Beg your pardon?
It’s our rule, she said. All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ. She touched my hand when she said the word as. She closed her eyes to finish . . . for He Himself will say, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
She let go of my hand and stooped to turn down the bed. Others here might say we let you in because we’re bored and courting trouble but they are sour old women.
She looked around the room. Prime is at six o’clock. I’ll wake you. On her way out she patted the two towels folded on a small wooden bench. The bathroom is across the hall there. For you to wash up. She didn’t close the door all the way when she left.
If I were to wash I would wash away Laura and I’d never have her smell on me again. After settling myself in the hard, narrow bed, I brought my hair to my face to smell it, then my fingers. Lying down on the hard, narrow bed, I stared at the ceiling. I pulled the blanket tight around my body but it was too light. If only it were a heavier blanket, something to hold me down. The wind was windier here than at home, if that was possible, and rattled the small high window. A Johnny Mercer song played over and over in my head and I hummed it to myself, pausing between phrases out of worry that someone might hear me. But the nuns felt very far away. I had never in my life had a room to myself. Or a bed. It was nearly daylight when I finally fell asleep.
I woke again to Sister Windy shaking me lightly. I sat up and she handed me a small loaf of bread wrapped in a dish towel.
We’re not supposed to eat before Holy Communion but you must be so hungry.
She left me to get ready and without my knowing it, took my dress to the wash. All I had left to wear was Laura’s lavender dress. I put it on slowly, imagining the cotton was her skin as it slid over mine. When Windy returned she gasped and touched her fingers to my waist.
Oh, it’s beautiful, she said, excited and worried.
It’s all I have, I told her.
Oh, you have so much, she said, shaking her head, so much more than you know.
I sang prayers with the nuns in the small chapel that morning. Singing erased everything but what I was singing. No Yesterday. No Later. Sister Windy routinely pointed to where we were in the text. I nodded and watched Sister Idalia sing. She didn’t have to read the text; she knew it all by heart. I wanted to talk to her afterward but she disappeared.
After breakfast, Sister Anne, the prioress, showed me around the grounds.
Sister Idalia wasn’t at breakfast, I said.
Sister Anne observed something high up in a tree. Sister Idalia needs some time to reflect.
I need to speak with her.
Well, you may not.
What am I supposed to do? I asked.
Sister Anne began to walk and I followed. You’re pausing. Catching your breath. And since Sister Idalia was, in part, responsible for the events that led to your circumstances, we are letting you stay here. For a day or two.
She took me into the church on campus. St. Scholastica Chapel, she said in a loud whisper. It was quiet and grand. Red pillars lined the sides. Just below the ceiling, stained glass handled the light like a sieve. Spears of red, blue, and green light pointed to empty spots on the pews, the walls. I wanted to stand in those colored lights. The image in the stained glass was a woman holding a small organ. Under her feet was a sword pointing at the ground.
Saint Cecelia, said Sister Anne. Patron saint of music.
I felt myself go hot, and wondered just how much she knew.
I would recommend that you spend a little time here in the chapel. Pray. Ask God for guidance.
As she spoke, it occurred to me that allowing others’ opinions of me to strike me, to heat me up and shrink me, had to stop. Somehow. I had to be bigger.
You are so young. And though you may feel loss, you now have a chance to begin again. In any way you choose. Few women find themselves in such a position. Wouldn’t you agree?
Everything she said felt like a test she believed I would fail. I glanced at the high, arched ceiling. I’d never seen anything like it, or heard so much quiet. It felt like we were standing at the bottom of a deep bowl of silence. Even the wind sounded very far away.
This is a gift. You would do well to acknowledge it as such, she said.
She looked at the watch around her neck. I have meetings. Then she left with a turn and a whoosh of fabric, the big door groaning as it opened and closed behind her.
The light that poured through the Saint Cecilia window lit the dust in the air. I sat in the last pew and thought about Laura. Her hair, her skin, her breath. I might never know her again.
I said hello to Saint Cecelia. I said hello to God, and asked aloud, What is there to say? What can I tell You that You don’t already know? And nothing happened. I looked around to make sure no one else was there, and hummed a few notes. A little bit of the Attende Domine and then a little Johnny Mercer.
“Skylark, have you anything to say to me? Won’t you tell me where my love can be?” I liked how it sounded in the big space. “Is there a meadow in the mist?” I’d never heard my voice like that. I listened to it come back to me and enter me. Me. My own voice. With my eyes closed, I imagined Mother and Father, Murielle and the little ones sitting all along the bench, even Laura, smiling at me. A voice in my head crept in and said, They are not here. They will never be here again. I thought I would explode at this thought, my insides shaking, so I stepped into the middle of the aisle, stood with my legs far apart so I could push the sound out louder, harder. I stretched my arms far out to my sides. “And in your lonely flight.” The shape of the chapel or the silence made my voice sound so large. Fat. Fuller than it really was. I could make something bigger than I with just my body. “Haven’t you heard the music in the night?” Somehow that sound came out of me and wrapped itself around me at the same time. It held me. And I believed I was going to be all right. You’re going to be just fine, all by yourself, I said aloud. For Cecelia, God, Laura, my sweet family, and for Idalia, since none of them had a word to say.
I heard a sound, maybe a door closing somewhere, so I stopped. Then I whispered to Saint Cecelia, Watch me.
I ran on my tiptoes to the back of the chapel, raced to the convent, through the door, and down the hall to the little room until I was out of wind. I turned my bag upside down and out fluttered David’s card, which I tucked in the envelope of money.
Sister Windy returned with my dress folded in her arms. I shoved the contents of my bag back inside it.
Sister Windy, I said. She handed me my dress. I need to see Sister Idalia.
She shook her head no.
Sister, please. I must tell her good-bye and that I’m sorry and—
Sister Windy continued to shake her head no while saying, All right. Follow me. And keep up. We don’t have much time.
I followed Windy through the building’s maze. She was small and didn’t seem capable of such speed. We came to the end of a long, dark hall and Windy knocked.
A chair creaked.
I’m to be left alone, Sister, said Sister Idalia.
I have the girl, said Windy.
Idalia opened the door and they smiled at each other. Windy rushed away, waving her hands in the air like she wanted nothing more to do with us.
Idalia’s head was newly shaved. Her eyes looked large. Hi, peanut. I hugged her. She put me in her chair and sat down on her bed.
I’m going to Kansas City, I told her.
Idalia nodded and looked at the floor.
I’m going to find David. I would like to become a singer. And make records. He could help me, I think. And maybe he could help me talk to Laura, set things right.
Idalia looked at the wall above my head and then back at me. That might not work.
There was a small desk built into the wall of her room and on it was a stack of notebook paper and a pencil. Several pages were covered with Sister’s writing. Next to that was a small plate with a piece of plain brown bread on it, untouched. I thought about my
plan. I hadn’t yet imagined the part about leaving Sister, setting out on my own, and the idea of it started to work into my bones like cold, damp air.
I can’t stay here with you, can I? I asked.
No. Unless you’re thinking about joining us.
I looked at her. Become a nun?
Eventually, yes. I don’t suppose that’s something you ever considered.
Murielle and I used to put dish towels on our heads and dip our fingers in the water cup in our bedroom before making the sign of the cross, I told her, the thought prying open the big tin of ache inside me.
Sister waited.
Aside from that, no. I don’t want to be celibate. I looked at my shoes.
Sister rubbed her head. Love is much bigger than what you’ve experienced in your young life. If anything, sex gets in the way.
I tried to understand what she was talking about.
If you ask me, she added.
I still don’t want to be celibate, I said, which made her laugh.
I know, peanut.
I looked at the piece of bread again, sure she wasn’t eating.
Is this your punishment? I asked, looking around the room.
She looked at the floor. There was a scar on top of her head where hair didn’t grow. We punish ourselves, she began, but then stopped and looked at the wall as if there was a window there.
You told me to love her, I said.
Idalia moved her head this way, then that. I did.
There was a clock on the small table, its ticking made extra loud by the emptiness of the room.
Idalia smiled. Did you enjoy prayers this morning?
I did.
She took a deep breath. Some days I feel like the only way I can talk to God is to sing. The singing gets me out of the way.
I know, I told her, it feels like you’re not you anymore but a thing that makes these sounds. I love that.
I love it, too. She looked at the clock. You must go, she said, standing. Sister Anne . . .
I know. How would I tell her that I was sorry. It was so hard to make the words come out but I had to. I stood and said, I’m so sorry about what I did.
Idalia took my shoulders, shook her head. I’m not.
I love you. Thank you. I hugged her and turned to leave.
Peanut, she called after me. I turned around. Sing well.
I will, I said, and I gave her a little bow that made her laugh.
I left the convent and hitched a ride with a family, settling myself in the bed of their truck between a rusty wire cage holding three chickens and a herding dog who was missing hair in patches. A small boy turned around in the cab and watched me through the open space between the back windows. The wind whipped my hair and dress as he stared. I waved my hand in his direction like he was a fly and he blinked, hurt, before turning back around in his seat. There was a swirl cowlick on the back of his head, like God blew very hard on just that spot.
They took me as far as Platte City, where I found a Woolworth’s and sat down for something to eat. A woman in a sky-blue uniform brought me a glass of water. You all right?
It’s windy out there. I’d like a chocolate malted, if you please.
She pumped the metal canister up and down under the mint-green mixer with one hand while she took a drag of her cigarette with the other. All of her motions were like worn roads she drove by rote.
The drink’s cold sweetness flew right down the middle of my body.
You don’t slow down you’ll give yourself a headache, said the man next to me. I never saw him sit down.
He smiled. His blond hair was thickly pomaded, and he had blue eyes that should have been beautiful for the color but wound up just looking cold. He wore a brown suit and tie.
Been out in the sun? A person with your coloring should always wear a hat. Otherwise, you just burn and burn. My sister’s like that, he said. He picked up a chicken leg and pulled off most of the flesh with his teeth. I did not believe he had a sister.
You from here? he asked with his mouth full.
I shook my head.
Yup, me neither, he said. Passing through. Where you headed?
Kansas City.
Ah, me, too. The city has it, he said, pouring salt over his coleslaw. You driving? Alone?
No, I got a ride. This far.
I can take you the rest of the way. He crunched his slaw.
I’d appreciate it, I said. Thank you.
The waitress tore off my ticket and handed it to me. Blue ink on soft, gray paper. It was mine, that ticket, for what I had. I wanted to save it. I pulled Mr. Miller’s envelope from my bag, opened it, and closed it without removing a bill, thinking: Once I use this money, Mr. Miller has won, he’s bought me.
I can spot you if you’re short, said the man.
I’m not.
We better hit the road, then.
I felt his eyes look me over as we left and walked to his car.
He drove slowly down the highway. The wheat fields seemed to move entirely in one direction and then entirely in another.
So what’s in Kansas City? he said. A fella?
Yes.
Lucky fella.
We drove in silence but not. He hardly moved. The way a dog on the end of a taut leash hardly moves. After some time, he put his hand on my thigh. I didn’t do anything but I knew I was in trouble. Had I made some deal with him? He agrees to drive me and I agree to—? My heart banged. There was sweat on his forehead.
When we reached Kansas City, he needed both hands to navigate traffic, so he pulled it away. I’d never seen so many cars, people.
You can just leave me anywhere.
This isn’t some one-horse town. Tell me where to go, he said.
I pulled out David’s card. Here. The Neon Parrot.
I know the place. He looked at me again, differently, then turned into an alleyway and threw the car into park. I reached for my door handle but he snagged my arms, turned me, pushed my back against the door. He pulled me toward him by my leg and I kicked. He struck my face, a sudden hot burn near my eye, then he hooked an arm around my hip and pulled me under him. I twisted and bucked under his weight until I was against the door. When I got it open, I fell out backward on to the concrete.
I scrambled to my feet and ran until I was sure he was gone. Folks on the street stared at my face and I stopped a few to ask where the Neon Parrot was but they rushed away from me. Finally a Negro man with a guitar case pointed the way, saying, Hope you got a friend there. ’Cuz you look a mess.
CHAPTER 18
THE NEON PARROT was a small storefront, its name written in unlit neon above the door with a green parrot about to land on the P. The door was propped open with a brick. I walked in and tried to adjust my eyes to the stale darkness.
Ain’t open, said a woman’s singsongy voice in the back.
The lights clicked on. A Negro woman in a blue dress approached me. We ain’t open for hours.
The door was open, I said.
On account of this place stinks. Now go on. We’ll see you later. She shooed me like a chicken as she headed for the back of the bar. When she walked, her hips said look-at-me, look-at-me, look-at-me. I told myself to practice walking like that someday.
I’m here to see David.
She looked at my dress. You a friend a Davie’s?
Yes, I said, but she noticed my head.
You bleeding! she said, more disgusted than concerned.
I touched my finger to where it burned. I fell.
She walked around to the back of the bar. Off the turnip truck, she said under her breath.
I just stood there with my arms at my sides. Because that was it for me. I couldn’t go on and couldn’t go back. I was at the end of the line and I would stand there all night if I had to.
Come sit down, she said, shaking her head like now she’s got another chore.
She dabbed my cut with a damp rag. I held my arms in close to my body, trying to keep my smell from escaping. The
aqua sleeves of her dress floated over her skin and she smelled like a gardenia. Her beauty made it hard to breathe like a normal person. She caught me staring at her. You ever seen a Negro before?
Yes, I said.
Where? I could feel her pulling little hairs out of the cut.
Berry Street, I said. About five minutes ago.
She laughed out loud with her perfect teeth. Oh, brother. Then, as she tried to move some curls off my forehead, Ain’t nobody teach you how to handle this hair? she asked sweetly.
I shook my head no.
You got more freckles than I ever seen on a woman, she said.
She put a Band-Aid on my head and touched her finger lightly beneath my eye. I winced. As she stood she continued to inspect me. Some fall, she said, squinting.
I looked down.
You gonna lie, you ought to improve your skills.
I looked up at her. A man offered me a ride in. From the country.
The country, she said, raising an eyebrow. I had no idea.
I didn’t want to go on, so I looked at the bar, damp still from being wiped down.
I’m sorry, sugar. So what happened? He just go after you like some dog?
I nodded. She sighed through her nose.
You want a drink, she asked, while I’m back here? Fixing to make me one.
I’ll have what you have, I said.
Of course you will.
She dropped ice cubes into two short fat glasses, filled them with a slow-moving brown liquid, and watched me drink. It tasted like fire. I tried to hide the surprise, the burn in my throat, the terrible taste.
She held her glass with one hand and smoothed the hair at the back of her neck with the other. I had a feeling that was what she did when she was thinking.
You’ll learn to sort them out, she said. Soon enough.
Sort what?
The men. The dogs, she said. They show you what they are first thing they do if you know how to look.
Okay.
Okay, she said, mimicking me a little. How old are you? And please don’t make me watch you trying to lie again.
Seventeen.
Oh, brother.
And then a sudden shadow at the door. David.
What do we have here? he said.
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