The Lost Songs (10 page)

P
eople new to Court Hill didn’t know that Chalk existed.

The word was not on any map. It was not the name of a street. It was just the name.

Miss Veola lived on the far edge of Chalk, and Lutie meant to go down Tenth Street so that she and Doria skirted the neighborhood. But she forgot and they were now squarely inside the community.

Lutie loved Chalk. She loved knowing everybody, even the bad ones. She loved the comfortable wandering from one yard to the next, the easy conversations, the always-waiting sweet tea.

But by definition, a Yankee was filled with scorn. Doria was an exception to most rules, socially, academically and musically. But Yankee would win. A Northerner expected the South to be minor league, if not outright failure. And that was what Doria Bell would see.

The houses in Chalk were so small. There was so much peeling paint. Everything sagged. Doors sagged. Screens sagged. Gutters sagged. And often, hope sagged.

No driveways, just packed earth for old cars to park on. Lanes with turns so sharp and narrow, a fire truck couldn’t get through. Big trees towered above the little houses on the steep slope. Autumn leaves were bright as paint, the only color except for clothes drying on lines. On some porches men sat, half visible, drinking beer, playing cards, watching the world.

Miss Veola said that the women and children in Chalk were the best, but the men were the worst. Lutie said, “That’s not Christian of you, Miss Veola. You can’t write the men off like that.”

“The men, they write themselves off,” said Miss Veola. “If they could find Jesus, they’d see the fineness in their souls. But they’re too busy finding enemies. If they don’t have one, they make one.”

Like Train, thought Lutie. He’s not on the prowl for money or drugs. He’s looking for a way to shine. Nice people are background. Violent people show up.

Maybe Saravette had broken all the commandments, but Lutie didn’t think Train had. Not yet, anyway. Did he want to? Certainly DeRade had wanted to. And did. He hadn’t been brought to trial for that murder, but lack of evidence didn’t mean innocence in DeRade’s case.

Lutie felt a stab of grief for sweet little Cliff, who had sat next to her in kindergarten. Here in Chalk, the statistics about young African American men and prison were on display, because the wide broom of crime was always sweeping.

Miss Veola refused to believe that a soul could actually be lost. She was always reaching out, by voice, food, prayer, phone, trying to wrap her fingers around the kids who were sliding away. She cared how people behaved and was always coaxing them to the Lord. When Holler went back to prison (of course his real name wasn’t Holler; he was just a man
who never lowered his voice, which was how the police had caught him), Miss Veola helped his babymama and the children. (Actually, she ordered Lutie to babysit.) She gave Holler a New Testament and told him to read it.

That was when they found out Holler couldn’t read. Miss Veola got him on the tutor list in prison, and he was reading now. Or so he said. People lied to Miss Veola to get her off their backs.

Lutie and Doria turned a corner.

Most white people walking into Chalk would feel a shiver of concern and turn around. But the world seemed less visible to Doria than to Lutie. Lutie could imagine Doria failing to look left and right for oncoming traffic, her mind full of music. She had certainly failed to wonder about Train’s motives. Whereas Lutie felt so wrapped up in the world, it was like a sweatsuit or sneakers she couldn’t take off. She was zipped and laced into the world.

Miss Veola was out in her front yard, in a half circle of old plastic lawn chairs. She loved to talk, and people loved to talk with her. Little kids liked to dig through the basket she kept full of children’s toys. Sitting next to Miss Veola was Miss Elminah, wearing an amazing hat. Miss Elminah was always shaded with a wide brim. She was so old she still swept her dirt front yard.

Racing around them were the little Waitlee boys, their mama sitting peaceful on her own porch next door, laughing into her cell phone.

Towering above Miss Veola’s four rooms were huge oaks whose leaves just browned up and fell down, providing no autumn splendor, but could be counted on for shade through the long hot Carolina days. Beyond them was city housing—brick squares quartered into little apartments, each with its own porch. Nobody wanted the back-facing porches.

“Lutie, honey,” cried Miss Elminah. “You look beautiful, darlin’. Give me some sugar.” They exchanged kisses and hugs.

Lutie wondered how to introduce Doria. She could say, This is my friend.

Being friends with Doria would be like adopting a stray dog. A dog with outstanding ability and training, to be sure, but Lutie didn’t want a pet, let alone one that needed as much feeding, walking and grooming as Doria. So Lutie said brightly, “This is Doria Bell, who plays the piano for concert choir and is in my AP chemistry class.” Lutie always liked to throw in that Advanced Placement stuff. It was an excuse for studying, that waste of time that required a defense.

“Doria,” repeated Miss Veola, in the lingering way she had with names, as if she’d been hoping somebody named Doria would come by. “Doria, I’m so glad to meet you. Have some tea, honey. Sit right down and visit with us. This is my dear friend, Miss Elminah. Miss Elminah is ninety-one years old this week.”

“How do you do?” said Doria.

“And I am four!” called one of the Waitlee boys, raising fat little fingers.

Doria knelt in the wet grass beside him. “I love the number four,” she confided, and the little boy understood, and they squatted there, enjoying the number four.

Doria felt like a chorus member in an opera production. The curtain had closed on the stage, which had been set with fine brick mansions and prim little trees. Scene two featured grimy little houses hardly bigger than walk-in closets. Each tiny chain-linked yard had its plastic chairs and children’s toys scattered under shade trees. One house had chickens.

People flowed down the street, up front steps, between
houses and through open, banging doors. It was like school during passing periods: everybody on their way someplace else, and everybody talking, to each other or on their cell phones, or both.

Sound splashed: conversation in every pitch, from bass men to piccolo-high babies. Music poured from car radios and boom boxes. TVs played inside houses, but who was watching? They were all outside. The choreography of their movements was the opera chorus about to gather and burst into song.

Miss Veola’s house was a brown square, featuring an open front porch with two steps up and no railings. The edges were lined with potted plants, mostly orange and yellow marigolds, with a smattering of zinnias. Molded plastic chairs faced the red clay road. Each chair had a tiny table. Some of the tables were upended tins that had once held pretzels.

The four-year-old went back to his toy truck and Doria stood up. She had not developed a taste for sweet tea, or any cold tea, for that matter, but she took the glass Miss Veola offered and sipped. “Thank you,” she said.

“And have a lemon bar, honey,” said Miss Elminah. “I bake the best lemon bars in Court Hill.”

“Probably in America,” said Lutie, popping the lid off a plastic container and offering it to Doria.

Inside were little squares, very yellow, with powdered-sugar topping. Doria bit into one. It was way too sugary, but also way too tart, and the combination was delicious. It made her mouth shiver.

The two old women and Lutie chatted. They seemed to know everything there was to know about each other. The warm voices, the hot sun and the sweet tea brought Doria down. She wanted to be in another state, another town and street, where she too knew everything about everyone.

But now she couldn’t even enjoy homesickness. She did not
know Nell and Steph anymore. She had only been gone three months, and already she was more of a chore to them than a friend. What if they shrugged her off as easily as they had shrugged off violin and horn?

Doria held the glass of tea to her mouth to hide her trembling chin.

Miss Elminah patted her knee. “We are so proud of our Lutie. She is just the finest student. Why, her MeeMaw, Miss Eunice, would be dancing with joy. Doria, honey, do you love school as much as Lutie does?”

How could anybody love anything without friends?

“School is fine, thank you,” said Doria.

Miss Veola studied her. “Let us pray,” she said.

Doria had forgotten that Miss Veola was a minister.

Miss Veola prayed upward instead of down, looking God in the eye. Doria had the feeling that there was no hiding place for the Lord when Miss Veola called his name. “Lord, you brought me a new friend,” Miss Veola said.

Doria cringed. People down the block would hear.

“I love when that happens,” called Miss Veola. “But Lord, I feel as if school is not good to Doria. She needs your touch. You come down to Doria, Lord. Put your arms around her. Let her feel how much she’s loved.”

In all the hundreds of prayers Doria had heard in church, not once had somebody named her and instructed God to be with her. Doria’s reserve was melting like butter in a microwave. She clenched her stomach muscles to isolate herself from the prayer. But the prayer climbed all over her anyway.

“Amen,” said Miss Veola. “And amen.”

Doria felt boneless. When Miss Veola released her hand, Doria kept holding it out.

“More tea?” asked Miss Veola.

“No. I—well—it sounds silly. I was touching God.”

“Course you were. We asked and he came.” Miss Veola scootched her chair closer. Doria tried to put a mental barricade between them. “Doria, honey, I just feel your problems lying in your lap.”

Doria thought of her problems as bats flying through her hair.

“You look poorly,” said Miss Veola. “I feel as if you might lie awake worrying. At night, honey, you just let God take care of your problems.”

“But in the morning, nothing changes!” Doria was horrified to hear herself speak. Worse, there was a witness. Lutie might tell on her.

“Maybe you didn’t hand your problem over. Every evening, you just pick up that problem and give it to God. He’s up all night anyway. You let him do the worrying.”

Doria had to smile. “That sounds like song lyrics.
He’s up all night anyway
.”

“It is a song,” said Lutie.

Lutie, Miss Elminah and Miss Veola exchanged soft looks.

Lutie walked out from under the oaks and into the sunlight. She looked up at the blue sky, turned her hands over and lifted her palms as if holding a baby or presenting a gift. She breathed in so slowly that Doria had to breathe to help. Lutie threw back her head, a position from which Doria could not have sung a note.

From Lutie’s throat came a low rich growl of a note, which she dragged up an octave and a half and then swirled back down, settling on a sweet warm E-flat.

She does have perfect pitch, thought Doria.

It was a lullaby, but not for the baby. It was a lullaby for the mother.

The song had no rhyme and no verses. It rocked on, going back and forth, turning itself into a chair on a porch: a chair set out for God.

And God was there.

Rocking.

Lutie let go of the song. Lowered her hands. Sat.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” said Doria, accepting a tissue from Miss Elminah.

“Because God came,” said Miss Veola. “He’s on the porch. You left him your worries and he took them.” She took Doria’s hand in hers, and Miss Elminah took Doria’s other hand. Lutie finished the circle and Miss Veola prayed once more. “Jesus, all your daughters need you. Your daughter Doria, she needs you. She’s got an ache she’s keeping to herself. You heal that ache, Lord, because this child of yours doesn’t need it. You guide her steps. And Lord, Miss Elminah needs you. She doesn’t hear from her grandchildren and her heart is broken. She’s never even seen her two great-grandchildren, they’re so far away in miles and in love. You fix that, Lord. It needs fixing. And your lost daughter Saravette, guide her steps. Keep her from harm, and keep her from harming others. And your child Lutie, O Lord, guide her steps. Let Lutie remember all the strong women in her family, all they gave her and all she can give back. In the name of Jesus. Amen.”

Doria sat inside the prayer, adding a few lines. Lord, what about Nell and Steph? I want them to miss me! I want to have left a hole in their lives! I want them to care what I’m doing.

When she looked up, Lutie was glaring at Miss Veola. Miss Veola was glaring right back.

Doria did not want them to argue. She did not want to know what the glares meant. “Miss Veola?” she said, rather proud of using this Southern form of address.

“Ma’am?”

A Southern-style answer. Doria was sixteen, and here was this woman of sixty—maybe even seventy or eighty; who could tell?—calling her ma’am. They did that in the South. The checker in the grocery store, the lawyer at the closing—yes, ma’am, they all said.