I wasn’t looking forward to church at all, much less my musical debut at Calvary Baptist. Jayne had dropped by the hotel earlier in the week with a basket of rhubarb muffins. The gesture was so thoughtful and so much better than Wonder Bread, I’d thought I would burst into tears. Instead, I’d overcompensated in trying to remain detached, which resulted in a cold reception. I hadn’t wanted to, but I knew I’d hurt Jayne’s feelings. She’d left quickly and I hadn’t heard from her since.
Mac had left a slew of funny and endearing messages on my phone, all of which I’d saved but none to which I’d responded. His final voice mail was notably sharper in tone. I suspected his God theory was beginning to show holes and he was finally getting the idea that I was moving on, moving up, moving out. The whole Hartley clan was sure to be at church on Sunday and my goal was to avoid eye contact with every one of them as I sang four verses of the hymn.
My one consolation that morning was my new Chinese brocade silk jacket. The fit and fabric assured me I could justify every dollar I’d paid at that chichi spot in Midtown during spring break. My hair shone in the spring light as I stepped out of my luxurious hired transportation. Unbeknownst to many, Maplewood did, indeed, have one lone taxicab. Driven by a slovenly but blissfully quiet man named Tom, the cab looked a lot like my mother’s old station wagon from the early seventies. Mustard yellow with wood paneling, I’d cringed the first time Mr. Shipley had waved the wagon toward the front entrance of the hotel. Though Tom himself could have used a few pointers on personal maintenance, the car shone inside and out with clean windows, seats, and floor mats. Equally redemptive was Tom’s tomblike silence, other than an embarrassed announcement of the fare at the end of each ride. Our soundtrack was the hum of the road beneath us and the public radio station, tuned to a soft drone of Mahler, Beethoven, and Grieg. Sure beat Mac’s “My Girl’s Got Childbearing Hips” on the country dial.
“Ooooo, what a snappy jacket!” Even from across the sanctuary, I could see Norma’s nose pinch in a scrunch of delight. “It’s so exotic.”
“Thank you,” I said, though not entirely sure of the compliment. “You look snappy too.” I took in Norma’s outfit: lime green blouse that ballooned in decorative poofs down her arms, tropical print capri pants in a sturdy polyester, and flip flops crowned with large pink rosettes near painted toenails. Snappy.
We ran through the piece twice before Norma flew to the small portable organ to begin a rousing Bill Gaither medley for prelude. I sat in the front pew and studied my bulletin as parishioners trickled in from the lobby. A few minutes before the service was to start, Drew and Joel Hartley came rushing up and nearly toppled me in a joint hug. Jayne hurried behind.
“Miss Sadie, we miss you,” Drew said, not unlike a line in a school play. “Joel,” he whispered loudly and gave his brother a generous nudge.
Joel looked at Drew a moment and quickly produced from behind his back a mangled bouquet of peonies. He smiled at me and thrust them forward.
I took them from his sweaty hand. “Thank you, boys. Your mom is raising two little gentlemen.” By the time I finished my sentence, they’d run off to join their dad in the Hartley pew.
“Sorry about the attack,” Jayne said. She leaned down and hugged me close. I could smell her raspberry shampoo and the fresh scent of dryer sheets. “We do miss you, you know.” She smiled and her eyes said nothing of hurt feelings, just the truth of her sentiment.
“I miss you too. God bless the Shipleys, but I’m losing weight by the day. One can only stomach the soup and salad bar at Old Country Buffet so many times.”
She giggled. “True, but you’re smart to stick to the soup and salad. I worked there during high school and haven’t been back since.”
I sighed. “I should just walk up to the square to eat at Marv’s.”
“No,” she said gently, “you should just make up with Mac and move back to our place.” She watched my face. “Pancakes every morning,” she said hopefully.
I patted her knee. “So you’ve talked with Mac.”
She nodded.
“Mac, as you know, is a wonderful man,” I said. “But he and I live in different worlds. It can’t work.” I sat up straighter, willing myself not to search the congregation for his face. “I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” Jayne said, her tone wry but playful. “But you’re grown-ups and I can’t give you two a time-out, so I’ll have to settle for a bouquet of peonies.” She gave me a quick hug as Norma tumbled toward a dramatic close to her medley. Jayne hustled down the aisle and toward her family and I settled in to wait for my cue, the offertory prayer.
While the pastor blessed the offering, I tiptoed up carpeted steps to the small stage. Norma flashed a thumbs-up from her seat at the piano. I stood in the curve of the Baldwin and looked out on the congregation. Mac caught my eye above all the bowed heads. His face had the glow of an early tan, which stood out nicely against a pressed white button-down. He winked at me, a shy smile forming on his lips. I shook my head slightly and his grin widened. I bowed my head and waited for the end of the prayer.
It wasn’t until the middle of the second verse that my eye accidentally swept toward the Hartley pew again. Jayne was holding Joel, her cheek on his. Cal sat forward in the pew, his face inscrutable but probably hiding thoughts of hog prices. Mac sat motionless, with an expression of surprise on his face. I realized this was the first time he was hearing me sing. Just goes to show, I thought. The man has never even heard my voice, much less a set of Strauss songs or an entire opera. Of course, I hadn’t exactly volunteered to accompany him to a cow surgery, or whatever it was that he did. In either case, we were two ships, wrapping up our pass in the night and ready to return to our lives as they were meant to be.
My gaze left Mac and traveled onward through “many dangers, toils, and snares,” and right into ten thousand years of singing. Spontaneous applause erupted when I’d finished. I thought Norma was going to kick off her rosettes and do a holy shimmy, she looked so pleased. I smiled at the pastor as I passed and he wiped at the corners of his eyes.
“Thank you, Sadie,” he said into the microphone over the podium. “I can’t imagine a more beautiful sound than that of God’s children singing together for eternity, amen?” Amens resounded and I smiled from my seat in the front. “As long as we all can sound less like me and more like Sadie Maddox,” he added, chuckling along with his congregants. It was true. The man’s voice cracked liked a sixth grader’s. To prove his point, he led us in congregational singing of the first verse of “Amazing Grace” and I think we all agreed second time was not a charm.
After the service, I stood near the front of the church and accepted the kind compliments of many Calvary Baptist attendees. At the end of the line stood Mac, which caused me to draw out a conversation with Norma far beyond what was reasonable. She was neck-deep in a story about her nephew who was studying the harp at the University of Iowa but was hoping to transfer to Juilliard and did I have any contacts, when she noticed my eyes flicker to Mac behind her.
She turned and gasped. “Mac Hartley, why on earth didn’t you tell us you were standing there?” She took a deep breath, wallowing in his tan and other fine attributes. She lowered her voice to what I think was an attempt at Saucy Norma. “We girls will talk the day away without a man to distract us.”
Nose scrunch for Norma.
Vomit danger for me.
“Might I have a word?” Mac asked Norma, nodding toward me.
“Of course,” Norma said. She looked slighted but bounced back quickly. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” She smiled up at Mac. “Either of you.” She and the tropical booty swished away.
“Sadie,” Mac said, stepping closer to me and then back again. “I, um.” He sighed. “Geez. This is ridiculous. Listen, I just want to tell you that I’ve never, ever heard someone sing like that.” He gestured toward where I’d stood by the piano. “It was … ethereal.”
I raised my
eyebrows. “Big word for an animal vet.”
He shook his head, ignoring me. “God’s blessed you something fierce.”
“Thank you, Mac.” I looked down, blushing in spite of myself. Very seldom in my line of work did one get to see such unabashed appreciation, no strings attached. “I wish the music industry felt as strongly as you do.”
He shrugged. “Why does it matter what they think?”
“Well,” I sputtered, “they’re the ones who control my income. They butter my bread, so to speak.”
“Not really,” he said. “If God can take care of the lilies, I think He can handle a feisty soprano. Even one with commitment issues.”
“Cute,” I said, turning to gather my things on the pew. “I appreciate your pithy sayings, Mac, but the point, again, is that we don’t understand each other.”
“That’s funny,” he said. He’d planted himself in front of me and was making no effort to let me pass. “I see it more that we understand each other perfectly. So perfectly, in fact, that it scares you.”
I scoffed. “It scares me?” I said, a little too loudly because a rowdy group of high schoolers talking near the back turned to watch. I lowered my voice. “What are you now, Dr. Phil?”
“Close,” he said, grinning. “Dr. Mac. Hey, that has a nice ring to it. Dr. Mac, relationship consultant.”
I shook my head in exasperation. “I have to go.” I pushed past him, gently so as not to be the reality show for the Calvary Baptist youth group.
He pulled me back toward him. Before I could push back, he leaned down and planted one right on my lips, right in front of a gaggle of open-mouthed freshman girls. He pulled back quickly and said, “I know you do, dang it.” And then he strode past me and up the aisle. His posture was brooding but he still gave a high five to a grinning boy on his way out.
If I’d been a preschooler, I would have stomped my foot and huffed. I had to settle for an internal huff as the teenyboppers were watching for their next installment. I lifted my chin and walked ceremoniously out of the sanctuary, poised and lovely in my silk and inwardly thinking, Two. More. Weeks.
26
The Show Must Go On
Mallory rolled her head slowly in an arc from shoulder to shoulder, attempting to loosen the muscles in her neck. The soft lighting in the green room of Moravia’s Great Hall contrasted sharply with the stage lights she was readying herself to face.
“You look exquisite,” I said, admiring the fresh, young face. Her expression betrayed a bit of anxiety but mostly excitement for her junior recital. “And it’s not just the dress, although you were right about that, too.”
Her eyes shone, luminous and warm with shadow and liner. The dress she’d raved about made her look every part the sophisticated professional. I was pleased, considering I’d seen my share of bad prom dresses on this very stage during the last few weeks of year-end performances. A curvaceous soprano the week prior had glided onstage in a full-length sequined fuchsia gown, low cut and trimmed with feathers. I hadn’t heard a single note due to the strobe-light effect every time the girl moved.
Mallory smoothed her pleated bodice and rested her hands on an impossibly small waist. “Thank you.” She sang a rapid scale on mi. “I can’t believe I’m this nervous.”
“Happens to the best of us.”
“Really?” Her eyes widened, temporarily distracted from her own woes.
“Absolutely,” I said. “I spent the first ten years of my career downing anti-anxiety medication before each performance. Don’t even get me started on how many very famous people, who will remain nameless, rely on everything from hypnosis to Vicodin to get through the stress of performing.”
She let out a deep exhale. “I think I’ll run to the restroom. It’s what—ten minutes to curtain?”
“Take your time. Walk slowly and like you’re not one bit nervous. Lots of times the body can persuade the mind.”
“We’ll see,” she said. She walked carefully to the door and slipped out.
I was sitting on the couch, nursing my chilled spring water with lemon, when the door flew open and Mallory scurried in. She shut the door and blocked it with her body. Her shoulders heaved.
“I never should have looked,” she said. Her eyes filled to brimming with tears that spilled over in a hasty exit.
I jumped up. “What? What’s wrong?”
Her pretty makeup forged muddy black inlets down her cheeks and chin. I looked around frantically for a towel to bib the girl. That cream bodice was not mascara-proof.
“She isn’t here. I knew it. I just knew it.” She slapped her hand against a nearby wall for emphasis and then winced with the pain.
“Come sit,” I commanded, glancing at the clock. Whatever this girl was talking about had to be resolved in quick order. Sounds from the quickly filling auditorium filtered through the stage door. “What happened?” I ushered her over to a small sofa by the window.
She sniffed and made a noise incongruous with the image I’d so enjoyed before she’d left the room. “My mother,” she said, already sounding nasal. “My self-absorbed mother is not here. I saw my dad in the hallway and I could tell by his face.” She took the tissue I held out to her. “He said”—she paused to blow—“he said she called to ask for my address to send a dozen roses. Can you believe that?” A fresh wave of tears fell down her cheeks. “She wants to send roses instead of coming to the single most important night of my life but she doesn’t even have her own daughter’s address.”
I pulled her to me. “I’m so sorry, Mallory.” She wept on my shoulder, which I’d preemptively covered with my shawl in case of snot. “People can be heartless, even people we love.”
She sniffled on my shoulder for a few moments and then sighed deeply. Her shoulders trembled with the release of tension. “I can’t do this.”
I shifted in my seat and gently nudged her to face me. “Yes, you can.”
She shook her head. Her lower lip trembled. “I can’t. I don’t even want to.”
“Now, just a minute,” I said in my newly acquired professor voice. “You have worked tirelessly the last few months to prepare for this evening. Not to mention all the years of preparation it took to get to this point. The lessons, the exams, the smelly practice rooms.” I wrinkled my nose and she risked a small laugh. “You cannot let a woman who is not willing or ready to recognize your worth destroy what you’ve worked so hard for.” I swallowed hard, suddenly and unfortunately hit with the similarities between the hurt I saw in Mallory’s eyes and what I’d seen in Mac’s that Sunday. “Believe me. Speaking as a person well-versed in the art of self-absorption, you shouldn’t let people like us ruin your day.”
She shook her head. “You’re not like her. She never knew the right thing to say.”
Well. Now. That was a first. Sadie Maddox, knowing the right thing to say.
I glanced at the clock. “We have three minutes.” I reached for my purse and unloaded a heap of cosmetics on the small coffee table in front of us. I looked her in the blotchy red eyes. “Ready?”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, they were clear and determined, much like the day I first saw her in the choir room. This girl was going to be a force, whether her mother acknowledged Mallory’s brilliance or not. I hoped she would come to her senses before Mallory closed the door for good.
“I’m ready,” she said and made her face a blank slate for my powder.
Mallory shone that evening. She sang the baroque selections at the beginning with poise and elegance. The German lieder became progressively more passionate, and by the finale—a heart-wrenching aria from Floyd’s Susannah—my cheeks were stained with the tears of a proud teacher. Mallory called me up onto the stage after her encore, a comedic number from a favorite musical. I hugged her fiercely and said into her ear, above the applause, “I have never been more proud.”
She grinned and kissed me on the cheek. We faced the audience, hand in hand and soaking up th
e sweetness of the moment. Right before we bowed together, I saw a tall man in the back rise from his seat, don a ball cap, and slip out the door.
Ellsworth’s clanking but reliable Camry coasted to a stop in front of the sign reading Departures, All Airlines. I sat with one hand on the door handle, still amazed at the virtual absence of human traffic in the Maplewood Airport. I heard some quiet sniffling and turned to see Ellsworth reaching for a Kleenex from a crocheted box on the dash.
“I’m sorry,” she said, blotting her eyes. She blew loudly into the tissue but her perm remained strangely unmoved. “I’m not very adept at good-byes.”
I reached out to pat her arm, which brought about a new wave of tears. “You’ve been very kind to me, Ms. Ellsworth, and I will always appreciate that.”
She drew in a long, shaky breath. “Of course, this isn’t good-bye forever.” Her smile revealed a smudge of coral lipstick on her front teeth. “The dean said you’ll consider being a part of our concert series next year, is that right?”
She looked so hopeful and that lipstick was so pathetically Merle Norman, my nod was decisive. “Absolutely. Just remind Dean Johnson to call my agent. I’ll e-mail you her contact information.”
“Wonderful. Now, that is wonderful.” Ellsworth extracted another Kleenex from the box and folded it once before dabbing at her wet eyes. “Well, Miss Maddox, you have been a delight to have on campus. I wish you all the best.” The last sentence was nothing short of a squeak. Ellsworth threw herself at me across the middle console and wrapped me in an awkward but determined hug.
Kimberly Stuart Page 18