He can’t see why he so shames her. He’s far from the only white here. Whites turn out by the tens of thousands. He moves through the gathering, the same one that he saw massing at the end of Virginia Avenue that day he came down from Georgetown, only far larger. The crowd has more than tripled since that first outing. Strom looks west and sees himself, a young man, fresh with twenty-eight-year-old immigrant ignorance, about to collapse into his own destiny. Which way did she come that day, his Ruth’s mother? He looks to the northeast, piecing back the woman’s vanished coordinates as she rushed from her Philadelphia train. Barely older than this girl who walks ahead of him, recalling herself toward some menacing, misread future, the life that life held out for her. “Impossible,” she told him several times. She knew already. Impossible.
The crowd pushes forward, like that first crowd. He shouldn’t think first. Strom stands at the curb as this parade passes. Then shortcutting across the hidden radius of time, the same parade circles past him again. There will be another march, one that will, in time, turn this later day earlier again. The crowd will surge on, downstream, and he’ll rejoin it there.
They sing, “We shall not be moved.” He knows the tune, if not the words. But the words, too, he remembers from somewhere as soon as he hears them. The words arose before any melody at all. Just like a tree that’s standing by the water. We. We shall not. We shall not be moved.
Rhythm, Strom hears, is a closed, timelike loop. The chorus dies and lifts up again, above the heads of its participants. It circles and reenters, canonic, the same each time, each time embroidered into a new original. Just like a tree. A tree standing by the water. He quickens his pace past the meter of the song. He gains on the moving march, draws abreast of his daughter. She is her mother’s profile, only more so: the same bronze in a brighter light. He looks on the girl, and the shock of memory knocks him forward. Every remembrance, a prophecy in reverse. His Ruth moves her lips, singing along, her own inner line. Time stays; we flow.
He sees it at last, after a quarter century: This is why the woman sang that day. Why she stood next to him, voicing under her breath. Why he leaned in to hear what sound those moving lips were making. “Are you a professional?” he asked. And she answered, “Noch nicht.” Not yet. Moving her lips while another woman sang: This was the thing that made him talk to her, when all the world would have prevented their ever trading a word. The thing that made them try a life together. That makes this later girl, their flesh and blood, walking alongside him, pretending she isn’t, move her lips in silent song.
For two years now, she has sung nothing with him. Since her brothers left, she’s refused all duets. She, the quickest of them all, the girl who read notes before she could read words. Once, he and her mother couldn’t put this one to bed if any voice anywhere north of Fifty-ninth Street was still singing. Now, if she sings at all, it’s away from the house, with friends who teach her other tunes, out of her father’s hearing.
Ruth was their peace baby, born three months after the eternal war ended. From birth, she had that soul that thought all things were put here for her to love. She loved the mailman with all her heart for his daily generosities. She wanted to invite him to her fourth birthday party, and she cried until they promised to ask him. She loved their landlady, Mrs. Washington, for giving them a house to live in. She loved Mrs. Washington’s terrier as she might have loved God’s angel. She sang to total strangers on the street. She thought everyone did.
At eight, an older boy in the park called her a nigger. She ran back to her mother on her bench, asked what it meant. “Oh honey!” Delia told her. “It means that boy is all confused.”
She ran back to the boy. “How come you’re all confused?”
“Nigger,” the boy mumbled. “Monkey girl.”
Ruth, the peace baby, child of certainty, scolded him in delight. “I’m not a monkey girl! This is a monkey girl.” And she improvised for him a chimp dance, something out of her own Carnival of the Animals, cupping her lips and aping primate joy. The boy broke into a nervous laugh, standing there entranced, ready to be wrong, ready to join in until his own mother came and yanked him away.
“Is Joey a nigger?” Ruth asked on their way home. “Is Jonah?” In her mind, she’d formed three categories. And hers was the smallest and most dangerous.
“Nobody’s a nigger,” Delia answered, stripping the loving girl of all defenses.
Ruth made friends while her parents weren’t looking. She found them at the mixed school David and Delia sent her to, their belated admission of how little good they’d done the boys through home schooling. Ruth brought them home before her mother died, friends of all shades. Sometimes they even came back, after the shock of the first visit. And through these friends, she learned all those melodies her parents had failed to teach her, the melodies that drove her into David’s study one night, asking, “What am I?”
“You’re my girl,” he told her.
“No, Da. What am I?”
“You are smart and good at whatever you do.”
“No. I mean, if you’re white and Mama is black …”
The answer he gave her then: also wrong. “You are lucky. You are both.” Wrong about so many things.
Ruth just looked at him, a shame bordering on scorn. “That’s what Mama said, too.” Like she’d never be able to trust either of them again.
Their children were supposed to be the first beyond all this, the first to jump clean into the future that this fossil hate so badly needs to recall. But their children do not jump clean. The strength of the past’s signal won’t let them. Strom and his wife, so lost in time, guessed wrong—too early, too hopeful by decades. In every future that his Delia’s lips mouthed on that day, she dies too soon and leaves her daughter hearing only how wrong their music was. But they are right, Strom must still believe, about how the double bar will sound. Right that the world will someday hear what its cadence must be. Like a tree by the water. His girl’s lips move silently. Two hundred meters and twenty-four years away, off where his Ruth can’t hear, her mother’s silent lips answer back.
The crowd moves them on. He and Ruth float down this living river, silting out in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Everything horribly the same: same day, same statue, same thrilled hope signing the air, same brutal truth waiting just off the Mall. More posters, more banners, more protests. People have more words now for what they don’t have. The sound of these thousands of voices billows, eerie and reverberant, the song of a continent that didn’t exist when he was here last. But this is the same human carpet stretching over the curve of the horizon. Strom gauges where he and his daughter stand. He figures where he and his wife were. Dead reckoning, distances at sea.
The mass elation overwhelms him. His sight blurs and his knees start to give, a middle-aged man, faint with heat and excitement. He stumbles for his daughter. She props him up, as anxious about him as she is humiliated. He points a finger at the ground. “We were here. Your mother and I.”
She knows the lore: how Strom met Daley, how she came to be. She hushes him, smiles sheepishly at the circle around them. No one cares. Half a million eyes are on the speaker’s stand, a quarter mile away.
“Here,” he repeats. “Right here.” She stares at the ground. His certainty shakes her.
A flurry on the podium, and the singing falls hushed. Only when the tunes stop can they hear how many melodies were running at once. The PA’s rumble takes a full second to pass over them. The crowd comes to order, fusing into a city-sized camp meeting. One by one, speakers take the stand, each a different shade, each telling this otherworldly crowd where they’re heading. The first counsels compromise; the second scorches with fact. The measureless congregation calls out “Go on, tell it, now!” Cameras and microphones capture chapter and verse. Even ABC cuts away from its scheduled soap operas to give the nation its first full look at itself.
Ruth slumps and straightens during the speeches. Her body registers changes in pressure Strom st
ruggles to interpret. She twitches through the white preachers’ catch-up bandwagoning. She comes alive for John Lewis, the SNCC spokesman, five years older than she, hurling his indictments down the length of the reflecting pool. He speaks of living in constant fear, a police state, and Ruth applauds. He asks, “What does the government do?” and she joins the piercing response: “Nothing!” He speaks of immoral compromise, of evil and evil’s only answer: revolution. The mile of people carry him onward, and Strom’s daughter is with them, cheering.
Fear of suffocation comes back over Strom. If this crowd turns angry, he’s dead. As dead as his own parents and sister, killed for being on the wrong side of a crowd. Dead as his wife, who died for making a life with him. Dead as he will be anyway, when the signal of the past at last remembers him.
The sun turns brutal and the speeches turn long. Someone—it must be Randolph—introduces the women of the movement. An older woman on the dais gets up to sing, and Strom lifts up through his own skull. Still he looks, and still he chides himself for believing the hallucination. There is some resemblance, but only enough to tease the credulity of an old man. The differences are greater. The sheer age, for one: This woman is a generation older than the one he confuses her with.
Then the past swamps him, like pavement swimming up to slam a falling man. “My God. Oh my God. It is her.”
His daughter jerks up at his voice. “Who? What are you talking about?”
“There. This one, up there. That is her.” The hat is bigger, the dress more colorful, the body weighed down by twenty-four more years. But the sound is the same, at its core.
“Who, Daddy?”
“The woman who married your mother and me.”
A pained laugh comes out of Ruth, and they fall silent in the music. The girl hears only an old woman, no voice left, years past her prime, warbling “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.” Banal tune, with even sadder lyrics. Ruth sees what she saw when they taught her the song in third grade: solar system—sized hands cupped around the globe as if it were a prize cat’s-eye. What color, those hands? If he ever had the planet cradled, the better part of it has long ago slipped through his cumbersome fingers. The wind and the rain. The moon and stars. You and me, sister. For eight years, ever since she stood screaming to break free from death’s fireman grip, Ruth has known what this old lady hasn’t yet admitted.
Strom is lost in other songs—“O mio Fernando.” “Ave Maria.” “America.” The voice one hears only once a century—what Toscanini said of her, in Vienna, back in another universe, before that sick metropolis was leveled. And he was right. For it has been a century since Strom heard this voice, if it has been an hour. And even longer since he’s had someone to listen with.
The moment passes, father and daughter frozen in separate forevers, waiting for the song to end. Ruth looks over at her father, her face curdled by catching up to the past. This is the woman, the mighty myth she was raised on. Strom feels her disappointment. He holds still in this coda to his wife’s shortened tune. He shouldn’t have lived long enough to hear this voice again, when his Delia cannot.
More singers follow, with harder memories. Mahalia Jackson releases a mighty “I’ve Been ’Buked,” her unaccompanied voice rolling across the mile of people, parting the reflecting pool like the Red Sea. Then come more speakers. And more after that. The day will never end, nor ever come again. The crowd chafes at the moment, a promise unfilled. Too many speeches, and Ruth dozes. In her dream, she meets her mother in a teeming train station. People crash into them, keep them from reaching each other. Ruth’s children have disappeared somewhere in the crowded hall. Her mother scolds her: Never take your eyes off the little ones. But Delia sings the scold, up high in her range, in a ghostly accent.
Then the song turns back to speech, and the accent turns to German. Someone is shaking her, and that someone is her father. “You must wake up. You must hear this. This is history.” She looks up at him in rage, for once again taking her mother away. Then she swims awake. She hears a swelling baritone, a voice she has heard before, but never like this. We also have come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now.
Now: the reason why her father wakes her. But the thought nags at her between the rolling baritone thunder: Her father couldn’t have known the words were coming until after he shook her awake. Then she forgets, posting the question to a later her. Something happens in the crowd, some alchemy worked by the sheer force of this voice. The words bend back three full times in staggered echoes. Her father is right: history. Already she cannot separate these words from all the times she’ll hear them down the years to come.
The preacher starts to ad-lib, stitching together Amos and Isaiah with snippets of Psalms that Ruth remembers from old anthem settings her family once sang together. Unearned suffering will redeem. She’d dearly like to believe him. One day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation … She sees herself with children of her own, and still no nation.
Every valley exalted. Every hill laid low. God help her: She can’t keep from hearing Handel. Her parents’ fault; a birthmark stain. She could sing the whole text from memory. The rough made plain … and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed.
With this faith we will transform the jangling discords of our nation into a symphony. She lifts her eyes and looks out—brown on brown, all the way to the edges of sight. A massive music, beyond all doubt, but nothing like a symphony. Ruth looks back at her father beside her. His white skin looks sick to her, alien. The thinning gray hair, tangled by the wind, is nothing of hers. The words of this speech roll down his cheeks like waters. She can’t remember her father ever crying, not even at her mother’s funeral. Back then, he was only bewildered smiles, his theory of timeless time. Now he weeps for these words, this abstract hope, so desperate and obvious, so far past realizing. And she hates him for waiting so long. For refusing to look at her.
Strom feels his daughter’s eyes on him, but he will not turn. So long as he doesn’t turn his face square on that face, his Delia is still more than half there, at the concert they once shared. When the preacher starts in on those words, the words the voice of the century sang that first day, Strom is waiting for them. He knows in advance the moment when they must start, and when they do, it’s because he wills them.
He’s known the tune forever. British imperial hymnody. Beethoven wrote a set of variations. Half a dozen European countries have their own flag-waving versions, his fallen Germany included. Yet he’d never heard the American words before that day. He did not, then, get them, but he gets them now, after a quarter century in this place. Land where my fathers died. A million times more this preaching man’s land than Strom’s. But handed out to Strom in New York Harbor, with less question.
Let freedom ring. From the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. From the mighty mountains of New York, the heightening Alleghenies, the snowcapped Rockies, the peaks of California. From Stone Mountain, Lookout Mountain, every molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside.
The words spark like the first day of creation. Now they might join to do it: Now this crowd could roll down this green fairway, an unstoppable army, and take their Capitol, their Court, their White House by soul force. But they are too joyous now for force, too lifted up.
Free at last, the speeches end. Then the crowd, too, is free. Free to go back to their rotting cities and caged lives. The mass disperses, as it did that earlier day. Strom is afraid to move off the spot, knowing that the edge of revelation must still be there, nearby, waiting for him to cross it. The crowd curls past, annoyed at these two snags of flotsam in the stream. Ruth smolders at the man. His reverie maddens her. She sees him missing the evidence. The Black-Jewish alliance is crumbling all around them. It won’t even survive the bus ride home.
Ruth starts walking, alone. She has been alone too long. Her brothers are too busy to bother with th
e present. Her father too trapped by the past. She strides off, sure of her bearing, nursing a phrase from the baritone preacher’s speech: “this marvelous new militancy.” It feels to her the only useful future, the only one where she won’t be forever alone. She heads back to the lot where the Columbia busses dropped them off. Even her father will know to come find her there.
David Strom stands dissolved, populating every spot in this public openness. Here’s where his woman freezes in shame, learning she’s been singing out loud. Here’s where she asks if he’s ever heard the legendary Farrar. Here’s where she begs his forgiveness, and where they say good-bye forever. Here’s where they find the lost boy. There, up there, is where she explains how it’s all impossible, their seeing each other again. A mistake, to think any story ever finishes.
When he looks up to locate his daughter, she’s gone. His body goes cold. He has expected this. A sick fascination grips him, and the fifty-two-year-old begins to trot, bolting several steps one direction, then banking away toward another. He’s more panicked by the pattern than by the prospect of any real danger to her. She’s safer on this Mall with these marchers than she is in New York, walking home from school. She’s eighteen; the capital is crawling with police. And yet, he knows the threat is infinite, as large as time. She’s gone: nowhere, anywhere. He turns on the straightaway along the front of the monument, running, calling, propelled by prophecy.
He jogs to the spot where they found the lost boy. His girl isn’t there. He retraces their steps—not his and Ruth’s, but his, Delia’s, and the child’s. He moves toward the giant statue. He looks up at Lincoln, the figure he didn’t recognize then, the one who the boy said never freed the slaves. Every speaker at this rally confirms him. Strom gets as close to the steps of the monument as the press of bodies allows. She must be there. She isn’t. She’s been and gone. She’ll swing past a minute from now. Ten minutes. How can any two paths ever intersect in time? The field is too great and our wakes too small.
The Time of Our Singing Page 36