Songbird (33 page)
Much to my surprise I am pointed out in the audience by Peter himself. “We'd like to welcome Charmaine and Harlan Hopewell today to the show Charmaine is a big hit on the gospel music concert circuit.”
I can see which camera has us in its eye, and I wave as the audience claps. I figure that hairdresser let them know, and I am glad I had her do this pretty curled updo this morning.
Vinca stands and claps, smiling. “Come on up and sit with us, won't you?”
“Good idea, Vine!” says Peter and he extends his hand toward me.
I turn to Harlan.
“Go on, Shug!” His eyes glow and I know he loves me so.
I turn to Grandma and she smiles and nods.
They settle me right next to Cowboy George who puts his arm around me and gives me a sideways hug.
“I love having impromptu guests,” Vinca says. “I hear you have a new album coming out, Charmaine. Would you like to tell us about that?”
So I do.
Oh, the folks at BrooksTone won't believe this.
Peter takes his wife's hand comfortably. “Now, I know this may put you on the spot, Charmaine, but we have a fine band, and I hear your rendition of ‘His Eye Is on the Sparrow’ is one of the prettiest things ever to hit an eardrum.”
“Will you?” Vinca asks.
“With pleasure.”
So I sing, and the band follows me perfectly.
We have dinner with them that night in a private dining room in Wyoming's. Vinca's flowing skirts are made of a gorgeous gold brocade and she wears a black velvet bolero vest. I feel so short and typical.
Harlan shares his vision for
The Port of Peace Hour.
“Whatever we can do to help!” says Peter.
Vinca leans forward and places her hand over Grandma Min's hand. “I realize we're not everybody's cup of tea.” She looks at Harlan and me. “You'll reach people with the gospel that we don't have a hope of finding.”
Grandma smiles. “May I tell you that I loved your china shop?”
“I knew it!” Vinca claps. “You are a china fanatic, too, aren't you?”
And they suddenly whisked off to Limoges and all sorts of places that they have both loved for years, and most likely their mamas did, too.
On the way back to Mount Oak Harlan says, “A lot of people need deliverance, Charmaine. If we can provide some peace of mind, some grace to someone out there who may never get it otherwise, that would be a good thing.”
“So that will still be your angle? The ‘What's
Really
Eating at You?’ thing?”
“It's the message I’ve got to tell. But how about if I simply call it a message of deliverance.”
“But what if you're wrong, Harlan?”
He shakes his head, confusion shorting his gaze. “Shug, are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay. You're okay.”
He laughs at my joke. And when I fail to laugh back I want to gag.
I
grip the phone. Grace, come on home.”
Why did I say that?
“I can t, I just can't.”
“I’m going to tell your parents where you are. They already know you left us.”
“Where am I, Charmaine?”
“On the street. I don't know which street. But I’ll find out. My guess is you're still in Atlanta.”
She is silent.
“I’m right, then?”
“Yes.”
“What's it gonna take, Grace?”
“Nothing. I’m never coming back.”
“Just carry my number in your pocket at all times, Grace. So when they find you rotting in a Dumpster they'll call and I can tell your son his mother is dead.”
She is silent.
“He stopped asking about you this summer, Grace.”
I hang up on her sobs and I hate myself. What more can I do? I’m raising her son. I’m doing all I can.
“Leo?” I call his name out the kitchen window. It's December 26, 1985 and he's having a good old time out there in the carport on the pogo stick we got him for Christmas.
“I did twelve in a row, Mama!”
“That's wonderful!”
“Melvin said his record is twenty four hundred and thirty-six!
“You'd better keep practicing if you want to beat him.”
“Oh, I’ll beat him all right!”
I put that call in to Tony Sanchez myself. He tells me he'll get on it first thing in the morning. “If she's on the streets of Atlanta, Charmaine, she's as good as found.”
I decide pogo-sticking might be a good thing just then. I decide I’d better do a lot of pogo-sticking and the like because you just never know when that pogo stick will be stolen right from beneath your feet.
Ruby and I walk around the local IGA. She pushes the cart because she injured her knee while running last week. Ruby is so athletic and toned these days.
We shop for ingredients to make a large-scale batch of tuna casserole. In the winter, each church in Mount Oak volunteers to house the homeless for a week at a time, turning our fellowship halls into a shelter after six
P.M.
We offer a hot meal, warm blankets, and someone to talk to. I’ve looked forward to this for weeks and it's finally here.
I am still at a loss regarding Grace and I tell Ruby this.
“It's not your problem, Char.”
“But I’ve got Leo, so I think it is.”
“Then what you need to do is stop lying to Grace's parents.”
“I did. I told them I hadn't seen Grace in a while.”
She is surprised and I don't blame her. Ruby's known me for so long. “Do they even know about Leo?”
I shake my head. “No.”
And doggone it, Ruby knows my fears because she says, “You're scared if they find out about him they'll take him away from you.”
“Bingo, Einstein.”
“Hey now, don't be hurtful.”
She's right. “I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
I stop the cart in front of a tower of Pepsi, seventy-nine cents for a two liter bottle. “I don't know what would happen if I lost that little boy. We're all he has.”
Ruby visibly buttons her lip.
I ramble on for her, “Other than his grandparents.”
Oh, the irony of the situation is stunning.
“Why do you feel you have the right to hide Leo from his family?”
“Loyalty to Grace?”
“Come off it, Char. You and Grace never really fancied each other.”
“That's true. I just love Leo so much, Ruby. On the one hand, I know what's best for him, that I’m the best thing for him. On the other hand, I know what it's like to have your mama walk out on you and I don't want him to go through that.”
We continue walking.
Ruby lays a hand on my arm. “Of course, you could be like that stupid white girl, Scarlett O'Hara, and think about it tomorrow.”
“I have a feeling I’ll end up being dumber yet and put it off until at least next year.”
“Come on, Char. Let's go look at nail polish. That always cheers you up.”
Nail polish? My lands. But I don't have the heart to pretend Ruby's anything other than right on the money.
Good old shallow Charmaine strikes again!
“Ruby?”
“Yeah, Char?”
“You okay still with singing on the show?” “Of course.”
“Okay, just checking. I ‘know how you feel about TV preachers in general.”
She laughs. “It's for Harlan. You know I adore Harlan.”
We continue shopping, chitchatting about this and that, relying on our love for one another.
“How's Henry?” I ask.
Ruby smiles. “It's moving quickly. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a wedding come June!”
We hug right there by the stand up freezers. And I watch the reflection of our embrace as I gather strength.
S
pring is almost over. The cherry trees have dropped their pink snow upon our temporarily succulent lawns and the daffodils waved a brown, translucent good-bye a while ago. I should know. Surprisingly enough, a bunch of them popped up all over our yard. Right in the middle of the yard, too. Grandma Min dug up bulbs for days. We got a little secondhand rider mower and it's the funnest thing I’ve ever driven. I mow that lawn twice a week if I’m home to do it. In fact, the three of us adults fight over who gets to fire up that mower.
The Port of Peace Hour
is a hit all across the South!
We really do have Peter and Vinca Love to thank. I’ve been on their show every other week since Christmas. I file out there with the rest of them to sit on the couches and I wave to the crowd.
Harlan is beside himself. “Twenty stations and counting!”
I’m excited for him and sick for me. But my album debuted two weeks ago and the first pressing is already gone! Talk about feeling like the blessings of God are falling all around. Showers of blessing.
Just like the song says.
People write to our show like crazy, telling about deliverance of all kinds. Telling about getting back to the Bible and actually listening to it for a change. Telling about the healings that have resulted. Broken lives repaired, torn relationships mended.
We even started a twenty-four-hour-a-day help line for counsel straight from the Word. Tanzel's in charge and doing a wonderful job. Some professional Christian counselors even volunteered to man phones. They give advice straight from God's word. And then there are the older and wiser folks who have seen it all, lived it all, and can listen with a wise ear.
Isn't that what counseling is anyway? I’m not sure why there's such a big uproar about this sort of thing. I think maybe Harlan's beginning to see that God sometimes speaks through other people. Just as long as you don't use the word “psychology.”
His brother E.J. is dating a nice girl now. Divorced, too. Bee says she's a sweet thing.
I am scheduled to sing on
The PTL Club
for the second time, the first being after I started appearing regularly on
Jesus Alive!
and on
The 700 Club,
too! Those publicity fellows at BrooksTone have taken that ball and run with it! They said they haven't ever had an artist do this well straight out of the starting gate.
Hallelujah!
Grandma and I head to the fabric store. There's just nothing like a fabric store in my estimation. It is literally the world at your fingertips. Silks from China and Japan, woolens from Scotland, and cottons from India.
Grandma and I look at scissors. She said it's time I treat myself to a decent pair.
“What do you think of these ones, Grandma?”
I heft a pair of Wiss scissors.
“They're wonderful scissors, sweetie.”
And they come in their own, velvet-lined, beautiful box. But I’m not going to say that because Grandma is more worried about the blades, I’m sure.
“Oh, yes. These cut fabric like it was butter.”
They'd better. Imagine spending fifty bucks on a pair of scissors.
“But it's worth it, Charmaine. Good tools last, too. You'll never need another pair.”
“Well, I’m sick of orange handles, I can tell you that.”
I place them carefully in the red plastic cart and we move on to fabric. I need some new outfits for Gospelganza and my own Ten Thousand Lilies tour.
I finger a length of purple leopard-print cotton. Now this will make quite a sarong. “Do you think this would be too wild to wear on
Jesus Alive!?”
“Not one bit. People find you so endearing, sweetie, you can get away with more.”
Endearing.
That's the word everybody uses to describe me. I mean, that's nice, but I can think of a lot of other adjectives that would denote more of a presence.
Witty.
Charming.
Intelligent.
Insightful.
But there's me. Good old endearing Charmaine Hopewell. Then again, maybe that's why my music hits a true chord with folks all over. Maybe it's better to be loved than respected. I’d rather not have to choose, though.
Dovey called us the other day. He said he's checking mental institutions now in the search for Mama. Grandma cried all night and I got scared. I wonder how much of that still lives inside of me?
“Charmaine? It's Tony Sanchez.”
“Tony!”
“It took some doing, but I found her.”
“You found Grace?” I put my hand over the phone. “Harlan! Tony's found Grace!”
He runs in from the bedroom.
“Tell me what happened?”
“I think she was out of town for a while. Or went underground or something. You never know with addicts. But I’ve got a friend who runs a rescue mission downtown, Jamal Weaver. He's been keeping a lookout for her ever since you called me. Nothing, until this morning. She wandered in for a meal.”
“So where is she now?”
“Down at the mission. They're arranging to get her into a rehab place not far from here.”
“She'll never go.”
“I’ll escort her there myself. She wants to go. I’m not sure what has happened since she talked to you last, but she says she's ready to get her life together.”
How can a person be so happy and so sad at the same time? I look at Leo watching TV.
“Thank you, Tony. You've probably saved her life.”
“Anyway, I’ll have the home get in touch with you. It's one of those Christian homes for women only.”
“Good. That sounds like it may just be the ticket.”
I plaster Leo to me tightly after dinner. We sit on the couch as he does his math homework. He lays his head back against my shoulder, feet up near his rear end as his legs support his folder.
Oh, this sweet little boy. My sweet little boy.
I hear some voice within say, “I love her, Charmaine. I love Grace Underhill.”
And I say back, “But what about my heart? Isn't my heart worth anything?”
How does a woman go about her day when her day is spent in front of thousands of adoring fans. Fans? Oh, my lands. I just prefer to think of them as listeners. How does she smile and wave when the little boy she's come to love as her son is more dear than ever, when that child's mama is getting better, when that child's mama will come and take him away? How can she smile when what's best for her isn't best for everyone?
We now have a singing ensemble on the show.
The Sounds of Peace.
I know that's a direct rip-off of
The Sounds of Liberty
on Jerry Falwell's
Old-Time Gospel Hour,
but I’m not all that creative and no one could think of anything better.
