The Lost Songs (25 page)

“I used to think,” said Miss Veola, “that what people want most is to be loved, and to love in return. I’ve had to change my mind. People want to be noticed. It’s similar to being loved, but it doesn’t require emotion or commitment. You just stand there and make sure people see you. ‘Look at me!’ screams the person on the reality show. ‘Listen to me!’ sings the person in the music contest. But I say, Look at God. Listen to him.”

“Amen,” called a few worshippers.

“And Amen,” agreed Miss Veola.

During coffee hour, Lutie hid out in a Sunday-school room. She had known these people all her life, but she didn’t want any part of them today.

It took forever for the last car to drive off.

Lutie came out of hiding and found Miss Veola sitting on
the church steps in the shade. Lutie sat beside her. The pastor always gave her a ride home on Sundays.

They sat together, postponing cleanup in the sanctuary. There was a janitor, of course, but he did not meet Miss Veola’s standards. He always wanted to wait until Monday, but Miss Veola could not lock up her church unless it was in pristine condition.

They said nothing. Miss Veola had probably used every word she possessed in her sermon and Lutie still didn’t have enough air.

St. Bartholomew’s had two services, at nine and eleven. It was one reason why Doria’s parents rarely came. Long drive, long morning. Instead, Doria would take her mother’s Honda and go on her own. After the second service, she headed home. She was tired. Even the car was tired. It was a slow trip.

Faith, hope and love. Give ’em away, as much as you can, to every person you can
.

But what if people weren’t interested?

She hadn’t heard from Pierce. Did she have the energy to go to that Youth Group by herself? Jenny and Rebecca might be there. Maybe this time they would just have fun, no volunteer requests or preaching.

She hadn’t heard from Lutie, either.

The Bells always had Sunday dinner at a restaurant in the country with an amazing buffet. Even Doria, a picky eater to the max, could find seconds and thirds there. It was a busy noisy anonymous place, and perfect for talking from the heart. So much was happening in her life and she had shared so little. It wouldn’t be faith, hope or love that she’d give her parents. It would be detail. That was what they wanted, to be part of her world. That was what she had withheld.

She reached Tenth Street. On her left, largely hidden by oaks and pines, was Chalk. And on her right was a small brick church.
VEOLA MIXTON, PASTOR
said the sign. Church was over. The gravel parking lot was mostly empty. Doria slowed down to see if she could spot anything pink but she couldn’t.

On the church steps sat two people.

Lutie and Miss Veola.

A car hovered in the road. Its signal light blinked as it turned slowly into the church lot. Who would show up now? It was dinnertime. Lutie did not recognize the car. She peered at the driver.

Doria Bell.

I can’t stand it, thought Lutie. I’m too busy knowing what I know.

Doria had texted that she had chosen chords for the Laundry List. Chords would change the songs. They’d be more typical, more marketable. But diluted. And with chords and a piano, musicologists would never hear the real song. They would never see Mabel and her sweat and the harsh soap and the hot iron. They would hear the List like anything else that played on a radio.

Should the songs be sung only the way Mabel had sung them?

Should Lutie and Doria give the Laundry List a new shape and a new audience?

Or should Lutie allow the songs to lapse and vanish into silence, like dead languages?

I’m sick of the Laundry List, she thought. “Lord,” said Lutie out loud, “make Doria evaporate.”

“Jesus,” said Miss Veola sharply, “step on Lutie’s toes.”

Lutie straightened her legs, admiring her slender ankles and the nicely shaped toes peeking out of her open-toed heels. “Ouch. Jesus has heavy shoes.”

“He’s wearing sandals,” corrected Miss Veola. “And it’s important to remember that you are not worthy even to tighten his sandal strap.”

“Could you give it a rest already?” said Lutie.

Doria leaned out the driver’s-side window. “Good morning. Is this a good time?”

“It is,” said Lutie. “Jesus just showed up. He’s been stepping on my toes.”

“That doesn’t sound like him,” said Doria.

“He only does it by special request. Want to see our church? Bet it’s not the same as St. Bartholomew’s.”

No wonder they called it the pink church.

The interior was no soft gentle pastel. It was a pink that screamed, a pink that assaulted the eyes. Gaudy, shocking, neon pink. As loud as a rock band in a stadium.

Miss Veola had chosen this?
Liked
it? Thought it was appropriate?

Miss Veola was laughing at Doria’s expression. “Jesus wasn’t background,” she explained. “He didn’t blend. So I don’t either.”

“Where I come from, churches are all white,” said Doria.

“No duh,” said Miss Veola.

Doria blushed. “I meant the paint. I thought when you said pink, it would be some sweet gentle rose.”

“Sugar, when you play the organ, are you always a sweet gentle rose?”

“I play it all on all there is.”

“My philosophy of life, honey. Play it all on all there is.”

Doria walked slowly down the aisle toward the altar, which was a plain table, the wood gleaming from years of polish. The chancel was raised a few steps, and the lower step was carpeted, so people could kneel and pray. Even the carpet was pink.

A starched and ironed white cloth ran down the middle of the altar. There were candlesticks, a cross, offertory plates and a vacuum cleaner resting against the rail. It looked like a painting, the gentle oddity of the cleaning equipment keeping the scene earthbound.

On the floor and flanking the altar were instruments: percussion, keyboard, speakers and a battered brown baby grand, which looked as if kids stood around kicking the piano legs during the children’s sermon. She hoped it was better tuned than it looked. Few things bothered her more than a badly tuned piano. Just last week, she had had to tell Mr. Gregg to tune his piano or she was history.

“I know you’re an organist, not a pianist, Doria,” called Miss Veola, “but I just want to sit back here and listen while you fill this room with music. Play anything.”

Lutie loved this church.

Miss Veola had not physically built the building. She had built it spiritually. Taken a fading congregation and whipped it into excitement and commitment.

But the shouting pink of the old walls and the quieter pink of the low ceiling, the polished dark wood of its sturdy altar rail—on which rickety old folks hauled themselves up off their knees—how could that be equaled by the skinny stage of a failed movie theater?

Could you really worship God anywhere?

Or did the church itself need soul?

What would happen to the years and years of worship that had taken place here?

Oh, stop being a drama queen, Lutie ordered herself. Pastor Craig’s congregation is moving in. Worship won’t miss a beat.

She leaned against Miss Veola and thought of Saravette and the meaning of friendship and forgiveness, and Jesus standing on her toes.

The best thing about church was that it sanctioned profound thoughts. In school, in Chalk, at the mall, on the phone, being profound felt silly. But at church, it lay waiting, deep and beautiful.

At the chancel, Doria’s fingers moved over the keyboard, playing a cloudy wash of chords, like waves coming ashore at the beach. Deep inside the notes, Lutie began to hear “Mama, You Sleep.” On and on rolled the lullaby.
All those worries—leave ’em on the porch
.

But a porch, especially that porch, where MeeMaw had sung that song and had her last conversation with Saravette, was no longer a place Lutie wanted to be.

G
ot the car
, Pierce texted.

Doria wanted to answer,
Great! Wow! I can’t believe you wrote back! You’re driving? I get to sit in front with you? You’re not afraid to show up with me?

Instead she wrote,
What time?

Now would be good
, he replied.

“I’m going to Youth Group with Pierce,” she said casually to her parents.

They were repainting their bathroom. The builders had chosen eggshell walls and navy trim. Her mom had picked out buttercup walls with white trim. Dad had the prisoner look of a man who could think of forty-seven things he’d rather be doing. But he just grinned at his daughter. Mom was too busy taping to look up. “Enjoy,” she said vaguely.

Pierce was already tapping his horn. Doria flew to the curb and got in the car.

“My mom is so happy I’m doing this,” he said. “My dad can’t believe I’m doing it. We were watching football.”

“Who’s playing?”

“Doria, do you even know a football from a basketball?”

“Almost.”

He turned onto Hill Street. “What’s Youth Group doing tonight?” he asked. “I might have too much homework if there are sermons or lectures. We might have to leave early.”

“There was a visiting sermonist last week, so probably this week is non-sermon.”

“Is that a word? Sermonist?”

“Probably not.”

“I like it, though,” said Pierce. “A sermonist. One who sermons. Probably a tedious person.” He handed her his phone. It was new and sleek, with much more capability than her own. She was jealous. “Look up First Methodist,” he ordered.

I could buy a phone like this, she thought. I have lots of money. What am I saving it for, anyway, if not a great phone?

She clicked onto First Methodist’s site and then on the link for the Youth Group page. “Tonight is fried chicken and volleyball. This is not good. I don’t volley.”

Pierce was laughing. “A little volleying will offset some of that online physics. Every time I think of that I start laughing.”

“What’s the funny part?”

“I just can’t get an image of it. You curling up in front of the computer for a physics lecture.”

It turned out that prior to volleyball, Youth Group had to do something religious. Jenny’s mother had been drafted, since everybody else was busy. The poor woman had decided to lead thirty teenagers in song. She started with an old Sunday-school ditty, “This Little Light of Mine.”