The Sweetest Sound

by Sherri Winston

  Downtown Harmony was spread over three long blocks that dead-ended into the mountainside. Post office, sheriff’s office, hair salon, four restaurants and a Subway, a few vintage or secondhand stores. That was pretty much it.

  Almost all of those businesses had at least one person working there who’d gone to Harmony High School with Daddy.

  With my mother, too.

  The Big Orange Diner had been part of the family since long before I was born.

  When we got to the door, I drew a deep breath. Whenever I was about to be around a lot of people, I’d get this fuzzy, dizzy feeling, like I was having trouble breathing. I felt the same way when I went swimming at the Y with Zara. She thought she was a mermaid. I didn’t enjoy swimming nearly as much. Being in the pool made me feel anxious, the same way I felt about being in crowds.

  We pushed the door. The bell jingled. Noise from plates, cups, silverware, voices, and the jukebox rattled and roared in a bunch of different keys. It was like jazz music—brash horns blending with looping melodies.

  When we stepped inside, the mood was friendly and conversations bumped into one another in a variety of pitches, octaves, and tempos. People glanced up from their meals. I grabbed Daddy’s oversized hand, suddenly grateful for his protectiveness. A few diners waved at us. Most nodded and kept eating. Still, my heart raced, because I felt like every eye was staring at me. We found a booth against the wall.

  Sofine, everybody’s favorite waitress, sashayed over. Her uniform was navy blue. Her name was stenciled in white. Her skin was the color of dark-roast coffee, and her lipstick was lavender.

  Oh, and her hair—a beehive style—was very, very old-school and TALL.

  She flipped a cup out of thin air and started filling it. Her eyes fixed on me instantly.

  “Good morning, Little Miss Mouse. Guess what I have for you today?” Her grin was broad and her voice rang of exaggerated manners and good cheer. Yet her eyes dared me to try to ignore her. Miss Sofine was one of those people who made it her mission in life to “help” me after my mother left. She always went out of her way to talk to me, and if I didn’t make proper eye contact or sit up straight enough, she’d correct me. Because, of course, what I absolutely wanted more than anything was for yet another person to hover over me. Like Daddy wasn’t enough of a hoverer on his own. I mean, really!

  But it wasn’t all bad. She loved finding books for me—new books, old ones, any book she thought someone my age might like to read.

  Daddy said, “Sofine, hey there, girl.” He used his BIG voice and grinned wide. In the diner, Daddy always made sure to sound like his usual loud, happy self. At least, the “usual” most folks in town remembered him for when he was growing up. Sometimes I watched his face and saw quick flashes of him concentrating, trying to make the happy more real.

  Sofine, who had a BIG voice of her own, grinned right back as she passed a book to me.

  “I’ve seen this book.” I held it up. The School Story, by Andrew Clements. “I’ll read it as soon as I finish reading this,” I said, pulling out Sarah Weeks’s So B. It.

  “You’re reading it again,” she said. Her tone was dreamy as the Milky Way. Like rereading a book for the fun of it was absolutely the most darling thing in the world.

  She asked if it was good. I told her I thought so.

  Then she said, “I was down in Pittsburgh yesterday, went in a bookstore, and that’s when I saw the book. I thought of you. You have to tell me what it’s about after you read it.”

  After that she asked what flavor tea I wanted. I said mint. She grinned. Over the years I’d gotten used to people like Sofine behaving as if every little thing about me was heartbreakingly cute. My pixie haircut. My library books. My piano playing at church.

  She managed to give me the same kind of expression people get when watching heartbreaking TV commercials about homeless dogs.

  For goodness’ sake, what girl could feel awesome when the whole town was looking at her like she was sadder than a basket full of abandoned puppies?

  She must have noticed my expression. She said, “Now, don’t you worry. Everybody’ll be here for your birthday.” I smiled, not feeling smiley at all. My hands felt itchy in my lap. I looked down.

  Since my mother left, just about everybody Daddy knew—and trust me, that’s a lot of everybodies—got together to throw me a big birthday party in the diner.

  I hated it.

  Daddy didn’t even listen when, for my ninth birthday, I asked if it might be better if we just invited a few people out to dinner.

  He asked why I didn’t want to have it at the diner like always.

  I froze. It wasn’t like I had a speech prepared.

  Later, I knew exactly what to say. That it felt beyond embarrassing for people to throw me this big sympathy bash. My life was turning into one of those documentaries on TV. People were treating me like I’d been kidnapped and on the news for months and months, and then the police found me living in a well with squirrels and a clever fox. Not cool.

  Kids at school made fun of me. Okay, not exactly. But honestly, throwing a party for the poor girl whose mother skipped out? I wouldn’t blame them if they did.

  I wanted to tell Daddy that this year we should have dinner with Junior and maybe Zara and Faith. A few other friends and relatives like Miss Clayton and Aunt Fannie, too. Chinese was my new favorite. The daughter of the owner of Chin’s, Mei-Mei, was in my class at school. She was the only person in fifth grade who was more quiet than me.

  I realized Sofine was still at the table, looking me up and down. Her gaze lingered on my hair, and her face got that “aw shucks” expression. I groaned. She was going to baby-talk to my hair. Again. Please, not the baby talk.

  She pursed her lips. She leaned close, as though my hair could hear her. She said, in a syrupy-sweet, baby voice, “Look at that cute little pixie hair. That’s what they call it, right? Pixie? So cute!”

  I wanted to shrink myself down really, really small. Climb into my water glass… and drown myself. Well, not drown. But hold my breath for a really long time until she went away.

  Why did she baby-talk to my hair? Why would anyone, for that matter?

  My mother always wore her hair short. Ever since I had enough hair to style, she kept mine clipped short, too. She said compared to other black women, we had really thin, wispy hair.

  Even though my mother had been long gone and the stylists at Faith’s mother’s salon asked every week if I was sure I wanted to keep cutting it, I kept it the same way. It was different than most girls’ at my school. I liked that.

  People like Sofine thought I was somehow trying to “be like” my mother. And so what if I was? Not everything about my mother had turned out wrong. I loved her hair, loved that that was something we had in common.

  Sofine cupped my chin and turned my head back and forth. “You’re so precious I could eat you up!” She said this almost every time I came in here.

  I came in here a lot.

  She meant well. But it had definitely gotten old. You know?

  Daddy began talking loudly to two men from around town. The men around here always wanted to talk to him about football. And I never understood why grown men thought they needed to yell at one another when talking about football.

  They were all, “ha-ha-ha” and “that Junior’s gonna make a fine Nittany Lion next year” and “he’s the best quarterback in the state right now” and more “ha-ha-ha!” In western Pennsylvania, the sun, the moon, and the stars revolved around the State College campus of Penn State University. Home of the Nittany Lions.

  Daddy, wearing his blue-and-white Penn State cap, glanced at me and asked if I was all right, and of course I said yes because I did not wish to discuss my Not All Rightness in front of loud football talkers in the Big Orange Diner on Main Street.

  “She’s still quiet as a mouse, eh, Jeremiah? Hey, there, Miss Mouse!” The man waved at me. WAVED AT ME! Like I’d just appeared at the table. I wished I could jump
up and do something totally dramatic and OUTSTANDING. But I just sat there mumbling.

  Mouse! Why couldn’t my mother have seen an adventure girl when she looked at me? Then maybe my nickname would be Pippi Longstocking-Songbird. Or Soprano Ninja. Anything except Mouse.

  Now Daddy, the two footballers, and Sofine all started talking about me at once.

  Did they not understand? I COULD HEAR THEM!

  They were saying “oh, she’ll grow out of her shyness” and “be glad the cat’s got her tongue now because my kid talks so much” and “blah, blah, blah, blah, I don’t even know what I’m saying I just like using my words” and then more “blah-dee-blah-blah-blah.”

  Sofine looked at me with her head cocked sideways and said, “Look at her there in her nice choker and earrings.”

  My aunt Fannie told me every proper lady should have a “signature look.” I didn’t know what a signature had to do with how one looked. However, if Aunt Fannie believed a woman’s style was important, I figured I needed a style of my own.

  So I started wearing the matching set I got at Sam’s Club—genuine real imitation pearls. I hoped they made me look sophisticated, like one day I would grow up to do BIG things.

  Speak of the devil! Aunt Fannie bustled into the diner right then and uttered three magical words:

  “I have news!”

  3

  Anytime You Need a Friend

  Excitement rushed through the diner like wildfire.

  Aunt Fannie was like that. She didn’t just show up. She made an entrance!

  The scent of mountain air, crisp and cold like bright red apples, raced in ahead of her as she entered and did her dramatic twirl.

  Once she was convinced that she had everyone’s attention—and who could look away when she was wearing her Everyone-Pay-Attention red wool coat and matching red knee-high boots?—Aunt Fannie revealed that the pastor was naming a new choir director at the First Sunday Gospel Brunch the next day. We’d known it was coming, and everyone who went to the Church of Sunrise Blessings and Sweet Words of Joy, Hallelujah, had been waiting since Mr. Emmit died and Miss Betty decided to retire.

  “And there’s more!” Aunt Fannie announced with a flourish. Aunt Fannie did most everything with a flourish. It was quite spectacular to stand in line at the meat market with her. She even ordered sliced cold cuts with a flourish. I think it scared the butcher, even though he had very big knives.

  Her voice dripped with drama.

  No one spoke. Sofine stood perfectly still, the coffeepot raised. Daddy’s cup hovered in front of his face. It was like freeze tag for grown-ups. Unlike me, Aunt Fannie loved being the center of attention.

  “Tomorrow at the Lodge,” she said, “after the Gospel Brunch, Pastor Shepherd will make the announcement.”

  She paused. Her eyes sparkled. In a voice dripping with her “you didn’t hear it from me” tone, she whispered, “I hear the new choir director is a man.” Gasp! “And he’s single!”

  Several of the equally single women let out tiny gasps. You could practically smell the hairspray and lip gloss churning as they prepared their plans of attack. I was a little shocked that Aunt Fannie had said anything. I figured she might want to get first dibs. It just goes to show you that in Harmony, even the thought of snagging a single choir director ran a distant second to the thrill of sharing really good gossip.

  I lay on my back in Harmony Park, two blocks south of the diner. Stretched flat next to Zara, with fall leaves fanned out beneath us. We lay with our heads together but our feet pointing in opposite directions. Behind us, the mountain rolled upward. Peaks of green appeared to touch the sky.

  Daddy was toward the edge of the wide-open lawn. Frowning. Probably worried I was going to come down with meningitis. Or measles. Or bird flu. Something. Anything. Yeah, he worried a lot. At least he wasn’t embarrassing me.

  Despite the chill of the morning, the afternoon was alive with sunshine, laughter, and the smell of smoke from nearby grills. Daddy and one of his friends were grilling hot dogs and burgers; chicken, too. I only ate the hot dogs.

  Zara was saying, “… wish you could just go jump into a warm ocean?”

  I turned my head so I could see her. “Nope! What if a shark bit me?”

  She giggled. “Oh, silly. I’m a mermaid, remember? I’ll protect you.”

  I shook my head and smiled. We both were silent for quite a while. Zara and I did this a lot when it was just the two of us. We could stare into the sky or color pictures for hours without talking much. We couldn’t do that when Faith was with us. Faith was always moving, doing something. Today she was getting her hair braided, so it was like the old days. Just the two of us. Staring into the sky. Imagining worlds only we could imagine.

  In Zara’s world, she was a mythical sea creature with a magnificent tail. She was a protector and a conqueror and a beautiful defender of the sea.

  My vision? It was so different. My vision was of the stars forming a map meant only for me. A constellation that would show my mother’s face and how to reach her and tell her how I really felt. Tell her how much I wished Daddy and I could say good-bye to her and stop waiting for her to return. To ask her if that was okay.

  Sometimes when the doorbell rang unexpectedly, for a brief second, I thought she’d be there. Waiting. And I never felt sure if the idea of her showing up made me happy or sad.

  Zara’s voice was soft when she finally spoke again. “Do you know where she is right now?”

  I shook my head. Zara always knew what I was thinking. She took my hand and held it.

  “Sometimes, at night when we’d look at the sky, she’d tell me about the Goddess Luna,” I said, my voice practically a whisper.

  “Goddess of the moon,” Zara said.

  Neither of us looked at the other. We lay perfectly still, smoky hot dog smells dancing in the air around us. A car radio off in the distance played. Whitney Houston, “I Will Always Love You.” I flinched. The song was so faint, I wondered if I was the only one who could hear it. My whole body tensed. Zara squeezed my fingers, and finally I exhaled.

  “She told me when I was a baby, she thought I was her moon goddess. As I got a little older and wouldn’t talk to anyone, she started calling me Mouse.”

  Zara turned to look at me.

  “You’re much more of a moon goddess than a mouse,” she said encouragingly.

  I sighed. Then out of nowhere, a tune came into my head. A memory. As distant as the North Star. Had it taken light-years to reach me?

  “Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone…” I softly sang. Automatically, my fingers hovered above my head, silently playing my invisible keyboard, my falsetto a whispery rendition of the higher scales, but dolce—very soft.

  “What’s that? Are we supposed to learn that for Mrs. Reddit’s class?” Zara asked, still looking into the wide blue blanket of afternoon sky.

  “No, it’s a song my mother used to sing. You’ve heard that expression, ‘once in a blue moon,’ right?”

  She nodded.

  “A blue moon is what sky watchers call the second full moon in a month. My mother told me it meant something that was truly rare,” I said.

  I closed my eyes, just for a moment. Something hard and sharp poked me from the inside. My mother had sent me a cell phone for my ninth birthday. But her calls only came once in a blue moon. When she’d been here with me, I’d thought a blue moon was something magical and mysterious. I’d wanted to be a blue moon. Now I was afraid that was exactly what I’d turned out to be. Not mysterious, just so rare that I was odd. A freak. A blue moon in the heavens was cherished; here on Earth, I’d become the kind of rare that meant not being like everyone else. Not having a mother at home. Not having enough confidence to speak. A freak.

  The next morning, the blue sky had turned watery. My jaws were clenched, and my fingers were gripping a large glass casserole dish filled with sweet banana pudding, and I was trying not to pass out.

  Aunt Fannie was driving a hundred a
nd fifty miles per hour. At least, that’s how it felt.

  Zoom! Zoom! Zoom!

  Junior sat beside her in the passenger seat, his long legs bent awkwardly and his knees practically poking into his neck. He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes were round like china saucers. When I tried to ask Aunt Fannie to slow down, she just laughed, cranking up the stereo in her bright blue little car that we called the Blueberry.

  “Oh, honey, I’m barely above the speed limit,” she said.

  Her perfume mixed with hair spray, hair sheen, perfumed soap, and face powder to fill every inch of the tiny car.

  “I don’t think it’s meant to go this fast, Aunt Fannie,” Junior said. I tried not to laugh, but he sounded terrified. And that tickled me.

  Aunt Fannie just sang louder, smiling like a maniac!

  She had stopped by the house to pick us up as usual and to make sure I was dressed proper for church service. I liked how she fussed over my clothes and hair, making sure everything was just so. For all Daddy’s futzing about, I tried not to let on how not having a woman around really made me feel. Without Aunt Fannie, Daddy would have had me wrapped up in Carhartt hunting clothes all the time. You know? For protection!

  When she rounded another set of road curves, I clung to the seat belt, hoping not to go flying through the sunroof. If I let out a scream, would it be in a high C? I had hit that note before in front of Mrs. Reddit. Of course, afterward, I almost threw up.

  I imagined holding the note so long that I burst all the windows in the Blueberry. The highest octave, in the key of A. Aunt Fannie probably would just tell me bravo! and drive faster.

  She twisted in the seat and repeated the question she asked me once a week: “Honey child, I know how much you love your Mariah Carey. I’m singing one of her songs today, hallelujah! You sure you don’t want to partner up with me? I’d be happy to have you.”

  “No, thank you, Auntie,” I said. I knew she was just trying to be nice. She’d never heard me sing. Had no reason to believe I could sing. Even though she had been the one to make me a playlist of Mariah songs. Said she had picked them out personally because “some of her songs are more adult. But these are perfect for a little angel. Even one quiet as a mouse.”