Sing for Me (31 page)

“And my sister, too? She’s with me.”

“Will she be all right? With me, I mean.”

The fact that he has to ask this question makes my heart ache. “As long as you’re all right with her,” I say.

“It will be my pleasure.”

I can hear the smile behind his words, and I remember that first night at Calliope’s, the gentleman stranger in the crowd, the man whose low, courteous tone captured my attention then, and means the world to me now.

Sophy is still sleeping deeply when Theo arrives. Without thinking, I take his hand to lead him to her, then, quick as a wink,
release it. Where his hand was, even this warm air feels cold against my skin.

There’s no one else nearby, thankfully, so Theo and I can stand side by side, looking down at my sister. Her head droops to one side; her curls tangle in her long eyelashes and fall across her flushed cheeks and throat. Her expression is relaxed, her lips slightly parted. Her eyes move beneath her closed lids. She is dreaming, and now something in her dream tips up the corners of her mouth, and her faint, fleeting smile reveals her dimples.

“She is as lovely as you described,” Theo says.

I nod. What sweet dream is she dreaming to make her so content? I hope she’ll remember and tell me. We’ve both dreamed that we were each other. When I dream I’m Sophy, I awake sweaty and shaking, bound by sheets, barely able to move. When Sophy dreams she’s me, she says she spreads her arms and flies.

Theo is watching me closely. “Clearly she’s as loved as you described, too.”

“Words can’t say how much I love her.”

Lovely, loved, love.
I look at Theo. He leans close to me, and I lean close to him, and a pack of people bursts through the entrance—six dark-haired white boys, who’d probably be in high school if they weren’t playing hooky. Theo and I draw back from each other as the young men charge into the Tropical Garden. Three of them barrel on down the path; the other three stop short at the sight of us. I wonder if these are the same boys who startled Rob and me, stumbling out of Garfield Park so late at night. They don’t appear to be drunk; they’re too alert for that. They stare at Theo and me. They stare at Sophy, too. They’ve awakened her. With some effort, she looks dazedly back at them.
Then she sees Theo, and her eyes widen. She isn’t frightened by all these strangers, but she is startled.

“Well, well,” one of the young men says, and I wonder if Sophy is frightened now, because suddenly I am. Something in the way he’s looking at Theo makes me edge my way between them. “Keep back,” Theo breathes, but I stay where I am. The young man’s hand is in his pocket; he’s fiddling with something there. There’s a flash of silver as he draws the thing out, tosses it into the air, catches it. He flicks his thumb, there’s a click, and a knife springs from its case. “Well, well,” he says again.

“What do you think, Mike?” one of the friends says.

“Traveling circus?” says the other. They position themselves on either side of Mike, arms crossed, feet spread wide.

Mike doesn’t answer. He purses his lips and gives a piercing hoot. The parrots squawk and flap their wings, shedding feathers, rattling the bars of their cage.

“Think they’ll hear you?”

I don’t know which of Mike’s companions says this. I am too busy watching Mike, the slow smile altering his face, the chipped teeth his smile reveals.

“They always hear me,” Mike says.

Feet pound the path, coming closer, matched almost beat for beat by the pounding of my heart.

Theo puts himself between Mike and me. “Driver,” I hear Theo say, and, “leaving.” And, “Place is yours.”

Next thing I know, Theo is wheeling Sophy toward the Conservatory entrance. He looks over his shoulder, jerks his head to signal that I should follow.

“Freaks!” The insult catches up with us, and then: “Wouldn’t come back if I were you.”

“Oh, come on back.” This is Mike, laughing. “We’ll have a good time then.”

Theo and I settle Sophy into the backseat of his old car, and I slide in beside her as he opens up the rumble seat and hefts her wheelchair inside. The car jounces as he wrestles with the chair and anchors it at a crazy angle. He pulls out two pieces of rope, secures the frame, and we drive off, leaving Mike and his companions behind. I hold Sophy tightly as Theo makes sharp turns down side streets. Quicker than I expect, we turn onto State Street. We drive south for a few blocks before Theo finally looks in the rearview mirror and asks if we’re okay.

I nod. Sophy tries to do the same. I tell Theo she’s okay, too.

In truth, it’s Theo who looks most shaken. His eyes, reflected in the mirror, dart anxiously. He leans into the steering wheel, grips it hard. He can’t seem to relax, not even when we pull up in front of his house. He turns off the engine, but he doesn’t take the keys from the ignition. We sit for seconds that stretch into minutes as he stares out the windshield. His expression fluctuates between anger and fear and other feelings I don’t fully understand.

Sophy plucks at my sleeve. “Friend?” She asks this quietly, but Theo hears her. He turns around in his seat and apologizes. “Memories,” he says as if that’s explanation enough, and he passes his hand across his forehead as if he’d like to wipe these memories away.

I tell him it’s okay. He’s okay. It’s those foolish boys who are the problem. I tell Sophy yes, this is my friend, the one I mentioned earlier. “Theo’s a musician, too,” I say. “A pianist.”

Sophy’s face brightens at this news. When Theo sees the change in her, he smiles, shining his light, too, and his grim memories seem to fade.

“My mother’s at home. It’s her day off,” he says. “She’ll be glad to see you again, Rose, and meet you, too, Sophy.”

Leaving the wheelchair strapped to the rumble seat, Theo carries Sophy inside. We find Mrs. Chastain sitting in a rocking chair in the kitchen, her dress hiked up around her knees, her feet soaking in a washtub. The sleeves of her dress are rolled up as well, and the collar unbuttoned. She looks at the three of us and lets out a low moan.

“I wasn’t expecting company!” Mrs. Chastain pats at her hair and tugs down the apron that covers the front of her dress. She’s embarrassed by her state, but she doesn’t even blink at the sight of Sophy, cradled in Theo’s arms. She hoists herself up and steps out of the tub, dripping. “Least I’ve got some nice chicken soup simmering on the stove. You two young ladies will have to stay for lunch. I’ll cook up some biscuits, too.”

And now I see the thick scars circling Mrs. Chastain’s ankles. They are angry scars, ugly scars, and they circle her wrists, too.

Theo sees me seeing. Calmly, quickly, he tells his mother to sit back down. He’ll take care of the biscuits. He’ll take care of everything. She needs to rest up.

Grumbling, Mrs. Chastain complies. Her ravaged feet are back in the tub again by the time Theo and I settle Sophy on the little daybed in the corner of the kitchen. While Theo makes the biscuits, I clear and lay the table, pour glasses of water, put the coffee on. I try not to look at Mrs. Chastain’s wrists, or the other scars that I see now, on her calves, knees, and forearms, and the single scar at her throat, like a broken necklace.

I hold Sophy on my lap during lunch, and the four of us eat together. Conversation is sparse, but when it comes to us we keep it light and easy. Mrs. Chastain talks to Sophy as if she were any other girl. We’re finishing our coffee when Mrs. Chastain asks if I’d be willing to sing a few songs. I agree, and Sophy smiles, delighted.

With Sophy settled on one couch in the front room, and Mrs. Chastain on the other, Theo sits down at the piano. I stand beside him. We work our way from one hymn to the next, and then turn to Chess Men standards. We’re halfway through “It Had to Be You” when I realize I’ve sat down beside him on the piano bench. I’m leaning into him. I can feel the rise and fall of his ribs as he breathes. I wonder if his ribs still hurt from the beating he, Dex, Jim, and Ira took. I need to ask him that, too. I am breathing with him, in perfect time, as I sometimes breathe with Sophy. Only this breathing is different from the sisterly kind. Theo’s breathing completes mine, as his playing completes my singing. Two halves of one whole, I think, and the thought makes me light-headed. I can barely finish the last verse of the song. When I do, I look down at my hands. They’re clasped tightly on my lap, only inches from his thigh, and now he lifts his left hand from the keys, and his hand hovers over mine.
Touch me.
But then Sophy coughs, and Theo draws back his hand. I see Sophy watching us, wide-eyed, and Mrs. Chastain, neither wide-eyed nor narrow-eyed but very, very still, her expression unreadable, is watching us, too.

“Thank you for the music.” Mrs. Chastain speaks slowly, as if she’s weighing the real meaning behind each word.

Sophy kisses the air, adding her thanks, and then flushes bright red at the sound. She looks suddenly miserable, lying
there on the couch, unable to say what she wants to say, or do anything to distract us from this awkwardness. I can’t bear to see her miserable.

I go to my sister and take her hand.

“It’s your nap time. We should go home.”

Sophy scowls. “Not tired.”

She wouldn’t be, I realize. She had that nap in the Conservatory. “Well,” I say. I can’t think of what comes next.

“If you’ve got nowhere to be, then feel free to stay as long as you like,” Mrs. Chastain says.

Sophy and I thank her, and Theo does, too. Then he stands up from the piano and heads to the front door, saying, “Here’s Mary, home from beauty school.”

And indeed, here is Mary, hugging Theo as he opens the door. Mary is delighted to see me, delighted to meet Sophy, delighted to offer us both manicures. “I need the practice,” she eagerly explains. I decline, but Sophy seems overjoyed at the thought of her first-ever painted nails. What Mother will say about this I don’t know and I don’t care, for Mary is chattering on now about various shades of pink and red, and Sophy is choosing Sunrise, and Mrs. Chastain is dozing on the couch, and Theo and I are heading toward the kitchen, readying ourselves to clean up the lunch things, and I am asking him the first of many questions.

“What happened to your mother?”

EIGHTEEN