Pops' Diner, an Anthology [A Pops' Girls Anthology]

by Laura Hamby, Meg Allison, Shara Jones

  The pulpit and the choir box were gone. Where they'd gone, she had no idea. She hadn't even known they were moveable. A large temporary stage had built in their place. It extended out almost to the first row of pews.

  "I told you, we're a small orchestra. Hey, we've sold out tickets for Friday and Saturday night. The matinees are almost sold out, too. The mayor is making noises about us staying another week."

  "I had no idea.” Irene didn't think the orchestra was small at all. Why, there had to be stringed instruments, brass, percussion—her head reeled at the variety spread out before her.

  Mr. Hobart guided her to a chair placed to the left hand side of the impromptu stage. “Woody, would you please fetch a tall glass of water for Miss Albright?"

  A skinny young man bobbed his head and dashed away. “Thank you,” she said.

  Mr. Hobart nodded. “You can ask Woody for anything you need. It's his job. If you'll pardon me, it looks like Frank's ready to begin."

  Several minutes later, Irene leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and let the music carry her away. Woody delivered a glass of water, which brought her out of her drifting, but it didn't take very long to succumb to the allure of the sounds around her.

  She drank all the water before she started to hum along with the musicians. Hands clasped together on her knees, she sat ram-rod straight with her eyes closed. Her hum started out as audible only to her. However, before too long, Irene had lost herself completely to the thrall of the music.

  "If you want to sing, then by all means, stand up and sing,” Mr. Lacey snapped at her.

  Irene's eyes flew open. All the musicians stared at her, all of them grinning their approval. Only Mr. Lacey seemed less than thrilled with her.

  Mr. Hobart left his clarinet on his chair and made his way through the ranks to her. He took her cold hands into his, and tugged her to her feet. He didn't touch her any longer than he had to, which was proper, but Irene missed his warm touch right away.

  Odd, no other man quite affected her quite the way Mr. Hobart did. She didn't have much time to speculate on this revelation, as Mr. Lacey cued the orchestra, and they swung into Chattanooga Choo Choo on the upbeat.

  * * * *

  "What is this all about?"

  Irene's hands shook as she read the newspaper. Her parents had read the About Town column in the Bugle, and confronted her about it the instant she came through the door. After two days of rehearsing in a smokey atmosphere, Irene's voice sounded scratchy when she answered her mother's peevish question.

  "I explained already, Mother. I'm singing with the Bob Hobart Orchestra while they're in town."

  "It's a den of inequity, that's what it is. Idle hands tempted by the devil himself. Don't tell me these are very nice people you're associating with. I can smell the cigarette tobacco on you before you even enter the house. Heaven only knows what other trouble you're getting yourself into."

  "Mother, I'm not smoking cigarettes. And how can hands occupied by playing music be considered idle?"

  "We don't like it one bit, Irene. It's not proper."

  Irene sighed at her mother's implacable response. “Mother, what's wrong with reaching for a dream? That's what Sissy Rose did, by going to nursing school."

  "Look where she is. In a war zone, half a world away from home. How is she ever going to find a husband doing what she's doing?"

  "Maybe she doesn't want a husband."

  "Of course she wants a husband. So do you, Irene. But what sort of man is going to want a woman who's consorted with entertainers? Your reputation will be sullied beyond repair."

  "I'm going to be late. Mr. Hobart wanted an extra rehearsal before the performance tomorrow night. There won't be any rehearsal tomorrow. He said he likes to give everyone the day of the first performance off, to rest."

  Mrs. Albright sniffed. “You just wait, Irene Patricia Albright. You'll see I'm right about this. No good can come from this. Mark my words. No good at all."

  Irene fled from the musty closeness of her home. She wished she didn't have to remain with her dour parents, but an unmarried young lady didn't have many options available to her. The walk across town to the church didn't take long, but because of the pace she'd set, her lungs were filled with cold air, and the warm air inside made her cough.

  "We're having this rehearsal for your benefit, Miss Albright, and here you come, coughing fit to lose a lung,” Mr. Lacey reprimanded her.

  "Warm up the orchestra,” Irene suggested between coughs.

  "We did that, waiting for you to grace us with your presence."

  "Frank, leave her alone.” All heads turned when Mr. Hobart hurried into the room. “I'm late myself.” He turned to frown at Irene when another coughing fit overtook her. “Are you walking to and from rehearsal? In the cold?"

  She could only nod in reply. Her hand covered her mouth as she coughed.

  "Woody, go brew Miss Albright a cup of tea."

  "Oh,” Irene waved a limp hand. “I'm fine.” She cleared her throat several times.

  "Tea with honey,” Mr. Hobart instructed. He now stood beside Irene, and with a courteous mini bow, and a broad gesture of his arm, he indicated he wanted her to sit down away from the rest of the musicians. “We can't have you getting sick before the show. Don't you have a car at your disposal?"

  "My parents have a model A, but I don't know how to drive, and my father won't drive in inclement weather,” Irene answered.

  "Then I'll come for you and take you home."

  Oh dear. It would be wonderful, certainly. Thrilling even. But it would never do. It would give her mother more to complain about, and Irene didn't think she could stand listening to any more of her mother's complaints. “I couldn't impose upon you for a ride."

  Mr. Hobart smiled and actually patted her on the shoulder. “It's not an imposition. Glen Meadow isn't so big that I can imagine you'll be taking me far out of my way."

  "It wouldn't be proper.” Irene groaned inwardly when she heard herself utter the words she loathed to hear her mother say. “I mean, people might talk.” Hush, Sissy, she told herself. She did want to ride in a car with Mr. Hobart, and to heck with the repercussions to her reputation.

  Mr. Hobart chuckled. “I've been accused of many nefarious deeds, Miss Albright. You should be worried about your reputation."

  Irene wondered whether he teased her or not. Then he winked. She knew for certain he teased her. This new experience brought a smile to her lips. Her parents didn't have much of a sense of humor. Everything was so serious for them. They also lacked the capacity to dream, she realized, which was why they disapproved so heartily of her dreams. Of Sissy Rose's dreams, too.

  This new revelation would require thought and consideration. In the meantime, she had a rehearsal to get through. She took the tea that Woody brought to her, and headed for her position.

  Mr. Lacey spent a good portion of the rehearsal yelling at Irene. After nearly two hours of suffering from his scathing ridicule, Irene stepped off the platform. She didn't have to take this sort of treatment from anyone.

  "Where do you think you're going?” Mr. Lacey thundered. His face turned almost purple and his eyes bulged as he sprayed his sheet music with spittle.

  "I think I'm going home. It's nearly nine o'clock at night, and you've done nothing but tell me how horrible I am. I'm tired. Good night."

  "You can't go."

  "Yes, she can, Frank. Men, have an early night. We won't be as lucky tomorrow night,” Mr. Hobart dismissed the orchestra under Mr. Lacey's furious sputtering. “Miss Albright, wait for me, please. I'll give you a ride."

  "Oh, it's not necessary,” Irene refused.

  "It's nine o'clock, as you pointed out, and very dark and icy outside. I will give you a ride."

  Well, if he wanted to be that way about it, Irene supposed he was entitled, but as he had no authority over her, she chose to ignore his wishes. He paused to speak with Mr. Lacey, and as she left in a hurry, she thought she heard him call th
e awful director “Uncle Frank."

  She'd crossed the town square and was passing by Pops’ Diner when a car drew up to the curb beside her. “Miss Albright, you don't listen very well."

  Irene shivered, and not entirely from the cold as she stopped walking. Up to this point, Mr. Hobart had been nothing but genial. Now, he sounded a bit annoyed with her. “You seemed busy talking with Mr. Lacey."

  "About Mr. Lacey,” Mr. Hobart said. “I'm sorry he's giving you such a hard time. I've spoken to him about it, and you can expect an apology from him tomorrow."

  "He doesn't like me very much."

  "He doesn't like himself very much. It's hard to reprimand the conductor in front of the other musicians, as they must respect his position. He's rather sensitive, and since I saw you soldiering on, I decided to hold my peace until you'd had enough. I hope you don't think too badly of me for not coming to your defense earlier. You did a splendid job of holding your own."

  Irene's cheeks grew warm at Mr. Hobart's unexpected praise. He sounded as if he were almost in awe of her. “How about that ride now? It's not much warmer in my car, but you'll get home much faster than if you walked."

  He had a point. Irene's breath froze with her every exhale, and the prospect of a ride held tremendous appeal. “Thank you."

  Mr. Hobart got out of the car and offered her his hand. “Climb on over. The road is slick. Wouldn't want you to slip."

  Irene scooted across the front seat, over to the passenger side.

  "There's a wool blanket under the seat, if you're cold,” Mr. Hobart mentioned after he'd climbed back into the car. “You said you don't know how to drive?"

  "No. My parents don't think that driving is very ladylike."

  "They must not like you singing for my orchestra."

  Irene, had she been one to swear, would have sworn she heard a smile in Mr. Hobart's voice. “No, they think it's dreadful."

  "You won't get in trouble for accepting a ride from me?"

  "They'll be in bed, probably asleep,” Irene predicted. She gave Mr. Hobart directions, and a few minutes later, he stopped before her house.

  The light burning in the window of the parlor cast a dim yellowish light into the darkness. “Looks like they're still up,” Mr. Hobart observed. “I'll walk you to the door."

  "That's not necessary,” Irene said for the second time that night. She hadn't even finished her statement before he stood on the sidewalk beside the car. He opened the door for her.

  In response, Irene blinked at him. “You don't listen very well either, Mr. Hobart."

  "How ungallant you must think me, Miss Albright."

  She shook her head. “No, simply trying to spare you the ordeal of meeting my parents. They'd try the patience of a roomful of saints."

  He offered her his arm. Irene took it after only a moment of hesitation. The walkway up to the door would be iced over by now, and it would be foolish of her not to accept his offer to help. As they made their way up the walkway, Irene thought she saw the curtains over the front window twitch. The porch light came on and the front door opened as they climbed up the steps.

  "You're home at last."

  "Yes, Father."

  "Who brought you home?” Mr. Albright fixed his gaze on Mr. Hobart, who still had a hold of Irene's arm.

  "This is Mr. Hobart,” Irene said.

  "I wanted to be sure your daughter got safely home, sir,” Mr. Hobart said almost before Irene stopped speaking. He held his hand out, to shake hands with her father. Mr. Albright ignored the gesture.

  "It's very late,” Mr. Albright replied. “Come inside, Irene. Your mother is worried. Thank you for bringing the girl home, Mr. Hobart. Good night."

  Sissy! Listen very carefully! Don't you DARE not sing with that Orchestra. I'll swim across the Atlantic if I have to, if you quit because Mother and Father have their noses bent out of shape over this. Listen to your heart, Sissy Irene. And speaking of hearts, I got a letter from Marv. He's been promoted, but he's over in ... A month seems such a short time to fall in love with someone, but Sissy, he made me feel so special ... Love, Sissy R

  CHAPTER THREE

  Irene couldn't take the stiff atmosphere of home the next morning. Her parents’ disapproval hung over the house like a heavy thundercloud about to storm. She didn't want them to ruin her good mood. At last she'd shaken the restrictive chains of parental obligation and expectation. Yes, she still was a dutiful daughter. But she was a dutiful daughter while pursuing her dreams.

  "I have a few errands,” she called as she hurried out of the house.

  Hunger made her stomach rumble, and she regretted having skipped breakfast. At least she'd had the presence of mind to bring her purse. She had a few dollars tucked away in the lining. Rainy day money, and today certainly qualified as a rainy day.

  Pops’ Diner was crowded with musicians. Irene stood in the doorway, deciding whether she should stay or go. Mr. Hobart made her decision for her. He sat in a corner booth, alone. “Miss Albright! What a pleasant surprise. Would you care to join me?"

  Irene walked, her shoulders stiff with her self-consciousness, as she made her way around the busy tables. She passed Miss Violet Millbain, who winked in encouragement. “There you go, Sissy Irene. I knew you had a sensible head on your shoulders."

  Sensible? How could joining a strange man in a corner booth, in a public setting, possibly be construed as sensible? Thrilling, oh my, yes. Totally out of the norm for Irene.

  Mr. Hobart slid out of the booth when she approached. “Good morning. I didn't expect to see you until this evening. There's nothing wrong, is there?"

  Irene shook her head. “Oh, no. Not at all."

  Mr. Hobart helped her slip out of her coat, and draped it over his arm while he gestured with the other for her to have a seat. He set the coat on the seat beside him. “Are you sure? You don't look very happy."

  "Mother and Father aren't well pleased."

  He sat down. “I'm sorry to hear that. Are you going to not sing with us?"

  "Heavens, no!” Appalled, Irene gaped at him. “I signed a contract. We have an agreement. I would never back out of an agreement. It's simply not done."

  Mr. Hobart looked amused at her answer. “I'd understand if you did. After all, you must live with your parents."

  Irene gave an imperceptible nod. “They must accept that I am an adult now, capable of making my own decisions. They didn't approve of Sissy Rose going to nursing school, and they were most unhappy when she joined the Army. She's in England now."

  "Sissy? And didn't I hear that woman over there call you ‘Sissy Irene'?"

  Irene grinned, a genuine smile, not just the shadow of one as was her habit. “Sissy Rose is older by two years. Mother said Rose couldn't say ‘sister', and called me ‘Sissy.’ Apparently, my first word was ‘sissy.’ At least, that's how the story goes. The parents assumed I'd said ‘sissy’ because I was staring right at Rose. That's all we called each other for many years, and soon, everyone in town called us ‘Sissy Rose’ and ‘Sissy Irene'."

  Mr. Hobart's thoughtful expression jolted Irene out of her happy reminiscence. “You looked truly happy just then. Almost as happy as you look when you're singing."

  The arrival of the waitress interrupted the conversation. After the woman wrote down their orders, Irene asked, “You watch me when I'm singing? I never noticed you weren't playing."

  "I often walk around, observing, during rehearsals. You don't notice much when you're singing, Miss Albright. Your joy is the song, and you are the song that you sing."

  Irene didn't know how to respond. Mr. Hobart continued right on speaking, however, and that saved her from saying something inane. “You have the purest voice I've ever heard. The men are demanding that I ask you to join the orchestra."

  "They are?” Incredulous, Irene clasped her slender hands together on the table and rubbed the tips of her thumbs together. Dream come true time. What would Sissy Rose do in her place? Irene took a deep breath. Sissy Rose w
ouldn't hesitate one bit. “I don't know if that would be proper."

  "You could travel with the wives,” Mr. Hobart suggested. “A few of the wives come along with us. There would be plenty of chaperones, if that's what worries you."

  Their food arrived. Relieved, she applied herself to the heaping stack of fluffy pancakes. She had the sneaky suspicion that Mr. Hobart wouldn't leave the subject at rest, however, and she wondered how she'd answer it when the time arose.

  * * * *

  The thunderous applause echoed off the church walls. Irene wanted to shrink back into the shadows, but somehow, Mr. Hobart was there, tugging her forward—to the center of the make-shift stage. She pressed shaky fingers to her lips, uncertain as to what was expected of her.

  "Take a bow,” Mr. Hobart suggested, directly into her left ear.

  Irene shook her head. No. She couldn't bow. How presumptuous. Mr. Hobart placed his arm around her shoulders, and before she knew what was happening, she bowed. The applause strengthened, and Irene couldn't tell whether they approved or not of that shameful bow.

  The flash of a camera light blinded her a couple of seconds later. Irene stumbled back a step. Mr. Hobart remained by her side. Mortified, she wished the entire event were over. What on earth had she been thinking? She couldn't do this again.

  As soon as the church cleared of everyone except the musicians and their families, Irene headed for the door. Time to go home and hide under the covers for the next decade.

  "Irene! Where are you going?” Mr. Hobart's voice cut across the chatter.

  Irene hunched her shoulders. She'd made it halfway down the aisle to the coatroom. “Home."

  "Oh, no you don't,” Mr. Hobart insisted. “Time to observe the Pie Tradition."

  "Pie Tradition?” Irene faced him. Her heart still beat a fast and furious tempo.

  He gestured with one hand, and the sanctuary cleared. Irene made no protest when he took her by the hand and led her back to the stage. His large hands spanned her waist as he lifted her to sit on the edge of the stage. When he joined her, Irene resisted the urge to jump down and scurry away.