The Lost Songs

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Next she texted Lutie. I have the chords. Meet and play the Laundry List?

  The thought of such a duet put Doria in a key-of-C mood. C was a sunshine key. A key that woke up knowing it was going to be a good day.

  Uncle Dean, Aunt Tamika, Aunt Grace and Lutie were sitting at the table watching pizza congeal. A hot pizza is beautiful but a cold one is a sorry sight.

  “What if,” said Lutie, “the professor looks for Saravette, and she says to him, ‘I broke all the commandments,’ and he says, ‘Really? Who did you kill?’ … and she tells him?”

  “Never going to happen,” said Uncle Dean. “If he finds Saravette—and let me tell you, that’s a task—he’d see a pathetic junkie. I don’t think he’d listen to a word she says. Even a cop wouldn’t take Saravette seriously. And if she said out loud and direct, ‘I killed my mama,’ everybody would say, ‘You sure did, girl. Broke her heart six ways to Sunday.’ ”

  And all I care about, thought Lutie, is what people will think of me. That would break MeeMaw’s heart six ways to Sunday, too.

  Sunday

  Doria goes for the gold.

  Jesus steps on Lutie’s toes.

  Pierce calls the police.

  12

  Eight minutes before the church service began, Doria Bell sat on the organ bench in St. Bartholomew’s.

  She had chosen a quiet weaving fugue that was six minutes long. But she was not in the mood for an intellectual piece. She was in a show-off, knock-their-socks-off mood.

  The chances were about one in two hundred fifty (the number of people here today) that anybody would know whether she played the piece printed in the bulletin. The choir director might. But during the prelude, he was out in the hall, arranging the choir for the processional. For hundreds of years, grown-ups had been processing on the first hymn, and still they couldn’t figure out where to stand.

  The organ at First Methodist might be big and lusty, but the one here at St. Bartholomew’s was massive. Doria whipped out her Vierne symphony, opened the swell pedals, pulled out all the stops and plunged into the rocket charge of the sixth movement.

  The whole church practically had a heart attack.

  A full organ at full volume was in total control. Her audience couldn’t think, move or talk. She owned these people.

  Doria grinned.

  She went for the gold, whipping the page turns, racing through the measures.

  She held the last chord approximately forever and then lifted her hands with a flourish. There was utter silence, the audience still inside the music, even when it stopped.

  And then they applauded.

  This was not a church where people clapped. But now they did, in the exhilarated way of people who want to be part of the action and take it home with them.

  They were glad they had paid half a million dollars for this instrument, thrilled that they had just heard every sound it had to give. They had not yet worshipped and neither had she, but they were stirred now, and ready.

  Reverend Warren stood up and walked to the pulpit. “That, my friends, was the Word of God.”

  Sunday morning, Lutie slept as if she were anesthetized. Aunt Tamika had to shake her awake. Lutie was supposed to sing a solo, so Aunt Tamika dragged her to church and dropped her off. Nobody else was there yet.

  “I don’t want to sing,” Lutie told Miss Veola. “I don’t have enough air.” Lutie felt as if her skin had turned transparent, and anybody could see right through her and pull out the secret of Eunice Painter’s death, like a book on a shelf, and read the details.

  “I cannot believe Mika and Grace told you about that terrible night,” said Miss Veola. She looked old and crumpled. “It’s a burden I do not want you carrying. Did you save Saravette’s phone message? May I hear it too?”

  Lutie handed over her cell.

  Miss Veola listened to Saravette’s maudlin speech. She gripped the back of the nearest pew, and slowly lowered herself onto the velvet cushion. “I feel like Saravette. Slow and slower still.”

  Miss Veola did not look like a woman who could lead a church service.

  It dawned on Lutie that even Miss Veola needed prayer. Lutie took her pastor’s hand. “Jesus, Miss Veola wants to be the shepherd, and run out in the night on the mountain and save Saravette. But first she has to be the shepherd here and speak to her own flock. You give her strength to get through the morning, Lord.”

  Praying, Lutie often felt as if she were writing a letter, and instead of saying amen, she wanted to sign off, “Love, Lutie.” So she looked up, way up, and said, “Love, Lutie.”

  The sermon always came toward the end of the service. At St. Bartholomew’s, it lasted about fifteen minutes. Doria usually rested up from what she had already played, listened to a paragraph or so, and then thought about what she would play next: the final hymn, the choral Amen and the postlude.

  But Reverend Warren’s first sentence grabbed her.

  “What stuff do you love?” he said eagerly, already basking in the stuff he loved. “Me, I’m a country boy. I love my tractor. I love my pickup truck. And when I get home, wow, do I love my wife’s cooking.” He patted his gut, and the congregation, many of whom sported a similarly ample gut, laughed with him.

  “But stuff doesn’t last,” he said regretfully. “My tractor will rust. And food—for sure, in our house, it doesn’t last long. Last church I preached at, over to the coast, beautiful building, very old, it lasted through the Civil War. It stood firm through hurricanes and street riots. But now it’s got termites. Bugs are gonna get it in the end. It’s just stuff and it won’t last. And our bodies, they wear out, and then we pass on. Stuff doesn’t last, even us.”

  Music lasts, thought Doria. If you print it, and record it, and sing it for the next generation.

  “The Bible tells us that only three things last: faith, hope and love. But there’s a problem. We leave all three of those behind on this earth when we die. Faith, hope and love stay here only if we give them away. That’s your job this week. Faith, hope and love. Give ’em away, as much as you can, to every person you can.”

  Lutie thought Miss Veola would never wrap up her sermon. Five times already Lutie had thought she was at the end, and five times Miss Veola had waded into another topic. Even this congregation, who came ready to sit for a long while, was itchy.

  “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.

  13

  Got 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 cou
ld 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.”

  The kids moaned. Maybe a quarter of them gave it a whirl.

  “This little light of mine,

  I’m gonna let it shine.”

  Doria said, “The trouble with this song is nobody wants to be a little light. Everybody wants to be a spotlight, or have one.”

  “I’m sure that’s not a nice way to think,” said Jenny’s mother, who clearly knew nothing about her daughter.

  “Doria’s right,” said Rebecca. “We don’t want to be tidy little candles in a small town on a Sunday afternoon. We want to shine on the world’s stage.”

  It was one of those moments when nobody was shy and everybody could admit the truth: they wanted to be special and they wanted the world to acknowledge it. Kid after kid confessed to the kind of stardom he or she hoped for.

  Pierce was last. “I think I’m standard issue. I don’t see myself achieving stardom. But I’m okay with that.”

  How amazing that Pierce could think of himself as standard issue.

  “Think of Train, though,” said Jenny. “He’ll never be a star. He’ll never even be an extra. He won’t even get tickets to the show. I think it’s actually making him crazy.”