Sing for Me (28 page)

My thoughts turn in circles around my concerns until we pull up in front of the church. Dad helps Mother and me lift Sophy up the front steps and into the sanctuary. We settle into our back pew. For oh, so many reasons, we got a late start this morning; there was no time to load the wheelchair into the trunk. We’ll have to navigate the service and coffee hour as best we can without it, and without Dad, of course. Dad’s already on
his way out the door. Andreas might be able to help when the service is finished, if he’s not too busy praying with people. Then again, Andreas is preaching today. He’s giving the altar call. He’ll no doubt be busy.

The Nygaards are nowhere to be seen. I didn’t expect to see Zane up and about this bright and early. He was glad to let Theo drive me home; he headed off to yet another bar. But Dr. and Mrs. Nygaard never miss church. Perhaps they’re doing their own brooding at home.

I spot Dolores now, seated near the front of the sanctuary. She attended last Wednesday night as well, and the Wednesday before that, as she said she would, though she sat near the back and slipped away before Rob or I could talk to her. There was the same guest speaker both nights—a Danish Baptist missionary who has served in Ruanda-Urundi and hopes to enter its northern portion within the next two years. To Sophy’s delight, the missionary opened the first of his talks by reading excerpts from the poem “The White Man’s Burden” by Rudyard Kipling. The missionary exhorted us to take up the burden and exile ourselves to serve the great need abroad, to wait:

On fluttered folk and wild—

Your new-caught, sullen peoples,

Half-devil and half-child.

Once I would have appreciated this poem, too, but it doesn’t settle well with me now. I keep wondering what Theo would think of “the White Man’s burden.” Often enough, he and the other Chess Men talk about Africa. “The cradle of civilization,” someone will say. “The cradle of jazz,” someone else will say.
“Same difference.” Someone else will say that. And then Theo will play a spiritual on the piano, and Dex will weave in a jazz riff, and the heavenly and the worldly will be one and the same, harmonious. Until something comes over Theo, some sadness that makes him lift his hands from the keys and hold himself tight, and Dex stops playing, too. “What’s wrong?” Jim once asked, setting aside his bass, going to the piano and planting his big hand on Theo’s shoulder. Theo didn’t answer. He shrugged off Jim’s hand, suddenly as angry as I’ve ever seen him.
Chains.
That was the word that came to my mind. But I kept quiet. I didn’t go to Theo or try to ease his pain. It’s not my place to do so. Not yet.

Sophy still recites bits and pieces of that Rudyard Kipling poem from day to day, aided by anyone in our family with the time and patience to follow along in his
Collected Works
. I’ve helped so often that now I can recite the poem, too. I guess that’s another reason it’s become what I remember most about the missionary’s talks, along with the guilt suffered by Mother because we were unable to give money to the Ruanda-Urundi effort. After two nights at Calliope’s, I now have ten dollars tucked under my pillow. When the time is right, Mother will be able to do with that money what she likes. (When will the time be right? That’s the question.) If Dad allows, perhaps she’ll give some to the missionary. It will feel like a luxury, being able to give again. A luxury afforded by my singing. Perhaps that’s how I’ll start the conversation about my work with the Chess Men.
We can tithe again now.
When the time is right, that might be a good approach.

Rob slips into the pew beside me as the organist plays the opening to the first hymn. “How did it go last night?” he
whispers. I start, afraid he’ll be overheard, jogging Sophy’s head in my lap. Sophy glares until I apologize. I glance at Mother. She’s busy scrounging for a handkerchief in her pocketbook, so I lean close to Rob. “Great,” I whisper. “But Mother knows something’s up.”

Rob grimaces, and his worry only heightens mine.

The congregation stands to sing, except Mother, Sophy, Rob, and me. Rob and Mother take hymnals from the rack and find the right page. Rob holds his hymnal so Sophy and I can see. Together, Rob and I sing the hymn. Sophy chimes in on this word and that. Mother, never much of a singer, follows along, mouthing the words silently. “ ‘The Lord God made them all,’ ” we sing. The Lord God made this music and that music, too. The Lord God made Nils, sitting across the aisle, steadfastly not looking at me. The Lord God made Theo, who is surely sitting with his family at the African Methodist Church. The Lord God made the Chess Men, and the audience at Calliope’s last night, the bartenders, the coat-check girl, George, and the boss, whoever the boss may be. The Lord God made the time that stopped while I sang and all those people became my brothers and sisters, my nearest and dearest, the way the people in this pew are, the way everyone in this sanctuary is, including Dolores and Zane and his parents, too. We are all God’s children. I sing for us now. I sing to high heaven. I sing because I’m called to do so, and the Lord God stops time until we finish the hymn.

In his sermon, Andreas speaks about our fascination with the world. He talks about the crowds flooding movie theaters to see Charlie Chaplin’s first talkie,
Modern Times
. “In these modern times, shouldn’t we be looking at our sinful hearts instead? There is no glitter there, or glamour, either. There is only despair.” He speaks of the dark heart of Ruanda-Urundi, where our
missionary friend fearlessly journeyed. “There are sullen people, half-devil and half-child, right here in Chicago, too,” Andreas says. “Just look at the hoodlums and harlots roaming our streets. You don’t have to go to Africa to find ignorance and despair.” Andreas looks right at me. “You just have to go to Bronzeville. Or you might consider looking in your own backyard. Or at your heart.”

Mother told Andreas about last night. The song I sang at Zane’s, and where I went afterward.

I don’t hear the rest of the sermon. I don’t know what Andreas says that prompts Dolores to go forward during the altar call. I only know that she is saved, and, in Andreas’s eyes, I am lost.

We don’t stay for coffee hour. Mother says Dad will be waiting outside in the car. Fine by me. Andreas is lingering at the altar now, but my brother and I would surely cross paths at coffee hour. If we did (when we did), he’d make it his mission to save me from Bronzeville.
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,/Half-devil and half-child.
That’s who I am now.

Nils still won’t look in my direction.

The car reeks of cigarettes and something else—whiskey, I’m guessing, from the array of liquors I’ve smelled at Calliope’s. Dad’s been at it again. I keep my eyes on the road and hold tight to Sophy. The ride home from church proves as silent as the ride there, only this time no one dozes. If Mother told Andreas, she must have told Dad, too. I hold Sophy tighter, and my coat sleeve creeps up to reveal what’s left of Dad’s mark. I once saw a man with jaundice; my bruise has turned just that dull yellow. The
pain is faint unless I press down, which sometimes I do as a reminder. I press down now. I won’t let him hurt me again.

We park in the alley behind our apartment building and take the back stairs up to our place. Dad carries Sophy. Mother and I follow. Inside the kitchen, Mother drops into a chair by the table. Dad lowers Sophy into her lap. Mother’s eyes are bloodshot. How late did she stay at the Nygaards’ last night? Quite late, the purple shadows beneath her eyes suggest. I sit down in the chair beside her and gently rub her bony, knotted shoulders while Dad circles the kitchen.

“I spoke with Dr. Nygaard early this morning,” Dad says.

Mother winces at my touch. I lighten up.

“You’ve nothing to say?” Dad glares at me. I look back at him; I struggle to keep my gaze steady and calm. He wheels away and strides to the kitchen window, stares out at the curve of the El tracks that bank past. Even from where I sit I can hear the tracks faintly humming. A train is fast approaching.

“The Nygaards offered Mother a job as their full-time housekeeper. She’s accepted,” Dad says.

Sophy hisses her no. The humming grows to a rumble. The El is less than two blocks away. I can see the engine’s blunt, cold face. The dishes and bowls stacked in the open cupboard tremble. Glasses and cups skitter toward the cupboard’s edge. If these things aren’t pushed back far enough when they are put away, they will fall off the edge and shatter on the floor. We learned this the hard way. Whoever put them away last must have forgotten.

I rush to the cupboard, quickly push back the glasses and cups. I reposition plates and bowls, too. This is Mother’s only everyday set. I must make sure nothing is broken.

The El train blasts past, shaking crockery and glass. From where Dad stands at the quaking window, he should be able to see every person on board, their unconscious gestures and private moods. When people don’t think they’re being watched, so much is revealed. I learned that living here, watching out these windows. And then I started climbing out one and down the fire escape, and I wasn’t only watching anymore. I was in the thick of it.

The train thunders on until the sound fades. Dad turns back to us. “Starting tomorrow, Rose, you will stay with your sister during the day, and in the evenings, too. Your mother will be too tired to do so. Andreas is too busy, as am I. And the Nygaards have said that your mother must spend the night at their house when they entertain—sometimes the night before a party, sometimes the night after a party, sometimes both. They entertain frequently, as you know, so you’ll be Sophy’s only real companion then.”

Sophy hisses again, and Mother holds her closer, tells her to hush.

I hear myself ask if Dad’s trying to kill his wife.

Dad gapes at me.

“Because that’s what’s going to happen.” I’m the one pacing now; I’m the one circling the kitchen. “They’ll work you to death, Mother. You know it. Dad, you know it, too. Heck, Sophy knows it. Mother can’t be the Nygaards’ full-time housekeeper. She won’t be. I won’t let her.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Mother says wearily. “You don’t have a choice, Rose.”

“Your mother’s right.” Dad’s voice is harsh. “Your shenanigans at Zane’s party did not endear you to the Nygaards. We may appreciate Zane’s sudden interest in you, but they do not.
Dr. and Mrs. Nygaard want you out of sight, out of mind. They’re none too happy with us for another reason as well. Because I’ve told them you need to be with Sophy, they’ll have to pay another girl to take over your cleaning duties, daughter.”

Daughter
. What should be an endearment, a testament to our bond, makes me feel demeaned. He says it like I’m a little child. Or, worse, like he owns me. I touch my bruise again, press down until the dull ache rises to meet fingertips.
Say it
, I tell myself.
Say it now
.

I say, “I can make more money in one week than Mother and I put together.”

Dad laughs. I can hear his thoughts, and they aren’t anything like music.
You, daughter? What could you possibly do besides care for your sister, or get married and care for your sister.

“With the money I’ll make singing, Mother can stay home with Sophy. She won’t have to work at all.” I say this, too.

Mother bows her head. Her lips move in prayer. Sophy watches Dad and me, wide-eyed.

“What’s that?” Dad’s voice is too quiet.

“I said.” I draw in a deep breath. “I’ll sing. I’ll get paid to do it, and I can still be with Sophy during the day. We’ll get by. We’ll more than get by—we’ll do better than we’re doing now.”

“You can’t sing,” Dad says.

I don’t have the freedom, he means. Come to think of it, he may mean I don’t have the talent, either. Since he doesn’t come to church, he’s rarely heard me sing.

“I can. I’ll show you.” I fly to the bedroom, take the five-dollar bills from beneath my pillow, and fly back to the kitchen. I hold up the money. It is all I can do to keep from waving it in Dad’s face. “Ten dollars. I made this in two nights, singing.”

“Is that what you call it?
Singing
?”

Dad’s innuendo isn’t lost on me. But instead of shaming me into submission, it has the opposite effect. I turn to Mother and Sophy. I press the money into Mother’s hands. I speak only to her.

“I will give you everything I earn. That’ll be fifteen dollars a week, Mother—and that’s just for starters. There’ll be more. And we’ll have Dad’s salary on top of that. We’ll pay our bills. We’ll—”

“If your mother doesn’t take that job, the Nygaards will surely fire me, too,” Dad says.

I turn to him. His face is twisted with anger—and with something else. Fear. Having failed once, we may fail again. We may fall even further.

“Do you see what you’re doing to our family, Rose?” Mother’s voice breaks in desperation. “What you’re doing is wrong. All we have left is our reputation, and you’ll ruin that!”

Sophy hisses at Mother, Dad, and me. She hisses until she’s spitting, saying no with all the force she can muster.
Stop arguing
, she’s trying to say.