Sing for Me (41 page)

Dex plays the opening refrain on the piano—he keeps his playing simple so he’s less likely to make a mistake—and I sing a question.
This city, this season, why do they seem so inviting?
I close my eyes and sing like I don’t know the answer. I sing wonder and longing, promises broken, promises kept. I sing Central Park, lovers blessing the dark. I sing dreams. I sing crowds and clouds among canyons of steel.

They’re making me feel I’m home.

I sing all this. I share my heart. And there is the piano, returning to me. Notes flare from the keys; they lift my heart up. Notes cascade, and they return my heart safely.

Dex doesn’t play like this.

I open my eyes and turn from the microphone. Theo sits at the piano, playing his heart out. Playing his heart out for me.

We look at each other across the narrow space that divides us. I see nothing but the light in his eyes, the light in his smile. I see nothing but him.

I go to him. The distance between us seems to lengthen instead of lessen with my every step, but somehow he is lifting his hands from the keys now, and my hands are meeting his. Our hands clasp tightly, never mind the crowd. Theo must have brought Dex his clarinet, for there is the instrument’s haunting sound, weaving the comforting pattern of melody around us. There is Ira weaving rhythm, and Jim weaving harmony, too.

The song ends. People are applauding.

“I’m home,” Theo says, holding my hands.

“Me, too,” I say, holding his.

“Should we finish the set?” he asks.

I nod.

I sing about things deep inside that can’t be denied. I sing about valentines and heaven and home. I sing for him.

Between sets in the little backstage room, Dex, Ira, and Jim welcome Theo back. When George flashes ten fingers—
Glad to see you’re finally all here, Boss is glad, too!—
Theo turns to me. The other fellows seem to understand. They need to take care of
a few things onstage, Jim mutters. Then they’re gone, and we’re in each other’s arms.

We gather around the table at the end of the night, Theo, the other fellows, and me. We talk until the wee hours. Theo tells us about New Orleans and Harlem, and the gigs he’s got in places for us there in the months to come. “Nineteen thirty-eight looks hopeful,” he says. His smile is guarded, saying this—this world is a hard world, after all; none of us can deny it. But he didn’t run away from that fact. He made a necessary journey. He didn’t simply return to us; he also returned to himself. If he can make that kind of journey once, he can do it again, if need be. And we can do it, too. We can make the necessary journey. We can be the better for it. All of us, gathered here.

“Papa got a new bus for his church, and he let me buy the old one,” Theo tells us. “That bus carried me back here just fine, much faster than a train ever could, and more safely.” He gives me a long look. “That bus will be our garden. It will take us where we need to go.”

We talk a little longer. After so much time apart, Dex, Ira, and Jim don’t want the night to end. But finally even they can barely keep their eyes open. So we say our good-byes, and then Theo asks if he can drive me home.

“We
are
home,” I remind him as he draws my arm through his.

The bus is parked in the back alley. It’s purple, with
Children of God Church
painted in big red letters on the side. Theo sits in the driver’s seat. I sit just behind him. It’s not so noticeable in this big old bus with the tattered curtains on the windows—
I’ll start sewing new curtains first chance I get
—that he is there and I am here. It is the way things go in buses with drivers and passengers. And someday if we keep hoping, if we keep the faith, we’ll be able to sit anywhere we want, no matter the color of our skin. Surely that is the future we’ll share.

It’s almost dawn. Theo turns the bus toward Lake Shore Drive and asks if I’m up for a bite of breakfast.

I laugh. “Where would we go?”

At this hour, I mean. But of course I also mean: who would receive us?

“We’ll find a place,” Theo says.

I expect him to drive north on Lake Shore, because that would be the quickest way back to my neighborhood. Perhaps we’ll grab rolls and coffee from a street vendor near Garfield Park and take an early-morning picnic in some discreet place there. The gazebo where Sophy and I stopped and talked on that cold, hard winter’s day, maybe. I’d like that. Or even better: a cluster of trees by the lagoon. The Conservatory will be closed at this hour, but we can look through the windows and see the chrysanthemums inside.

But instead Theo drives south. We must be going to his mother’s place. I know how much he loves her Sunday-morning biscuits and gravy. Now I’ll finally be able to taste them, too.

We’re nearing his neighborhood when I remember another place that will receive us. How could I have forgotten? I lean forward and rest my hand on Theo’s dear, strong shoulder.

“Mahalia Jackson,” I say. “Let’s hear her sing. Today.”

Theo laughs, and his laughter is joyful, its own kind of music. The sound says
yes
. To my surprise, he turns the bus in a new direction, away from his mother’s house, coffee, and the
only real breakfast we can partake of together in this city. He steers the bus purposefully down bumpy, narrow streets. And I keep my hand on his shoulder all the while.

We veer onto a wide boulevard I don’t recognize and pull up in front of an unfamiliar stone church. Theo shuts off the bus’s engine and turns to me, smiling. He just might laugh again, which would be fine by me, because now I’m laughing, too.

He takes my hand in his. “All nations and races are welcome here.”

I remember similar words, printed on the poster I saw outside the public library, so many months ago now.

“Mahalia Jackson and her choir? Already?” I look at the dark sky, the rosy dawn faintly tinting the low horizon. “Isn’t it a bit early?”

“It is indeed.” Theo lifts my hand, and his lips brush my fingertips, and then he kisses my palm, and the calluses there, from all the buckets I’ve carried, mops I’ve pushed, scouring I’ve done. When he looks at me again, his expression is triumphant. “The last Sunday morning of every month they offer a sunrise service here, and a breakfast afterward. Today’s the last Sunday. Isn’t that something?”

“It’s something all right.”

I leap from my seat and throw my arms around Theo. He stands, the better to hold me.

“And guess what? They invite the congregation to join them, Rose. You can sing with them if you like.”

“It’s what I’ve always wanted,” I say.

And this, I think, as we walk hand in hand toward the church. I’ve wanted this. And this, I think, as hand in hand we step inside.

They stand on the stage in their golden gowns, the men and women of the choir, glowing and shimmering like the stars that have just vanished from the sky. And there’s Mahalia Jackson standing in front, the brightest star of all. Theo and I slip into a pew near the front, and no one protests. Soon the pews are crowded all around us, and still we are welcome where we are.

Then she sings, and thank goodness there are kneelers, because, yes, she brings me to my knees.

At the end of the service, we are called to come up onstage. We join many from the congregation there, pressing close together so that everyone who wants to sing with the choir is able. There are other white faces in the crowd, but mostly the faces are all shades of rich color.
Children of God Church
, our bus says outside, and soon we will start that new journey, but now, in this moment, our family is here. We are home. And as we raise our voices with Mahalia Jackson and her choir, I know that this is what I’ve wanted from the beginning:

Precious Lord, take my hand

Lead me on, let me stand

This—our hands clasped, music all around and inside us, the family we make together—I will sing to the end.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In 1995, I started working on a story that evolved into this novel. The fact that this book exists and that you are reading these words is a testament to the many good people who supported and encouraged me along the long and winding way of writing. It is an honor to have the opportunity to thank them now—and a daunting task, because, honestly, do words ever suffice? If nothing else, let the following hint at what my heart holds.

Thank you, Sandra Bishop, for acting as my agent. You are a warrior for good and growth, and a wise guide for the writing life. Plus, you understand about the dark chocolate of the soul. Your laughter lifts the heart. And you’ve got the kind of fearless moxie that inspires me, for one, to be brave.

Beth Adams, I have worked with numerous editors over the years, and you take the cake for
withness
. Your vision and understanding for the shape and needs of this novel took my breath away more than once and left me humbled in the best possible way. I am so grateful to have shared in the experience of writing and revising with you, Beth. Reared on stories of writers
working with the likes of William Maxwell, I now feel, after having worked with you, that I have my own stories to share.

Amanda Demastus, when Beth framed her revision letters, she wrote “Amanda and I feel/think/wonder” so often that I fully understand what an editorial team the two of you make. You are an incredible editor in your own right, Amanda (just look at the great books you have edited on Howard’s list). It was such a comfort to know that you were lending your editorial scrutiny to my work. Thank you for responding to all my questions and for telling me not to overthink things. I needed to hear that.

Thank you, Becky Nesbitt, for agreeing to take on this book when I was a first-time author in this particular cosmos of publishing. When Sandra called to say that you’d optioned
Sing for Me
, I was at Calvin College’s Festival of Faith & Writing. One moment I was standing on the sidewalk; the next moment, upon hearing the news, I stood atop a stone outcrop—a landscaping feature that I somehow scaled in a burst of joyful adrenaline. I don’t remember how I turned mountain goat. I do remember being exquisitely happy. And grateful to you.

On that note, I want to say how thankful I am to the whole Howard Books/Simon & Schuster family, and especially to Bruce Gore, who asked for and received my thoughts on the cover image and transformed the mishmash I sent his way into something truly beautiful and memorable—his own distinctive work. Bruce, thank you again for what you do and who you are.

When I first wrote the story on which this novel was based, a fellow doctoral candidate at the University of Illinois at Chicago, Beth Franken, read and edited initial drafts like nobody’s business, and basically steered the final version toward
publication. She was my dear friend, lo those many years ago, and she’s my dear friend today, and I am ever more grateful to her.

Jenine Gordon Bockman and Jeffrey Michael Gordon Bockman took that story out of the slush pile, gave it a prize, published it in their wonderful (still thriving online) journal,
Literal Latté
, sent it on to Bill Henderson, publisher and editor of
The Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses
, who said
yes, this one, too
, and included it in his anthology. These three folks helped me believe there might be more of a story to tell in the future.