Sing for Me (27 page)

“You’re singing, Rose?”

I whirl around at the sound of Nils’s voice. He stands in the
cellar doorway. He must have come up the stairs without my hearing. His gaze is troubled.

“Again?” he asks.

“What do you mean
again
?” Mother says.

“He’s talking about church. It’s been almost two weeks since I sang in church, Nils.” Somehow I am smiling. “But we’re not talking about church. We’re talking about right now, Zane’s party, ‘Happy Birthday.’ ” Dodging the tea cart, I rush to the door. “Where shall I stand to sing, Mrs. Nygaard?”

She frowns. “Wait a moment.” She points at Mother. “Light the candles.” Points at Nils. “Bring the cake into the library when the guests join in singing.” Points at me. “Come.”

I follow Mrs. Nygaard into the library, where she positions me by the door. Word must have spread; the guests have all gathered here. Dr. Nygaard sits in the warm glow of the fire. Zane stands beside him. Zane knows what’s coming, it’s clear from the way he flicks his eyebrows at me. And suddenly I’m glad to sing for him. It’s the least I can do, given the way he helped me out last night, driving Sophy and Mother safely home. I can wish Zane all happiness with this song.

I flick my eyebrows back at him, a signal that all is well.

Mrs. Nygaard raises her hands, quieting the conversation. “As you know, it’s my son’s special day. But then, every day is my son’s special day as far as I’m concerned.”

Polite laughter fills the room. Zane hides his face in his hands and then looks up, grinning. He appears at ease with this attention. He appears entitled to it.

Mrs. Nygaard looks at me. “Now,” she says.

I sing “Happy Birthday.” I sing with all my heart, thanking Zane, blessing this new year of his life as best I can. I work my
way through the song. Zane is smiling, happy. I lift my hands so that others will sing along. But no one does, and I want Zane happier yet, so I sing the song again, solo. I improvise a little to keep it interesting. Lift my hands higher, and sing it a third time, slower, so people can join in if they like. Join in now. But still, it’s only me, my voice filling the room.

Zane beams at me. At least there’s that.

This time, when the song is finished, I am finished, too. Silence takes up the space where my voice just was. I glance over at Mrs. Nygaard. She is rubbing at her temples again.

“That’s certainly not the way you sing in church,” she says.

I’ve changed, I realize. The nights in Bronzeville are changing me, and my voice. Calliope’s is changing me. The Chess Men are changing me. And Theo. My singing is changing for the better, I think. I hope.

Silence expands all around. I clear my throat to break it. Lift my hands again. “Please,” I say. “Together. Let’s sing.”

Before anyone can so much as make a peep, someone starts to clap. It’s Zane. Others join in. The applause grows. People stamp their feet. The elfin girl nods proudly at me, like I’m something she created. “Brava!” someone shouts. And others shout, “Encore!”

“Rose?” Mother says.

She stands in the kitchen doorway. Nils is there, too, holding a cake on fire. That’s how it appears to me at this moment. The candles’ waxy scent, the lingering odor of sulfur from the many matches Mother must have struck to light the many wicks, wafts toward me. The cake wavers in the heat; Nils sweats from it. But though the green wax is dripping onto the white frosting now, Nils doesn’t carry the cake to Zane. He stands staring at me until Mrs. Nygaard tells him to hurry, hurry, hurry. Mother tears her
gaze from me. She heads back to the kitchen as Nils bears the cake over to Zane. After a few attempts, Zane blows out the candles. Applause fills the room again. By the time Nils has set the cake on a side table, Mother has returned, pushing the tea cart, which now holds dessert plates, forks, and napkins.

“Shall we hear another from our guest singer?” Zane asks as Mother pushes the tea cart over to where Nils stands, cutting the cake. Nils pauses, knife in hand, and gives me a wary look, as does Mother. They needn’t worry. I am finished being the unpaid entertainment for the evening. I am finished revealing my secret passion.

I start to shake my head, but then I glimpse Mrs. Nygaard’s scowl. Dr. Nygaard plants his hands on his knees and leans forward in his chair. If I decline and anger them, what will happen? I think of our family’s past and our future. I think of Sophy in her wheelchair, sitting close to the kitchen radiator for warmth.

“What would you like her to sing?” Mrs. Nygaard gives Zane a bright, forced smile, but people think she is putting out a general call for requests. “ ‘Danny Boy,’ ” someone says. And others: “ ‘Greensleeves.’ ” “ ‘America the Beautiful.’ ” “ ‘Keep Your Sunny Side Up!’ ”

Zane looks at me. “You choose, Rose.”

Fine. Let everyone else think I’m singing for our supper. The truth is, I’m singing for my sister.

I close my eyes and pretend I’m surrounded by the Chess Men. I can almost believe I hear Theo’s fingers lightly flying over the piano keys:

My heart is sad and lonely

For you I pine, for you, dear, only

The last verse of “Body and Soul” finished, there’s not a moment of silence. The room erupts. For a moment I keep my eyes closed, taking it all in—the applause and whistles. People are asking where I perform, when I’ll perform again.

“She doesn’t perform. She sings in church,” Mother says.

I open my eyes. Mother is handing around plates of cake. She passes by me to retrieve more servings from Nils. As she does, she whispers,
“Skam dig.”
I don’t know much Danish, but I know this.
Shame on you.

Cake is being eaten. Presents will be opened. There are dishes to be done.

I go to the kitchen, roll up the sleeves of Mrs. Nygaard’s black work dress—the bruise Dad gave me has gone greenish—and plunge my hands into the water in the sink. Sophy watches me from her chair.

“Sing,” she says.

The sound of water sloshing reminds me of all the times I’ve bathed her. I sigh. “ ‘Shall We Gather at the River’? Or ‘Washed in the Blood’?”

Sophy laughs like I’ve made some kind of joke. “Body. Soul,” she says.

I turn back to the sink. Grimly scrub at a glass. “I just sang that one, Sophy. And you know Mother doesn’t like those songs.”

Sophy slams her feet against the chair, startling me. I turn sharply toward her, my hands dripping soapy water on the floor. Her lips are pursed in a pout. She reminds me of someone. The elfin girl demanding cold punch—that’s who Sophy reminds me of at this moment.

All in a rush I’m tired, very tired, of taking care of other
people. And I still don’t have a ride. Not for me or Mother or Sophy. I still haven’t gotten what I need. What
we
need, I mean.

“I don’t want to sing right now,” I say. I plunge my hands back into the dishwater. I rinse the glass clean. I wash all the glasses that still need washing. Mother and Nils are bringing in the dirty dessert plates now. Mother won’t talk to me; she hardly looks at me. Nils asks only if I need any help. No, I tell him. I’m fine. Mrs. Nygaard will have something for him to do soon enough, I’m sure.

And I’m right. Mrs. Nygaard calls Nils and Mother into the other part of the house and sets them to work there. I’m left to tackle the kitchen alone, with Sophy for company. But Sophy, exhausted from the day, is soon asleep in her chair. I work quietly, quickly, plate by plate, fork by fork, setting Mrs. Nygaard’s kitchen right again.

But what will happen if I leave before the job is completely done? I’m not worried about myself. I’ll endure whatever consequences come my way. But Mother—what might she suffer at the hands of Mrs. Nygaard if I leave things less than perfect?

By nine o’clock the party is over, the guests are gone, and the kitchen is clean. If I run for the El now, then I could make it to Calliope’s on time. But where would that leave my mother and sister?

That’s what I’m wondering when Zane bursts into the kitchen, holding two coats, his and mine. “Come on!” He grabs my arm and tugs me past suddenly-wide-awake Sophy to the back door. “I just threw everyone for a real loop.” He’s practically crowing this news. “I told my parents that all I really want for my birthday is to go out on the town with you. I said there’s a singer I’ve been dying to hear who’s finally performing in Bronzeville,
and tonight was my only night to hear her. I didn’t say it was you, of course. I simply hinted that you and I might be an item. You should have seen the looks on their faces, Rose! I mean,
I
know Nils is your fellow, but for tonight, let’s say what we have to, to get where we need to go. Agreed? I’m suffocating in this house. I need to get some fresh air and really
celebrate
. And as for you—well, you know what you need to do.”

I shake my head. “Mother and Sophy—”

Zane shoves his arms into his coat. “Stop worrying. I’ve taken care of that, too. Poole’s got it all worked out with our chauffeur. Sophy and your mother will be luxuriously transported to your place. There are just a few more things to tidy up, and Nils will help. The work will be done in no time.”

Somehow I’m wearing my coat. Zane must have worked some other magic, slipping it onto me without my knowing.

Now he opens the door, and Sophy’s voice pierces the air.

“Singer? Me, too?”

I turn to her. From her chair by the stove, she stares at me. Her expression is troubled, forlorn. She wants to escape again. She wants to celebrate with Zane. She wants to hear a song.

“Great idea, Sophy!” Zane glances at me, checking for my okay. “Let’s get you bundled up for the drive.”

The wind rattles the frost-covered windows. It’s bitterly cold again. There might be another storm brewing. It wouldn’t be safe taking Sophy out on a night like this. If Mother ever found out, she’d really and truly never forgive me. Heck, I’d never forgive myself if something happened to Sophy. That would be pain from which we’d never recover.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I say. “Not tonight. You could catch your death.”

Her pained expression makes me want to weep. To keep from doing just that, I bolt from the kitchen. Zane steers me toward the garage, where his sleek car awaits us, already running, warmed up by Mr. Poole.

That night, singing my heart out, I pour all the pain of Sophy’s expression into the sad songs. I pour all the joy of her afternoon escape into the happy ones. I wish, oh, I wish she was here.

I wonder at the music in my life. I look at Theo, his hands on the piano keys, and remember Nils, a butterfly in his hands, and I wonder about these men, too. What is my calling? Who is calling to me? How will I answer? I wonder all these things and more.

Zane I don’t wonder about one bit. He’s flirting and dancing the night away. When I catch his eye, he pounds his fists against his chest, yet another Tarzan-in-the-making. I’m glad for him. After the iron lung of his childhood, it’s no wonder he wants to celebrate his birthday with wild abandon.

I fill my own lungs with air and sing another song. Once I was a lark tangled in a thicket, trapped for so long that I’d forgotten I had wings. Then a fierce storm stirred the branches. When the storm quieted, I glimpsed light, an opening to the great beyond. Perched on the edge of the only world I’d known, I spread my wings. I discovered I could fly.

That’s the story behind the song that I’m singing. And the song that I’m singing opens a whole new world.

It’s not my new world my sister wants, I realize. She wants—she
deserves
—her own.

SIXTEEN

T
he ride to church is silent. Dad broods. Mother broods, sometimes dozes. Sophy dozes, sometimes broods. I stare out the window at the feeble sun creeping between buildings. No one has said a word about last night—my night on the town with Zane, as I suppose it’s understood. In fact, no one has said a word to me at all. When it comes to Dad, this isn’t surprising. But extended silence from Sophy and Mother fills me with concern. Sophy is still angry that I wouldn’t let her come along last night because of the bad weather. Mother is still upset that I know such worldly songs. And not only do I know them, but I know how to sing them well.