Sing for Me (19 page)

When Theo took me to the kitchen to meet his mother, Mrs. Chastain was composed as well. She was a wide wall of composure. I had to hand it to her—hand it to all the Chastains. If Theo, or Mary, or the three cousins, uncle, aunt, grandmother, or Mrs. Chastain, for that matter, had showed up without warning at my family’s apartment, my family would have been anything but composed.

“My, my.” Mrs. Chastain smoothed her green plaid apron over her dark green dress. “Who do we have here?”

Spruce tree, I thought, taking her in, and her voice made me think of the spring-fed lake tucked deep in the spruce woods that border Aunt Astrid’s farm. The lake’s surface was always completely calm; I could only imagine all that was going on in the depths beyond my understanding.

Theo told his mother my name. And then: “She’s the singer, Mama.”

I’m the singer.

“Well, then.” A slow smile softened Mrs. Chastain’s expression. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun—a spruce touched with frost—and as she nodded, the bun bobbed. “Perhaps we’ll have some music later.”

I took a deep breath and held out my hand to Mrs. Chastain. I intended to say “Nice to meet you,” or some such thing. But “Thank you” is what came out.

“Why, you’re welcome.” Mrs. Chastain took my hand in hers. “Goodness.” She rubbed my skin briskly. Her strong, calloused fingers came near the bruise but never touched it, for which I was grateful. “Theo, is the heater out on the car again? Child might as well be made of ice.”

Suddenly she went still. She’d seen the bruise, and from his quick intake of breath, so had Theo.

“Some ice, please, son.” Releasing my right hand and taking my left, Mrs. Chastain nodded toward the icebox. “I’m sorry, Rose, I know you’re cold, but it still might help.”

Theo got busy at the icebox. With a pick, he chipped away at the block of ice, filled a tea towel with bits and pieces, folded the towel. Then, with his mother’s help, he wrapped the towel
around what ached. The frigid cold seeped into the bruise, down to the bone.

Now the towel has been set aside, the ache has lessened, and my way with this family is nearly easy. We are finally seated in a tight circle around the food-laden table. Theo gives me another smile, then bows his head as his uncle prays a long blessing over our repast. At amen, Mrs. Chastain starts the passing of bowls and platters.

Every taste is new to me, and as good as it looks and smells. Better. I clean my plate. When the food is passed again, I take seconds. It’s only when I’ve eaten the last bite of this helping, and I’m as full as I’ve ever been, that I realize I haven’t said a word. I haven’t really been listening to the conversation, either, though it’s been going on all around me, along with much laughter. I glance around, wondering if anyone has noticed my silence. Mrs. Chastain nods approvingly.

“Full up?” she asks.

“Yes, thank you. It was all so—”

I belch. I clamp my mouth shut, embarrassed. No, mortified.

But everyone is laughing, and Theo is laughing hardest of all. He mops his eyes with his napkin and laughs harder. I can’t help but laugh, too.

Suddenly Theo pushes back his chair. “Mama, leave the dishes. I’ll do them later, I promise.”

I follow Theo and his family into the front room. There, Theo sits down at a battered upright piano, and the rest of us gather around. Mary is beside me. She must be about Sophy’s age, I realize, what with the way she’s clearly not a girl anymore, but not quite a woman, either. She is going to be a beauty, that’s clear. She already is, with her honey-colored skin and her golden
brown eyes, her slim figure and soft curves. She has Theo’s elegance and dignity, which is their mother’s elegance and dignity. I smile at Mary. Instead of covering her hand with her mouth, she smiles back.

Theo plays a few chords. The piano is terribly out of tune, but Theo’s touch brings out a jangly beauty. He’s playing “Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” Mahalia Jackson’s song.

Theo’s uncle throws back his head and lets loose singing, the cousins join in, the aunt and grandmother, and finally Mrs. Chastain and Mary, too. Mary sways in perfect time to the slow, steady rhythm that Theo has set. She slips her arm through mine, and I sway, too. I’m being rocked; that’s how it feels. I’m being cradled by this hymn. I close my eyes and join in the singing.

Theo is playing the last note of the last verse when I realize how quiet the room has become. My voice is the only voice I hear. I open my eyes. Theo’s cousins, his uncle, aunt, and grandmother—they’re all watching me. Mrs. Chastain’s hands are steepled at her lips. She seems to be praying. And Mary—well, Mary is still rocking, as am I.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Theo looks at me. “For?”

“Singing.”

Mary stops rocking.

Mrs. Chastain opens her eyes and regards me. “You know better than that, child. Now, then. I fed your body. You feed my soul.”

The others murmur their agreement. Mary whispers something into Theo’s ear, and he smiles and nods.

“Perfect,” he says.

Next thing I know he’s playing the opening notes of “Winter Wonderland.”

I know most of the words, but not all of them. When I forget, Mary and Theo join in. And when the song is over, Mrs. Chastain wraps her arms around her middle and gives me an imploring look. “Still hungry.”

Theo plays “Amazing Grace,” and I sing that. “Stormy Weather,” and I sing that. “The Old Rugged Cross.” “The Very Thought of You.” “Just as I Am.” None of these songs excludes the others. They complete one another, a feast, filling us up.

It’s only when he plays “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” that I stop singing. I let Theo, Mary, and my memory of Lilah Buckley carry the song.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Chastain says as the last note fades away. “I’m full up now, too.”

There is a clock on the wall behind her, but I can’t make out the time. It’s not that the numbers are too small. It’s just that I’m in a daze. Light-headed, that’s what I am, as if I’ve been lifted to a different altitude, a mountaintop.

“It’s almost nine o’clock,” Theo says.

The room comes into focus, as does the clock on the wall.

“Storm’s over. Guess I’d better get you back before your folks worry,” Theo says.

Next thing I know, Mary is helping me into my coat. The family say their good-byes. Theo leads me to the door, opens it for me, follows me down the stairs. Then Mrs. Chastain calls him back. Her expression, as she speaks softly to him, is stern. His expression, when he turns away from her, is troubled.

She is worried for her son’s safety. I am, too. It’s a white world where we’re going.

Again, I sit in the back of Theo’s car. Again, he drives carefully through the night. He doesn’t whistle this time. There’s no need to fend off the quiet. Not when we’re carrying the memory of so much music.

We’re rounding Garfield Park when Theo pulls the car over to the side of the road. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t look into the rearview mirror. His hands grip the steering wheel like he’s holding on for dear life.

“What’s happening here?” he asks.

I clasp my hands tightly, bow my head. I might look like I’m praying, but I’m not. Doesn’t the Bible say that Jesus sits at the right hand of God, praying for us when we’re unable to pray for ourselves? I hope Jesus is doing just that for Theo and me right now.

“Between you and me, I mean. What’s going on between us?” Theo says.

“I don’t know. Do we have to know?”

“My family likes you. My mother told me to make sure you came to no trouble.”

Mrs. Chastain wasn’t just worried about her son. She was worried about me, too.

“Your mother is gracious. Your whole family is,” I say.

“I imagine your family, being your family, has a portion of grace, too.” Theo thuds his fist against the steering wheel, determined. “Anyway, this isn’t about your family or mine, is it? It’s about you and me.”

I look out the window. From the corner of my eye I see a shadow. That gang of young men? Are they there again? Are they drunk?

I turn quickly and see bushes stirring in the wind. And snow,
stirring, too. This is what startled me—these shapes and shadows. Just this.

Still, I can’t deny the truth.

“It matters. The different colors of our skin, the different worlds we live in. These things matter.”

“Oh, Rose.” His sigh is ragged. “These things kept me in chains. The chains were heavy. Made me crazy, a prisoner, not a man. I did things—I’m not going to tell you what I did. Not now. I’m not ruining this night. But the things I did, they drove me and my family right out of New Orleans. We dragged my chains all the way up the Mississippi. Just outside St. Louis, we went to a tent meeting, and the preacher there—well, he took one look at me and he saw the state I was in. The chains. With his help, I began the long, slow work of cutting myself free. Don’t get me wrong. I still have shackles I have yet to take a blade to. But I won’t be a prisoner to the color of my skin or the world we live in—not the way I was, not anymore. I wish the same for you. But I guess you’ll have to decide for yourself.”

He doesn’t wait for my answer, which is good, because any response I may have had has just been pushed from my mind. Who is this man? I wonder as he steers the car back out into the street. What has he known? His beautiful hands, could they ever have done harm? His gentle eyes, could they ever have held rage?

He drives me home in silence. He is helping me out of the car when the snow resumes falling. This late on a wintry Sunday night, the streets and sidewalks are empty. We might as well be back in our snow globe. My hands are in his. We stand face-to-face.

He says it again: “What’s happening here?” And then, “Something’s happening, Rose.”

Something indeed might happen with my hands in his and his eyes on mine and us standing so close together. The only harm, the only madness would be if we were forced apart.

“You are the best of men,” I hear myself say.

But Nils is the best of men, too.
It’s Mother’s voice that I hear saying this—Mother’s voice in my head, so clear in its appeal that I nearly turn to see if she’s standing right beside me. But I don’t. Because Theo is drawing closer, and I am drawing closer, and now we are closer still, and at any moment anything, everything, might happen.

From the corner of my eye, I glimpse something moving. Mother again, silent this time, but stirring? This time I do turn, and this time someone is there, standing above us, behind the heavy velvet curtain that shields the window to our front room. Not Mother, but Dad. He is standing sentinel at his post. Any moment, he’ll part the curtains.

I pull Theo into the shadows, where neither Dad nor Mother could ever see.

We won’t be forced apart. We just need to go slow. We need to take care. We need to ready ourselves for what’s to come.

I tell Theo this. In the cold darkness of this snowy night, I see the light of his smile before I turn toward the place I call home. I am a guest here now. In my hurry to escape this afternoon, I forgot my key. Luckily, I am able to clamber up the snowy fire escape, slip into bed beside my sleeping sister, avoid Dad and Mother altogether.

Eyes growing heavy, I dream of Mahalia Jackson. I am finally hearing her sing. The man by my side is Theo.

TWELVE

N
ext morning, Dad and I pass in the hallway. His gaze skims the bruise on my arm. He looks only at the floor then. At this moment he isn’t at all a vain, handsome man. He is aging, aged, as if in the past twenty-four hours decades have gone by.

“I would never hurt you, Rose.”

“But you did.”

“I didn’t intend to.”

I think about chains. How hard it is to break them.

“I’ll never touch you again,” Dad says.

This I believe. For one thing, I won’t let him. For another, he never has, much. It’s Sophy he touches, and he’s only a loving father holding her.

I walk past him to my bedroom, close the door, and get ready for work. In this way, it’s just another Monday. In so many other ways, it’s not.

I clean and clean, one apartment after another in a building down the street from ours. And while I clean, I sing all the songs I want to sing, from “Amazing Grace” to “Zing! Went the Strings
of My Heart.” The doors are closed, and the windows, too. I sing as loudly or as softly as I want. At the end of the day, floors and walls are spotless, windows and mirrors are shining, yet my thoughts and feelings still split and shimmer like ripples across the surface of a pool when not just one penny but many have been cast into water. There’s no single wish, no calming my mind. The only thing I know is that I will find a way to see Theo again. I will go to Calliope’s and listen with my whole heart. And with my whole heart I will continue to sing the songs I want to sing, if only while I’m cleaning.