Sing for Me (26 page)

He’s here.

I hear his laughter before I see him—a clear, bell-like sound that chimes with memories. I’m standing in the Nygaards’ kitchen, and Nils is in their dining room, but we could easily be
children again, playing hide-and-seek in the church basement, or skipping stones across the surface of Lake Michigan during a junior high picnic, or caroling together, back in high school again. At happy times like these, Nils’s laughter made me all the happier. Apparently his laughter has the same effect on the Nygaards’ butler, for now he’s laughing, too. From the sound of things, the two of them are working together in the dining room, adjusting the leaves in the table. “I think we’ve reached our limit,” the butler says, and Nils says something else to make him laugh.

Mother, who is positioning Sophy close to the kitchen radiator for warmth, looks up at me and smiles. “I’m so glad Mrs. Nygaard did as she said she would. But why on earth didn’t he tell you last night?”

Like that, my happy memories vanish. I shrug and head toward the door to the dining room.

“Don’t you want to take off your coat first?” Mother asks.

Pretending I don’t hear, I flee the kitchen. I must get to Nils before Mother does. I must prune this growing thicket—at the very least, the rapidly rising tangle between Nils and me.

I’m not a foot into the dining room when the butler swallows his laughter and gives an order. “There’s another table that needs to be expanded to seat ten in the parlor. You two can see to that.”

“With pleasure,” Nils says, as always, respectful of authority.

He opens the parlor door for me and ushers me inside, whispering, as he does, so that the pleasure is indeed his. My cheeks burn. Nils blushes, too; he clearly regrets being so forward. But that’s not the cause of my embarrassment. Guilt. That’s the cause for me.

Nils is a wonderful man, not a good excuse.

We clear a lamp and assorted china figurines from a large mahogany table, then stand at either end and pull until it separates into two parts. “A table divided shall not stand.” Nils breaks the strained silence with this little joke, and now I am remembering another time: the two of us acting out a scene from
Romeo and Juliet
in our high school English class.
Two households, both alike in dignity/In fair Verona where we lay our scene,/From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,/Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
We shared the role of Chorus. It was all we could do to get through the opening lines of the play with straight faces.

Nil has located table leaves in a closet. He tucks a leaf under each arm and lugs them over. Together we wrestle the leaves into place. In minutes, we’ve wrestled two more. That should do it, we agree. We adjust the rest of the furniture accordingly. Nils smiles. “We make a great team,” he begins, and before he can say anything more I tell him.

“I lied, Nils. I said I was seeing you last night so I could go to a jazz club.”

His smile fades. The way he looks at me, you’d think we’d never hidden and sought, skipped, caroled, or chorused. You’d think we’d never laughed together. You’d think I was a stranger.

“I don’t understand.” He gives his head a rough shake. It’s like there’s an insect buzzing too close—not a rare specimen but an irritating distraction, a fly or a mosquito, perhaps. His shock of hair falls into his eyes and, rougher still, he shoves it aside and looks at me. “You said you were seeing me so you could go where?”

“Calliope’s. It’s a club. You can hear music there. Live music.”

“Where is it?”

Honesty is the best policy. “Bronzeville.”

Nils is standing by a divan. He sits down hard, then, remembering he’s on the job, stands up quickly. “What do you mean, ‘live music’?”

“Jazz. The musicians play jazz.” This comes out in a most unmusical croak. “And I sing there sometimes, too.”

“Oh, really.”

I take a step toward him. “I wish you’d come with me sometime.”
But Theo
, I think. Confused, I push the thought away. “I could go to the train yard with you, and you could come to Calliope’s with me. That’s a fair exchange, don’t you think? You’ll be amazed, Nils. Not at my singing—I mean, you know what I sound like—but at the rest of the musicians.” I feel desperate to explain. “If the music were an insect, it would be the most beautiful, iridescent butterfly you could ever find.”

“Not a moth? Not a beetle?” Nils steps around me and walks toward the parlor door.

“Nils.” I follow him. “Wait.”

He opens the door, turns toward me. “I need to find Mr. Poole.”

This must be the butler’s name. “But—”

“We have a job to do, Rose.” He looks at me, then his face softens. “I’m sorry. You took me by surprise, that’s all. It’s not that you used me as an excuse. I’d do just about anything for you, you know that. It’s what you used me as an excuse for. I don’t understand why you’d want to go to a place like that to listen to music like that. For pity’s sake, I’m meeting with Pastor Riis after church tomorrow to ask about the purpose of hymns! I’m concerned, Rose. Very concerned.”

“Let me explain about hymns. Let me explain about everything,” I say.

He gives another hard shake of his head. “We have a job to do, Rose. We need to get to work. I’ll feel better when things are under control. Tonight, maybe you’ll let me drive you and your mom and Sophy home. That’s what I was hoping, anyway. I could come up for a cup of coffee. Maybe we could talk more about this then.”

I tell him I’d like that. Then I remember that I won’t be going home with Mother, Sophy, and Nils tonight. I’ll be going to Calliope’s.

I catch hold of his arm. There’s nothing light about my touch. Desperate again, my words come out in a rush. I beg him not to tell Mother what I’ve told him. For that matter, don’t tell anyone. I’ll explain to my family, I promise, as soon as I’m able. They’ll understand. He’ll understand. Just, please, as a favor, play along for now.

Nils watches me for a moment. “No one’s getting hurt, right? Especially you?”

“No! Everything’s fine! I’m better than fine!”

“I guess I can keep your secret, then. For a little while.”

He forces a smile. I wish it inspired one in me. But I’m too busy thinking of Theo and the others last night, bruised and bleeding.

“No one’s getting hurt,” I say. Another lie. “No one will get hurt.” Plagued by guilt again, and doubt, too, I somehow make this sound like a promise.

Not an hour later, Mother tells me that Rob called the Nygaards’ house and left a message for me. His mother is sick. He’ll have to stay with her tonight. “Though why he thought you needed to know this, I have no idea,” Mother says.

I know why. In just a few hours, I’ll have to find another way to Calliope’s. Another way home for Sophy and Mother. I’ll have to find another way to lie.

Once upon a time, I might have said that Zane’s birthday party was in full swing. Now that I’ve been to Calliope’s, I have to say this party’s got no swing. Not seven o’clock at night, and most of the guests are yawning, having consumed a rich dinner. After an ardent conversation among some of the women about the latest bestselling novel, Margaret Mitchell’s
Gone with the Wind
—
“I’ve never read the like! Such a fascinating portrayal of plantation life.” “I know. All those slaves! So loyal!” “And the passion! It kept me up nights, I’ll tell you!”
—the conversation falters. Each and every person, even Zane, looks bored. No wonder so many of the guests rely on cigarettes for something to do. If come nine o’clock tonight, they’re all still this bored, maybe one of them will take me to Calliope’s. Maybe someone else can take Sophy and Mother home.

I’m just about desperate enough to ask.

At least Sophy’s not in the midst of all this smoke. She’s safely tucked away in the kitchen with Mother, who’s arranging twenty-five candles on Zane’s cake. Nils is in the kitchen, too, washing his way through stacks of dishes. Only I am out here in the midst of the revelers, strolling from library to parlor to game room and back again, pushing a tea cart on which stand pots of coffee and tea and stacks of cups and saucers.

“Miss!”

I start. I’d been wondering which guests might consider the favor I need to ask. Who at this party besides Zane would venture to the west side of the city? And as for the south side—well, life on a plantation in the pre–Civil War South is one thing. It’s
Gone with the Wind
in more ways than one. Life in Bronzeville is
another thing altogether. It’s right over there, just a few miles away, and I believe most everyone here would like to keep it as distant as antiquity.

The young lady who Missed me lifts a finger to attract my attention. “Here.”

I push the tea cart across the library to the window seat where she sits with a young man.

“I’m terribly thirsty.”

I study her, this young lady. She’s elfin, a wisp of a waif in a green velvet dress, with a pert nose and a long, slender neck that seems even longer and more slender because her black hair is twisted up in a high French knot. A high school friend did my hair up like this once, back at our other house. She and I were just going out for ice cream, but we pretended we were on our way to a cotillion. We’d read about such events in novels.

“I said I’m thirsty,” the young lady says.

She sounds worse than a child, which is how I realize that she is one. She’s probably younger than Sophy. She purses her lips at the young man who sits beside her. He’s about Sophy’s age, too—just a boy, really. He rolls his eyes, understanding his friend’s predicament.
Help these days!

“Cold punch. That’s what’s called for,” she says.

I bob my head as Mrs. Nygaard directed me to do when presented with a request, then trundle the tea cart off toward the kitchen. I’ve been avoiding Nils all day—or he’s been avoiding me. Regardless, we’ve caught only glimpses of each other. So now I fix a smile on my face in anticipation of encountering him with Mother and Sophy also present. All must appear as it should be between Nils and me.

But when I trundle the tea cart through the kitchen door, I see only Mother, setting the last candles into place, and Sophy, sitting in her chair. There’s the sound of footsteps descending the cellar stairs; perhaps Nils heard me coming and fled. If I’m feeling concerned about giving myself away, surely he is.

I pull the kitchen door closed behind me. “The cake looks delicious.”

Mother goes to the sink and washes her hands. “Only the flowers to add now.” Drying her hands, she nods at a bowl of purple and orange blooms on the table. “They’re edible.”

I can’t imagine the taste of flowers, but I believe her. In this house, anything is possible, except a ride to Bronzeville. I go to the counter where the punch bowl stands and ladle some into a pitcher. I am setting the cup on the tea cart when the kitchen door swings open and Mrs. Nygaard makes her entrance.

“It’s time,” she announces.

“Already?” Mother looks startled. “I thought you said eight o’clock. I’m sorry, Andrea. I’m not quite finished decorating—”

Mrs. Nygaard cuts her off. “Given the circumstances, I prefer that you address me by my surname, as I’ve repeatedly asked you to do.”

Sophy hisses softly so that only I hear. I hope only I hear. I hope that Mrs. Nygaard continues to act as if Sophy doesn’t exist. There’s frosting on my sister’s upper lip. Mrs. Nygaard won’t like it if she sees that Mother has been treating Sophy to tastes.

“I’m sorry. I keep forgetting.” Mother twists her hands together.

Mrs. Nygaard purses her lips in irritation. “The flowers, please.”

Mother gets the bowl and starts carefully arranging the
blossoms in little clusters on the topmost tier of the cake. She cleans as she decorates, working carefully from top to bottom. But apparently she isn’t working fast enough. Mrs. Nygaard snatches the bowl from Mother and, in a flurry of purple and orange, tosses blossoms hither and yon over the frosting.

“There.” Mrs. Nygaard sets the empty bowl on the table and pats her hair into place. “Now, then. Zane has made a request, one that surprises me, I must admit, but here it is. Zane wants to hear Rose sing.”

My hand is at my throat. I swallow hard and lower my hand. It takes some effort to keep from yelping. “Really?” This comes out in a kind of squeak.

Mrs. Nygaard regards me. “Really.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not prepared.”

Mother says, “Take off your apron, Rose.”

Numbly, I obey. I’m wearing another black dress—this one provided by Mrs. Nygaard. It’s a little nicer and cleaner than last night’s, but not much. I run my hands down the skirt, smoothing it. Really, there’s no need to worry, and certainly no need for a sparkling belt. This isn’t a gig, after all. It’s a favor. No, an obligation.

“ ‘Happy Birthday’?” I ask. “Is that what he’d like to hear?”

“I assume so,” Mrs. Nygaard says dryly.

Mother quickly adds, “Just don’t make a spectacle of yourself, dear.”

“Indeed. Don’t do that.” Mrs. Nygaard presses her fingers to her temples. She appears to have a headache. “Sing the song through once, then lead our guests as you lead the congregation.”