The Lost Songs (31 page)

“We are here,” said Miss Veola, “to remember the life of Saravette Painter. She suffered. She did many things wrong and few things right. But she was loved. She was loved especially by her mother, Eunice Painter, who never—not even at the last moment of her life—stopped loving her little girl. Now Saravette has crossed the most important creek. She will wash the feet of the Lord and he will wash hers.”

Half the room was sobbing. Lutie thought, Do they know? Was it not a secret after all? Do these elderly ladies in their shiny hats know how my MeeMaw died?

“Let us pray,” said the pastor. “Lord, we thank you for everyone in this room. We thank you for the courage of Cliff Greene. We thank you for friendship and music and neighbors.”

Lutie was not sitting where she belonged, with her aunts and other relatives in the front. She was still in the chancel. She had lowered herself into a deacon’s chair when Cliff began to sing.

A metallic shimmer caught her eye and she looked up.

One head was not bowed. The professor was looking around, mildly interested, somewhat amused. In one hand he held what she assumed was a recording device, or maybe just a really good phone.

Lutie thought, He really does need the Laundry List. Even here, even now, he doesn’t feel God or love or the pain of life. He’s just working on his career.

Lutie pitied him with all her heart. How nice that she still had all her heart. She hadn’t destroyed it when she wanted her own mother never to show up.

“Lord, have mercy on your children,” said Miss Veola, “especially the ones who did a bad job with life. Love all of us anyway. Take your daughter Saravette in your arms and welcome her to heaven. And your sons and daughters here on earth, Lord, help them use their lives for something beautiful. Something brave. Don’t let them fritter away their lives.”

Lutie felt the strong women from whom she had descended climbing through the years and into her heart. She felt their songs and voices rising.

She became aware that the church was very quiet. This was not a group that worshipped in silence. What was the matter?

Miss Veola had sat down.

The people waited.

It was time.

Lutie stood. She walked forward. She placed her feet where Cliff had stood.

“I’m going to sing the only song on the Laundry List that’s actually about laundry,” she told the congregation. “I hardly ever sing this one. Mabel Painter, my grandmother’s grandmother, wanted a grand life and she didn’t get one. My MeeMaw liked to tell me that Mabel Painter’s prayers came true, but not for her. Her prayers came true for me.”

Lutie found herself with even less air than Cliff had had. Her next breath still barely held her body up. This is how tired Mabel Painter was, every day of her life, thought Lutie. But she went on. And so will I.

From the back, in the silence, came a little click.

Uncle Dean quietly left the first pew and walked to the rear. Lutie forgot sometimes that her uncle had played football; in fact, he had had a football scholarship. His shoulders were wider than most men’s.

Uncle Dean stepped over a few legs, and squashed into the pew next to Martin Durham.

The professor looked like a child next to Uncle Dean.

They had a short chat.

Uncle Dean took custody of the recorder.

Lutie said, “Saravette was my mother. She made bad choices. I made a bad choice too. I never wanted to find her. She got lost, she stayed lost, and I was glad. I stayed with the ninety and nine, and we were all safe and clean and had houses with granite countertops and central air.”

Lutie’s confession stabbed Kelvin in the heart.

He wanted to run up the aisle and hug her forever and squash the guilt out of her. Lutie wasn’t responsible for Saravette!

Lutie struggled for breath, like the basketball player whose last free throw will win or lose the championship. She blew out one long huff of air to calm herself. She said, “Saravette never heard me sing. This is my last chance.” Lutie raised one hand.

Sometimes when she sang hands up, she was conducting herself, adding more beat. Sometimes she was waving. “Hey, Lord. You like your song?” Mostly she was signaling that she was a believer. This time, she was cupping the good news in her palm and pulling it in.

Saravette had not had anything grand on earth, nor had she tried to make anything grand.

But she’s with the Lord now, thought Lutie. That’s pretty grand.

Lutie was in the home stretch. Only the refrain was left. She stopped and wiped away tears and pulled herself together. And then she finished Saravette’s song.

S
o much food.

Biscuits and barbecue, salads and chicken, casseroles and pie.

Piles of white paper napkins and red plastic plates.

Jugs of tea and lemonade. Pitchers of coffee.

Aunt Tamika and Aunt Grace welcomed everybody to the reception in the church hall, hugging and exclaiming and hugging again.

In walked Lieutenant Andrews and his son, Pierce.

“Donny!” cried Aunt Tamika. “You came! You’re such a sweetheart.” She kissed him.

Lutie almost fell over. Aunt Tamika knew this cop? Liked him?

Her aunt said, “Lutie, honey, do you know Pierce’s daddy? Donny Andrews is the one could always find Saravette when nobody else could.”

Miss Veola said, “Mika, you keeping Donny to yourself? Hey, Donny.”

“Miss Veola,” said Pierce’s father, smiling. “I didn’t get here in time for the funeral. I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry I
didn’t get there in time to find your sister, Mika. We tried. When you called, we went hunting, but I guess we hit the wrong places.”

Aunt Tamika said, “Donny and I were in high school together. Cochaired a dance once. Acted in a play. Three years of math in the same section.”

Lutie felt this information should have been passed on years ago.

“Hi, Lutie,” said Pierce. “I didn’t know any of that either. My daddy never tells stuff invades anybody’s privacy.”

What privacy was Pierce talking about? And then Lutie realized: her own. Pierce’s daddy had probably always known that Lutie was the daughter of that sorry case. And he’d never once told.

“I’m sorry about your loss,” Pierce said formally. He handed over a plastic cake holder, with a strap over the high lid, which a church lady swept away and carried over to the dessert table.

“Your mother baked a cake?” said Lutie. Had Pierce’s mother gone to high school with Aunt Tamika as well and Lutie hadn’t known that, either?

“We couldn’t come empty,” said Pierce. “Hey, Kelvin. Hey, Doria.” He shot a glance at his father and then said nervously, “Hey, Train.”

“It’s too bad you missed the service,” said Doria. “Of course you knew that Lutie would sing and be fabulous, but guess what? Cliff sang, and he was fabulous.”

Pierce’s mouth fell open.

Lutie knew the feeling.

Miss Elminah was handing them dessert plates with generous slices of Pierce’s mother’s cake, and red plastic forks.

“I love dessert first,” said Kelvin. There was his mama coming in, all of a flurry because she’d missed the service and didn’t have any food with her. But she was here.

“Your mom looks pretty,” said Cliff.

“Tell her that,” said Kelvin. “Nothing she likes more than a man telling her she’s pretty.” Kelvin thought of an old hymn:
Order my steps, Lord. I want to walk worthy
.

Had Cliff Greene wanted to walk worthy all along and couldn’t? Because his brother and his neighbors were nailing him to a track that went the other direction?

And when did I ever step up, Kelvin asked himself, and pull him back?

Kelvin liked to think of himself as one who walked worthy. But he hadn’t taken one step toward Cliff, and time after time, he had walked away from Train.

Cliff had to get here alone, thought Kelvin.

Miss Veola bustled up. How small she was. Like a chipmunk compared to Kelvin. She said, “I have prayed so long, Cliff Greene, that it wore ruts in my prayers. And here you are.”

The high emotion that had brought Train to the altar to sing was back under control. He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Miss Veola began to pray and both boys scrunched down, hoping she would lower her voice and that it would end soon, but that was never the case with Veola Mixton and the Lord.

Lutie saw Mr. Gregg charge in the door. He stopped, squinted and looked around for people he knew. He greeted Miss Veola and then Lutie’s aunts, whom he knew from concerts, and finally Lutie. “You sang from the Laundry List and I wasn’t here?” he accused her. “Lutie!”

“This was her mother’s funeral, Mr. Gregg,” Doria reminded him.

“Oh, right. I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry for your loss, Lutie. How are you managing?”

“Fine, thanks, Mr. Gregg. Thank you for coming.”

“Did anybody record it? Can I hear it? Can you do it again for me?” he asked.

There was something wonderful about his single-mindedness. Lutie loved him. “We haven’t recorded any of the songs, Mr. Gregg. But we will. I’m thinking that my uncle Dean and my aunts and I will go to a lawyer first. And then you and Professor Durham and all of us will decide what’s next.”

“I get to be in on it? Think my name could appear on the CD? I am, like, so dying for worldwide attention.”

Lutie was laughing. “It’s more likely to be Court Hill–wide than worldwide.”

“Nope. National treasure,” he said.

“You haven’t even heard any of the songs yet,” she pointed out.

Mr. Gregg swung on Doria. “Doria,” he demanded. “Those songs national treasure or mediocrity?”

“Treasure,” said Doria, smiling. “But maybe not national. Maybe the personal property of the Painter family.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Miss Veola. “If Jimmy Gregg gets to be on the CD, do I get my benefit performance? I have a church to build, you remember.”

Lutie was suddenly awash in tears. It was her church being built bigger and finer. And she almost hadn’t helped. “What’s a good date?”

“Let us give thanks!” called Miss Veola.

People who had been eating all along pretended they hadn’t.

Silence slowly settled on the room.

Heads bowed. Even Cliff Greene’s. He stared down at his plastic plate. It was covered with chocolate crumbs and a slick of icing. Miss Veola launched into a blessing over the food,
and Cliff stood on the outside of the prayer. These people had easy lives and an easy tomorrow. But when he went back to school, contempt would replace respect on many faces. He could already feel the shame of backing down. What Miss Veola called victory, everybody Cliff knew would call defeat.

Could he do this? Stay on this side of life?

Did he want to?

He closed his eyes and let his own words roll back.
Cross my creek, Lord. Wash my feet, Lord. And I’ll wash yours
.

It worked, a little.

But it didn’t work enough. He wanted out. He didn’t want one more old lady touching him or smiling at him. He didn’t want these easy safe people who had so much to be thankful for.

Outside Fellowship Hall was air and safety.

Outside he could be Train.

He turned away, letting Cliff fall off like a jacket.