Sing for Me (30 page)

Sophy is awake now, but she proves sluggish. I’ve barely gotten her dressed when I turn to see Andreas, standing in his robe at the bedroom door. My brother is so tall that in this
humble apartment his head nearly grazes the lintel. If he were wearing shoes, not slippers, he’d have to duck to enter the room. His long shanks are startlingly pale compared with his robe, which is exactly the bright red of his sun-damaged nose.

“I need to speak with you.”

As I expected, my brother is looking at me as if he’s still standing in the pulpit.

“Den Lille Havfrue,”
Sophy whispers.

I surprise Andreas by laughing; I surprise myself, too.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

I make some crack about Danish humor, and then walk right past my brother, saying Sophy needs to eat before anything else can happen. I promised her a treat—scrambled eggs—and he’s not going to keep me from following through on this. Besides, he knows how important it is that Sophy eats on time. And by the time she’s finished eating, he may be gone.

But he’s not. He’s waiting for me by the front room fireplace, weighing Dad’s bayonet in his hands.

After yesterday, I don’t want Sophy to witness another argument, let alone an impaling—ha, ha—so I settle her in her chair by the bedroom window. The sun is out today, and there’s no frost on the glass, so I open the window a crack to let in some fresh air. Or as fresh as it gets, given the trash cans in the alley. The children are already at school—those that aren’t truant—but someone whistles a melody below. It’s a song I don’t know, a song I wish I knew; it’s that bright and happy. I peer down and see the garbage collector making the best of his lot. I ask Sophy to try to remember the words to the song if he starts to sing them; then I leave her to listen. Tomorrow night at Calliope’s I’ll hum the melody, toss in any lyrics she might pick up. One of the
Chess Men will surely recognize the song and teach it to me. Maybe we’ll make it our own.

“Tomorrow night at Calliope’s,” I say to myself as I walk down the hallway toward my brother. I remind myself of the person I am now.
I’m a singer. A vocalist. I sing with the Chess Men
. I gird my loins, as Andreas might say. In the front room, I perch on the edge of the love seat. Andreas sets the bayonet back into its rack on the wall and then turns to me.

“There’s talk of another war,” he says, apropos of nothing.

“Yes.” I’ve heard stories on the radio. I’ve read the newspapers, too. At Old Prague, Nils said something about all his many good plans being for naught if he had to join the army. And just Saturday night, the subject of war came up between sets, and Jim, who’s about Dad’s age, talked about his time in the French trenches. “Nineteen-seventeen was all rats and mud and blood and gas,” Jim said. “I wonder what the next years will hold over there.” We all looked at Theo, then, the only man in the room who was the right age for service. “If it comes to that, there’ll be no holding me back,” Theo said firmly, answering our unasked questions. I can’t imagine Theo bearing anything like the bayonet above the fireplace, but apparently Jim could. “You’re the very man I’d have wanted beside me when the going got tough,” Jim said, and the room got quiet then. The Chess Men have managed to find a way to play music together. But not even they could find a way to fight side by side on the battlefield. There are white troops and there are black troops, and that’s the way it is.

Andreas interrupts my thoughts. “I know you don’t remember Dad before he went off to fight, Rose—you were just a baby—but I remember him well. Dad was a different man. A kinder man. I look at him now, and I wonder what broke inside
him. What weak link did he carry? I search myself for weakness all the time. When I find it, and I
do
find it, I ask the Lord if it can be turned into strength, or I ask the Lord if what appears to be weakness is actually a manifestation of Christ’s compassion. But when it’s weakness, plain and simple and
dangerous
, the Lord shows me, and I don’t deny it. I acknowledge my flawed, sinful nature, bald as can be.” Andreas taps his own balding pate, and smiles as if he’s making a joke, but his eyes are deadly serious. “When that’s the case, I do my best to go in for the kill.” His finger is a gun now; he mimes shooting himself in the head. “I remember Dad, who he was before the Great War, who he became afterward, and I promise myself and I promise the Lord that I’ll never change like that. With the Lord’s help, I exorcise the weakness within myself, and I do the same for others. I don’t just save people, Rose, I help them grow stronger, with the Lord’s help.”

My neck aches from looking up at my brother, but I am not relieved when he drags over an ottoman and sits down right in front of me. Eye-to-eye like this (the ottoman is lower than the cushion on which I’m perched), I face the full intensity of his bright blue gaze. I am more sinner than sister in his eyes. Not a few brief seconds have passed, but it is hard to remember that God is my judge, not Andreas.

“I want to help you,” my brother says. “I’ve helped many, many people—our friend Dolores, to name one. Now it’s your turn. I’ll help you to be strong.”

“I am strong,” I say.

Andreas shakes his heavy head. “I’ve always known Rob had it in him to take the wrong road. Rob’s like Dad in so many ways. But you, Rose—how on earth could you? You have a family who
loves you. A fellow who cares. Oh, don’t look surprised. Anyone with two eyes in his head can see what Nils feels for you. I’ve watched Nils watch you at coffee hour. I’ve watched him watch you when you sing during church. And that’s just it, Rose. Dad hasn’t really heard you, and Mother doesn’t really understand, but I’ve been beside you at the altar when you’ve sung the altar call. I know that’s what you were created to do, as I’m created to preach. Think of it, Rose. I could be the pastor, and you could be the choir director, and together, strong as only we can be, we could save so many. We could make so many strong.”

When I was a very little girl, Andreas sometimes looked up from his books and played pretend with me. He’d be the explorer, and I’d be the Indian companion. He’d be the Crusader, and I’d be the Moorish princess. He’d be the soldier, and I’d be the nurse. If I played nurse well enough, I’d sometimes be rewarded by being allowed to be an ambulance driver instead. But only sometimes, and only if I followed Andreas’s rules.

I stand and my knees bump my brother’s. “Singing in church is wonderful, but it’s not enough. Not for me.”

Andreas narrows his eyes to bright blue points. “Yield not to temptation, Rose.”

“One man’s temptation is another woman’s calling.”

Andreas slowly shakes his head. “How did this happen to you?”

“God made me this way.”

I go to Sophy then. I ask if she thinks it’s about time we got out of here.

Her yes is music to my ears.

It’s March, I realize as Sophy and I enter Garfield Park. The month has turned over without my knowing it. The raw, wet air holds the first hints of thaw. Garden beds float like islands of rich, black earth, surrounded by the shrinking patches of dirty snow that linger on the park’s wide lawns. On the gray pond, wind stirs, widening puddles of water amid the uneven hunks of ice, which pop and crackle like small fireworks. Brave birds sing in the trees. Sophy cheers as black-capped chickadees dart and dive from bare branch to bare branch. Their jostling loosens clumps of melting snow that splat to the ground, or onto Sophy’s lap (once), or onto my hair (twice).

We quickly grow chilly, Sophy and I. The Conservatory glows like a warm beacon of color on the opposite side of the park, so we head there. Not so far from us now, not much more than a stone’s throw, Nils is working away at the National Tea. Monday morning, he’s told me, is a particularly busy time. Not as crowded as Friday afternoon or Saturday all day, but busy. He’s probably checking inventory, adjusting prices, helping Mr. Block sort out this week’s specials. Or he’s already behind the cash register, ringing up the first shoppers. Perhaps Mr. Block has given him some other important task, and he’s behind the big window at the back. I need to talk to Nils. I want to talk to him, to apologize yet again. But Monday morning is not the time to do it; he’ll be distracted by his job. He’ll want to do his work. Perhaps it would be best if I waited for Nils to come to me. Yesterday, with his guard up at church, he seemed to be sending that clear message.
You’ve hurt me. Now give me time.

I bow my head against shame and wind, and push Sophy’s chair forward on the path. Muddy slush sucks at my shoes and the chair’s wheels, and spatters my stockings. Finally we reach the
Conservatory. I push the wheelchair through the wide entrance and just inside the first room. We can go no farther now—not without help. But that’s all right. The first room is the Tropical Garden. It’s warm. The steamy air feels good on our skin, and light bounces off the glass ceiling and walls, making the day seem even brighter. Our escape has been made. More than an escape, Sophy considers this place another world. “Maybe this is what the Garden of Eden was like,” I say, pulling up a metal garden chair to sit beside her, and Sophy kisses the air. Shame and strife were not welcome in Eden; they’re not welcome here. I tell myself this until I almost believe it. Happier, with Sophy happier, too, I tell myself that all that has happened was meant to be. Things will work out for the best in the end. Not just for Sophy and me but for all of us. For Mother. For Dad. For Andreas. For Nils. For Theo.

Theo.
Last time I was here, there was Theo, too.

Sophy and I count the bananas on the trees, and then the coconuts. The big purple blooms and the small red ones. There’s a cage just beside us and, inside, two noisy parrots perch and flutter and squawk. When we’ve counted just about everything we can, we watch their antics. I haven’t asked Sophy much about her time at the Nygaards’ house this past weekend, so over the noise of the parrots, I do. She scowls, baring her crooked teeth. Her gums are still inflamed; apparently, Dr. Nygaard is no more gentle in his dentistry than he is in any other area of his life. But Sophy enjoyed watching Zane play tennis. She enjoyed meeting the elderly couple who hosted her for lunch. She would like more outings, more adventures with new people to meet.

I catch my breath. “I have a friend. Maybe you’d like to meet him?” I sound so eager.

Almost as eagerly, Sophy asks, “When?”

“Soon.”

The parrots must have gotten comfortable with our presence, for now they start talking. They say hello. They call us pretty. They tell us we’re late for dinner. We laugh, and they mimic our laughter. I remember the whistling in the alley and ask Sophy if the garbage collector ever sang the words to the song. Alas, no. So I whistle the song’s melody as the garbage collector did. The parrots cock their heads and listen. Soothed by my whistling, they grow quiet, and tuck their heads under their gray wings. I fall quiet, too. We sit in the humid warmth, and next thing I know, Sophy is asleep. Her hair, always a tangle of loose curls, has coiled into ringlets. Even my wavy hair is curly now. I stretch, yawn, lean my head against the arm of Sophy’s chair, and close my eyes. But I slept too much yesterday. I’m restless. I can’t even daydream the time away.

The entrance is just behind me, and of course the telephone is still there.
I have a friend. Maybe you’d like to meet him? When? Soon.
Now I go to the phone, take a coin from my pocketbook, plug the phone, dial Theo’s number. It’s likely no one will pick up on a Monday morning. Mrs. Chastain must be at work, and Mary must be at school, and Theo might be giving piano lessons, or helping out at Hull House—that’s where he was yesterday after church, I bet—or working elsewhere or practicing something or doing whatever it is that Theo does on any given Monday morning, which I wish I knew. There is still so much to know about him. I must remember to ask him as much as I can. Music is everything, but also there’s more. Knowing more might tide me over when Theo and I are apart.

There’s a click, and Theo says hello. “Oh!” I cry, delighted and surprised. He laughs when he hears that I’m calling from the
Conservatory again; his laughter is as happy as mine. My laughter echoes back to me from the Tropical Garden. I hope the parrots don’t wake Sophy. There’s no one else here to bother her; still, she might feel unsettled not knowing where I’ve gone.

Quickly, I tell Theo that a lot has happened in the past twenty-four hours. “Too much to say,” I say, but then all in a rush I say more. I babble on about Mother’s employment, Sophy’s fit, Dad’s blame, Andreas’s judgment. Theo remains quiet. Finally I run out of breath. The time is almost up on this call. I shake my pocketbook, but no coins jingle. When the phone goes dead, we’re done talking, unless he calls me back. I look for a number to give him, but there isn’t one posted.

Theo is talking about piano lessons. He’s only giving four lessons today. Two of them he’s already given, one student just canceled, the last lesson is about to start. “If you’ll just sit tight,” Theo says, “I’ll be by for you within the hour.”

I smile. Then remember.