now he won’t look at me. He won’t look at anyone. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor.

The door to the room opens and George pokes his head in. “Are you going on, or what? Because I’ve got some other guys lined up. They’re waiting by the stage, straining at the bit. I say the word and they’ll take your place.”

“We’re going on,” I say.

“Five minutes or forget it,” George says.

Then it’s just us, and we sit in silence, and I can’t believe we’ll ever be on any stage again. Theo doesn’t look up from the floor. Ira presses his fingertips to the bruises circling his eyes. Dex takes the towel from Jim’s face, and he and Jim regard the bloodstains there.

Moments pass that feel like hours. Then, without another word, they’re up and gathering their things. I step outside into the hall while they change into their tuxedos, and one more long moment later, we’re on.

This time I bring along a glass of water, and when that glass is empty, George delivers me another. Once people stop making cracks about the tough guys on the stage, we make good music. Occasionally I turn to see the pain on Jim’s face, and the way Theo holds himself so stiffly at the keyboard. Or the lights hit Dex or Ira just so, and I realize they’re in worse shape than they appeared to be in the dim light of the back room. Between the second and third sets, Jim, Ira, and Dex pop aspirin and change bandages. Icing his ribs again, Theo says he won’t be able to drive me home at the end of the night. He has to take Jim to the hospital, and he thinks maybe he should get checked, too. Reassuring him that I can get a ride with Rob, I pass the bottle of aspirin his way.

We keep the third set short. Jim is looking ashen; he has to sit a couple of numbers out. In spite of the fact that Dex did his best to tape up Jim’s wounds, the blood keeps seeping through the gauze. And Theo isn’t playing nearly as well as usual. The last number of the night, he asks for a request from the audience, and Rob shouts, “How about another take on ‘Just as I Am’?”

No one protests, so we jazz the hymn up and we wind it down, until practically everyone in the room is singing “Just as I Am.” Some people are anything but sacred in their intentions, but others are clearly transported by the song; some even seem to be prayerful, singing. I keep my eyes on them. When the last note is played, Theo promises the crowd we’ll be back tomorrow night.

Only then do I remember Zane’s party, and the fact that I may very well have to come up with another good excuse tomorrow night to get away. And I remember Nils—the explanation I still owe him regarding tonight’s excuse—and I feel guilty all over again.

Backstage, I’m tucking Lilah’s rhinestone belt away where I found it, when Theo passes around the night’s pay. A whole five dollars for each of us! I allow myself, if only briefly, to feel a little bit better. And then the fellows are talking about something I’ve never heard them talk about before. A recording! Someone came up to Dex after the last set—a producer—and we might have a shot at a record. That’s where the real money is, and a real future.

I can’t fathom it. But the five dollars—it’s something to hold on to, and I do. I clutch the wrinkled bill tightly and hold it close to my heart. When I’m able to give it to Mother, and she’s able to accept it, knowing how I earned it—that will be a happy day indeed.

FIFTEEN

S
omehow we are on the El again, Mother, Sophy, and I, rushing through another cold, early morning. Today, as if in honor of Zane’s party, the sky is cloudless. Stark sunshine glances sharply off buildings and pavement. I squint against the light, submit to it, close my eyes, and doze. Only a handful of hours ago I was onstage at Calliope’s. Now Pastor Riis stands beside me there. An organ has replaced the piano, and Theo is playing a melody I’d know anywhere. He gives me a nod. I turn back to the microphone and start singing “Just as I Am.” There’s a movement at the back of the crowd. A young woman with bright blond hair, cigarette in hand—the coat-check girl!—comes forward for an altar call. She kneels before the stage and Pastor Riis says her name.

“Nils.”

I awake with a jerk.
That’s a boy’s name, not a girl’s
is all I can think. Blinking, I turn to Mother. Today, as yesterday, Sophy sits on Mother’s lap. Not minutes into our journey, Sophy fell asleep, too. Looks like she’s staying that way. Lucky girl. I press my hand
to my mouth to suppress a yawn as Mother repeats herself in a whisper. I’m half asleep, but I believe she just asked me if Nils is helping with the Nygaards’ party today.

Wide awake now. “Sorry?”

“Last night. Did he say he was coming?”

My good excuse has caught up with me and turned into a bad lie.

“No,” I say. “He didn’t mention it.”

Mother frowns. “Mrs. Nygaard had a fellow cancel. She asked if Andreas could help with some of the heavier work, but Andreas is preaching at a rally in Lincoln Park tonight. I suggested Nils instead. She said she was going to call him first thing after Sophy and I left. Oh, dear. I wonder if she decided on someone else. I know how much Nils likes to earn extra money when he can.”

Never has sunlight seemed so harsh. It must be revealing my every flaw and indiscretion.

“Nils didn’t say a word.” In the thicket of lies springing up around me, this, at least, holds an element of truth.

Mother sighs. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see who she found. I was hoping you’d have someone you’d enjoy working with today.”

“It would be nice.”

There. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, if lamely said.