Sing for Me (33 page)

March is filled with music. Three times a week, I perform with the Chess Men at Calliope’s. I’ve never been happier.

I talk with Theo as we drive to and from gigs, or as we walk, arm in arm, through desolate city streets—streets that once would have filled me with fear. Before Theo, my hope was that each passing stranger would prove to be an angel. Now my hope is that there will be no passing strangers at all, only shadows and safety and Theo and me, able to walk together and talk together,
able to be ourselves in a place and at a time where the color of our skin doesn’t matter at all.

By day while Mother works, I care for Sophy. Sophy meets with Pastor Riis now, two, sometimes three times a week. She’s preparing for her baptism. Dolores is meeting with Pastor, too. Like Sophy, Dolores will be baptized on Easter Sunday morning. Dolores is often at our place these days, talking in the early evenings with Andreas. Sometimes I find them sitting in the front room, reading the Bible together. I’m glad for her presence. Andreas is so busy helping her grow stronger, he doesn’t have time to think me weak.

On the third Wednesday of the month, Andreas and Dolores offer to take Sophy out shopping for a special dress for her baptism day. Dolores wants to buy one as well. They want to go to Marshall Field’s and stay for dinner at the Walnut Room. It will be a special treat.

So for the first time in a long time, I find myself alone during the afternoon. I call Theo from our hallway phone this time. I tell him what Dolores and Andreas recently told me: there’s a roomful of Easter lilies at the Conservatory. It’s a beautiful way to mark the season. “I’d love to meet you there,” I say.

Theo meets me there.

The fragrant, sun-filled room is crowded with families and friends, old people and young, and all but two others—an elderly couple who move with dignity and grace down the path, careful to wait their turn, careful not to get in the way—are white. Theo doesn’t dare come close to me. From the doorway he nods hello. I stand and slowly make my way down the path. He follows me at a safe distance. We circle the great glass room, exchanging glances when it seems most likely no one will see.
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow.
We circle the room once, twice, three times. It is like a dance, this thing we are doing. We catch each other’s eyes, and look away before anyone else in the crowd can see. Sometimes we smile. Among the lilies, we consider ourselves. We are growing together, flowering in spite of, because of, a harsh climate.

It is time to leave the Conservatory. Theo inclines his head toward the exit, showing me that he understands this, too. At a safe distance, I follow him to his car, which is tucked down a nearby alley. He gets in; I wait a few moments, and when I’m sure no one is watching, I slip into the backseat.

“Where shall we go?” Theo asks, pulling out into the street.

I surprise myself by knowing. “Away from here. Far away out into the country, where no one knows us at all.”

I tell him what streets will lead us out of the city to a place he’s never been. I point out the route that leads west. As we drive past Oak Park, and then smaller towns, he tells me about New Orleans. He talks about spicy food, shotgun houses, the long, slow funeral marches, the brass bands that lead the mourners to the graveyards, where weather-worn graves rise like little houses above sea level. “Someday we’ll go there—you and me and the rest of the Chess Men,” Theo says. “We’ll follow the Mississippi south. We’ll do gigs along the way.” Theo and I try to imagine how we’ll get there. If the five us of save our money and pool it, surely we can rent an old bus. We’ll put curtains over the windows. Curtains will allow those who aren’t driving to sleep through the night. And curtains will allow the driver to safely steer us past any hostility. We’ll stay out of sight when we stop at filling stations. We’ll avoid those towns where the KKK is known to have a strong presence, and crosses burn on lawns, and men hang from trees and
telephone poles. And if we can safely navigate the South, why not consider other places as well? New York, for instance. And I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon; from there, we could drive on to Los Angeles. Theo’s always wanted to go to Miami; from there, we could take a boat down to Cuba. He’s heard the musicians are out of this world in Cuba. Which gets me talking about Paris—I’ve always dreamed of going to Paris. And London, too.

“Aren’t you curious about Denmark?” Theo asks.

“Not really.”

I catch his gaze in the mirror. His eyes are puzzled. “But that’s where your people are from. You must still have family there.”

I must, I realize. Funny thing is, Mother and Dad have never said so. Funnier thing, I’ve never asked. It’s as if in coming here, in building this life, we’ve cut all ties.

I look out the car window, considering this. We are driving through cornfields now, which are barren except for the shorn stalks of last fall. After the long winter, spring is finally here. We are moving forward. Soon we will pass by the institution where Donald Larsen lives. I wonder how often Mr. and Mrs. Larsen make this trip to see their son. Once a week? A month? On holidays only? How much of his life, how much of their lives, are they missing?

“I would like to go to Denmark,” I say.

Next thing I know, Theo has pulled the car over to the side of the road, and then off the road into a little ditch. He turns off the engine and faces me. His hands grip the back of the front seat as if for dear life. He takes a deep breath and says, “I’ve been thinking a lot about Denmark lately.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

We look at each other over what divides us—this human
construction of who sits where. If Nils were the man before me, nothing would divide us. But here is Theo. Theo is here. Theo is the man before me, and Theo is the man I want.

I hold out my hands to him, and he unclasps his. When his hands take mine, I can do anything. So, like that, I scramble into the front seat. We are a tangle of limbs and laughter, and then, when we’re finally untangled, and I’m settled beside him, I say it.

“I love you, too.”

This kiss is different. This kiss is yes.

“In Denmark, we could be together,” he says after a bit.

I look into his eyes. Look in wonder.

“It’s true,” Theo says. “I’ve heard about more than one couple like us who made a life there.”

He tells me then about the stories he’s heard. The black woman, a writer, who moved to Copenhagen, fell in love with a white man there, and stayed on. The musicians, mixed groups like ours, who make their homes there. And Paris, he says, is a possibility for people like us, too.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“I don’t know.”

I don’t know if I could leave my family, my country. My family worked so hard to come to this country, and I don’t know if I could leave the fact of that. It seems like such a betrayal. But I can’t say that. Not now, with my hands in his. Not here—safe, together—where I long to be when I’m not.

“Let’s keep the possibility in mind,” Theo says.

There is no car on the horizon, and none behind us, either. I lean into him. The sun is lowering toward the earth now, casting golden light across the fields. If Mary has a nail polish called
Sunset and it is just this color, I will ask her to paint my nails with it to remind me of this night. This night will be my color. This night will be Theo’s color, too.

We need to get me home, we finally agree. As we drive, we talk about other things than the future. We talk about this Sunday, his Palm Sunday service and mine. We talk about the busy week to come. Theo describes the foot-washing service at his church. I grimace at the thought of a stranger touching my bare feet, but he tells me it’s his favorite service of the year, and his mother’s, too, even with her scars—no,
because
of her scars. We are silent for a moment, thinking on that, and I find myself talking about Sophy—how happy I am that she will finally be baptized. I wish he could be there. He wishes that, too. We make our wishes on the flickering stars. If they don’t come true (and in our hearts we know that they likely won’t), I promise it won’t matter. I’ll tell him all about it. I’ll tell him all about everything in my life. My life will become his life in that way.

We drive east past the wide, open flat fields, and then a scattering of farmhouses. Next thing we know, there’s a dip in the road and the first small town appears before us. I scramble into the backseat as we approach the main street.

We pass through this town, and the next one, and the one after that. Now Oak Park is behind us, and Chicago’s buildings rise above. Theo and I are talked out. We take this turn and that, driving as we must drive now to make our way safely home. And then we say good-bye.

The last Friday in March is Good Friday. There’s an evening service at church, and I sing with the special choir there. We sing
“When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” and “O Love, How Deep.” Pastor Riis preaches. When Andreas gets up to lead the altar call, he beckons to me. I put aside my reservations and go and stand beside my brother to sing “Just as I Am.” We do make a good team, as he said. Five people come forward to be saved. But I know, even as I put my whole heart and soul into my singing, that this isn’t my calling. My calling is elsewhere. My calling is a place Pastor Riis calls the world.

When the service is finished, I dodge members of the choir who are encouraging me to come to the late supper being served in the church basement and slip into the bathroom. There, I change from my choir robe to my blue dress. Then I’m out the door. I don’t want to waste money on a taxi. I get on the El and head to Bronzeville.

Tonight at the start of the last set, I can’t help myself. I launch into the spiritual “Were You There?” I take the Chess Men by surprise. We’ve never sung this one before. For most of the first verse, I sing solo:

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Oh! Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble,

tremble.

Finally Theo sets his fingers to the keys, drawing out the minor chords. Then Dex lifts his clarinet to his lips and adds his melancholy echo. Having been raised on songs like this, Theo and Dex know the hymn as well as I do. Maybe better. Theo and Dex lift my voice up and carry me forward, and then Jim and Ira are there, too, lending their hands.

The crowd is quiet when we’re done. I glance at Theo, worried. Perhaps the people are here tonight because they just want to forget about the cross, the tomb, the stone rolled away. Perhaps that’s the only reason they’re here at all.

But then someone in the crowd asks for “Rock of Ages,” and enough people say yes, do that one, and Theo says, “Sure. Why not?”

This hymn, Jim must have been raised on, from the way he lays into his bass. Soon enough Theo, Dex, and Ira are along for the ride. We hide ourselves from the storm, take shelter in a rock cleft for us. Ira works at his drums until a roll of thunder fills our ears, and then strikes the cymbals with a clash like lightning. Less wistful and melancholy, more brooding and charged with desperate longing—that’s how we shape this song:

While I draw this fleeting breath,

When my eyes shall close in death,

When I rise to worlds unknown,

And behold Thee on Thy throne,

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee.

When I’ve sung the last word, the last whisper of sound—Ira’s brush across the cymbals—fades like soft wind from the room.

“How about something a little more uplifting, Laerke?”

I look down, and there’s Rob, standing near the edge of the stage. He’s holding a drink. He tips it to his lips, winks at me. He nudges the man next to him. “What do you think? Enough of this Holy Roller stuff?”

The man agrees, and the woman beside him agrees, too, and like that, the sentiment spreads and the crowd’s mood shifts. There are cries for something fun. People want to
dance
. They want to dance as fast as they can, dance till the cock crows.

Theo says “Fun,” and we dig into that:

Every morning, every evening

Ain’t we got fun?

“That’s the ticket!” Rob shouts. He drains his drink, sets his glass down on the stage, grabs the nearest woman around the waist, and throws himself into the crowd. The room seems to spin like the bodies before me. I keep singing. The Chess Men keep playing. We’ve got fun. They’ve got fun. And after that, “Yes! We Have No Bananas” and “My Blue Heaven” and “Toot Toot Tootsie.” We’ve got all this, too.

In this way, we wind down the night. The crowd disperses, hot and sweaty and satisfied. Rob gives me a wild wave, and then he is gone as well.

In the dim little back room, the Chess Men talk about the last set. There’s a fine balance, we agree, when it comes to managing a repertoire and arranging a program. It all depends on the night, the mood—how many risks you can take.