To Sing Another Day

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Helen’s chest ached. At fifteen, Henry was a youngster, too, but he was being forced to grow up too quickly. She put her hand on his shoulder, all teasing forgotten. “What is it, Henry?”

  Henry snapped off the water and shifted to look at her. His face—still boyish despite the hints of impending manhood—turned serious. “I think I need to look for a job.”

  Helen’s hand fell away, and she shook her head wildly. “No, Henry! You know how important school was to Mom and Dad. They’d roll over in their graves if—”

  “But that money you got for the coin won’t last forever. Some groceries and a load of coal—that’s all it’ll cover.” Henry spoke in a fervent whisper, his brow pinched tight. “You’ve used up the money Dad saved for you to go to the Conservatory. And your job cleaning at the hotel...it doesn’t give us any extra. How’re you gonna go to the Conservatory now?”

  Henry’s words stabbed as fiercely as a knife. Her dream, and her parents’ dream for her, had been to complete the music courses at the Music Conservatory and become part of an opera company. But Mom and Dad’s death two years ago had stolen Helen’s opportunity. She’d allowed the dream to fizzle and die, too. With her brother’s mention of the Conservatory, the dream tried to rekindle itself from the ashes in her heart, but she couldn’t allow so much as a flicker to rise. Only a selfish person would continue chasing a dream when she had three younger siblings dependent upon her.

  “You know I’ve given up on the Conservatory.” Helen angled her way in front of Henry and began slipping dishes into the sink before the water turned tepid. She scrubbed, the activity a means of dispelling the longing that filled her as she considered singing on a stage.

  “But you shouldn’t give it up.” Henry lifted a coarse towel and dried the plate she handed him. “Even Richard said—”

  Helen dropped the plate and dishrag and whirled to face Henry. “Do not speak his name again.”

  Henry gawked at her, mouth open.

  She drew in a breath, gentling her tone. “Richard Mason has no bearing on anything anymore, Henry. He’s gone. Talking about him is too...painful.”

  Henry gulped and placed the dry plate on the shelf. “I just know he really wanted you to become a singer—the same way he’s doing.” Henry flicked a glance at her. “So you don’t think if you go to the Conservatory, he’ll change his mind and marry you after all?”

  Helen frowned. “Is that why you want me to finish the music course? So Richard will marry me?”

  Henry shrugged, his head low. “Thought that’s what you wanted. To travel together. Sing together, as husband and wife.”

  At one time, it’s what she’d wanted. How many nights had she lain awake considering her future with Richard? But Henry didn’t know Richard hadn’t broken their engagement because she had no money for the Conservatory. And she’d never tell Henry—or Carl or Lois—the truth. Why burden them?

  She sighed. “Sometimes things just don’t work out.” A man who could callously demand her to place her beloved brothers and sister in an orphanage had no place in her life. “Besides that, singing on an opera stage is a rather childish desire.” Her voice caught. Childish or not, letting go of the long-held plan had proved much harder than letting go of Richard. “I’m twenty-one now. It’s time for me let go of youthful daydreams. But as for you—” She sent him a stern look. “You are going to finish school. And that’s that!”

  Henry drew back his shoulders. His jaw jutted stubbornly. “Helen, you might be the oldest, but I’m the oldest male in our family. That makes me the man. And I’ve made up my mind. We need more money coming in, so I’m going to find a job.” His eyes squinted as he glared at her. “And you can’t stop me.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday afternoon, while Bernie assisted a customer in perusing his selection of gemstone rings, the little bell above the pawn shop door jangled. Bernie glanced past Mrs. Horton’s flowery, kettle-shaped hat to smile at a young man who hovered in the doorway, allowing in a rush of cool, damp air. Winter seemed to be sneaking up on them early this year.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Bernie called, gesturing. “Step on over by the stove, if you like, and warm your hands.”

  The boy, gloveless, blew into his cupped palms for a moment before inching his way toward the pot-bellied stove. “Thanks, mister.”

  Bernie nodded, then turned his attention back to Mrs. Horton. The older woman already wore a ring on every finger, yet she searched the flat display case for another gem to add to her collection. Bernie appreciated Mrs. Horton’s business, but sometimes he wondered if she sought happiness in places that would never satisfy.

  While Mrs. Horton fingered each ring by turn, Bernie flicked a surreptitious glance at the youth who hunkered beside the stove. Brown curly hair stuck out from beneath the brim of his newsboy style cap. A tan jacket with patched elbows looked to be at least one size too small for the boy’s lanky frame. Despite the boy’s somewhat ragged appearance, his face and hands were clean, his clothes neatly patched. Bernie’d had trouble in the past with teenage boys pilfering stock, but he suspected he could trust this one. He turned his full focus to Mrs. Horton.

  “All right, Bernie, I believe I’ll take this opal ring.” Mrs. Horton’s wrinkled face bloomed into a bright smile. “I counted eighteen stones in all, perfectly matched! How much is this one?”

  “Thirty-seven fifty.”

  The woman didn’t even flinch. She opened her pocketbook and withdrew crisp bills. Bernie noted the youth watching, his eyes wide. The boy almost seemed to salivate.

  “There you are,” Mrs. Horton said. “And if you receive earrings that might coordinate with the ring, you send me a message, will you? I prefer drop earrings, with a back that screws into place rather than simply clamps.” She slipped the ring onto her right pointer finger, above a sapphire and diamond ring, and held her hand straight out. The opals shimmered with color in the light. “This ring will be lovely with my blue dress.”

  Bernie gave Mrs. Horton her change and then walked her to the door. When he turned from closing the door behind the woman, he discovered the youth next to the counter, very near the cash box which Bernie had left on top of the wooden surface. But even though his eyes were on the box, his hands were deep in his pockets, as if controlling an urge to snatch the box and run. Bernie hustled to the counter and put the box underneath before temptation overcame the boy.

  “Now then.” Bernie brushed his palms together and fixed his attention on the young man. “What can I do for you?”

  The boy whipped off his cap, revealing thick, tousled hair in need of a cut. He glanced around. “You run this place on your own?”

  Bernie frowned, unease wriggling through his middle. Had he misjudged this boy’s intentions? He hoped the kid wasn’t scoping out his shop. Bernie chose to answer with a question of his own. “Why do you want to know?”

  The boy raised his chin and met Bernie’s gaze squarely. “I was hoping maybe you could use some help. I need a job.”

  Bernie looked the boy up and down. Tall, slender, with an open face holding a hint of defiance. Or desperation. Bernie couldn’t be sure. He examined the boy’s face more closely. No whiskers dotted the youth’s smooth cheeks. He frowned. “Aren’t you a little young to be job-seeking?”

  His jaw jutted a little further. “I’m old enough.”

  “How old?”

  For a moment, the boy pursed his lips, his eyes flicking around as if afraid to look directly at Bernie. If the kid lied, Bernie would boot him out in an instant. He couldn’t trust a liar.

  The boy drew in a breath that straightened his shoulders. “I turned fifteen in August.” He rushed on. “But I’m strong for my age, and I’m a fast learner. I’m willing to do anything you need—cleaning, deliveries, anything you say. And I can start tomorrow, if you’d like.”

  Bernie rested his elbow on the counter edge. Pride nearly pulsed from the boy. Although he’d encountered many young men seeking employment
and had turned down every one of them—he just didn’t need the extra hands in his small shop—there was something about this boy that tugged at him. He chose his words carefully. “Seems to me a fifteen-year-old ought to be spending his days in school instead of at a job.”

  The boy hung his head. “I’ll finish my schooling...someday. But right now...” He raised his face, and the desperation Bernie thought he’d glimpsed earlier returned. “My family needs the money I can make.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve been walking the streets since last Saturday, and nobody’ll give me a chance. If you say no, too, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  Bernie ambled from behind the counter and curled his arm across the boy’s shoulders. He drew him to the pair of rocking chairs that had sat in the corner for as long as Bernie could remember. He and Pop had sat there on evenings, sometimes talking, sometimes not, but always at ease with one another. Even though Pop was gone now, Bernie still viewed the rockers as a place of comfort. He gave the boy a gentle push toward one, and he sank into the other.

  Holding his hand out in invitation, he said, “Why don’tcha tell me why your family needs money so badly. Might be there’s a solution that wouldn’t involve you dropping out of school.”

  The boy sat erect in the chair, his feet planted wide. “My folks died a couple years back, and my sister’s been taking care of my little brother and sister and me ever since. She has a job, but it doesn’t pay as much as the one she had to give up when my little sister came down with bad pneumonia. She was supposed to go to the Conservatory—become a singer—but she had to use her Conservatory money to pay our bills while my little sister was so sick. Now we’ve got hospital and medicine bills and not enough money to cover it all.”

  Bernie’s scalp tingled. This story sounded familiar...

  “Winter’s coming on, and the doc says if we don’t want Lois to get sick again, we gotta keep the house warm. Takes a heap of coal to keep the furnace going, and I don’t see how we’ll be able to do it on my sister’s measly salary. So...” The boy gulped. “I need a job.”

  Bernie looked into the youth’s earnest face, the blue eyes glowing with determination. Suddenly another face flashed in Bernie’s mind’s eye. He sat upright. “Your sister—is her name Helen?”

  The boy’s jaw dropped. “How’d you know that?”

  Bernie set the rocker into motion, trying to combat his churning emotions. The sympathy that had compelled him to overpay Helen Wolfe now spilled over on her brother. But Bernie needed to know something. “Did she send you here to ask for a job?”

  “No, sir.” The boy shook his head, making the brown curls—so like his sister’s—bounce on his forehead. “She’s plumb irate with me for even hunting for work. Wants me in school. We’ve argued about it every day, but we need the money, so...”

  Bernie pinched his chin, thinking. The boy’s sister was wise to want the youth to finish his schooling. In these changing times, an education was becoming more and more important. But clearly the family needed help, and for reasons Bernie couldn’t begin to comprehend, he wanted to help them. “What’s your name?”

  “Henry, sir. Henry William Wolfe.”

  “Well, Henry William Wolfe, I could use someone around here to organize the stock room, keep the sidewalk outside cleared of leaves and snow, and do some general cleaning.”

  The boy’s face lit. “Oh?”

  “But I don’t need somebody full-time.”

  The elation died. “Oh.”

  “And I happen to agree with your sister that you should be in school.”

  Henry crunched his lips in a tight line.

  Bernie stifled a chortle. “But if you’re willing to work after school and all day on Saturdays, I’m thinking maybe we can find a compromise that’ll help your family and also satisfy your sister. What do you think?”

  Henry bounded to his feet. He stuck out his hand. “I think we got a deal!”

  Chapter Three

  Although Bernie hired Henry out of sympathy, thinking he was doing the boy a favor, it took less than a week for him to change his attitude. Henry became an unexpected blessing, providing not only assistance but a level of companionship Bernie hadn’t even realized he needed. After working side-by-side with Pop from the time he was knee-high, he’d missed his father’s presence in the shop. Busyness had held loneliness at bay, but now that Henry came in every day, Bernie discovered the pleasure of having someone around to talk to, laugh with, and teach the trade.

  As Henry’d said, he was a quick learner, and by the end of the boy’s third week in the shop, Bernie felt secure enough to leave him in charge for brief periods of time so Bernie could go next door and sip a cup of coffee or fetch a newspaper from the stand on the corner. He enjoyed the new sense of freedom having an employee offered, and he wondered how he’d managed so long on his own.

  Bernie started out giving Henry a fifty-cent piece at the end of each school day and two silver dollars at closing on Saturday. As a boy, he’d always liked the larger coins, and he figured Henry would too. So it surprised him when he held out the round half-dollar the third Friday of October, Henry sheepishly asked to receive his pay in dimes and nickels.

  Bernie coughed a laugh, dropping the coin back into his cash box and fishing out four slim dimes and two nickels. “You wantin’ some rattlin’ around money in your pocket?”

  Henry shrugged into his jacket. “No, sir. I don’t carry it long—just hand it over to Helen. But my little brother, Carl, has been doing my chores since I’m here in the afternoons. I figured it might be nice to give him a little something now and then—a dime or nickel—so he could go see a picture show or buy a candy bar as a treat.”

  Carl nodded in approval. “That’s a right good idea.” He tipped his head, giving the boy a serious look. “It’ll also make it easier to tithe.” Henry had indicated he and his brother and sisters attended Faith Chapel each Sunday. “You’re givin’ a portion of your earnings to the Lord, aren’t you?”

  Henry hung his head. “To be honest, Mr. O’Day, I haven’t been. I know Dad tithed. Saw him drop money in the offering plate after every payday. But since he and Mom died...” He scratched his head, making his newly cropped hair stand on end. Those curls, even short, were untamable. “Just never seems as though there’s enough to give to the church.”

  Bernie’d shared his knowledge about storekeeping with Henry. Now he stepped in and assumed the role a Godly father would play. “You know, Henry, it’s always been my experience that when we give God a portion of what He’s given us, He makes the rest stretch to meet our needs. Not that we give to get, understand—we give because we love Him and want to honor Him. But I think you’d find a real blessing in giving God a portion of your earnings.”

  Henry examined Bernie’s face, his brow puckered thoughtfully. “I’ll do some considering on that, Mr. O’Day. And talk to Helen about it, too.”

  The mention of Helen sent Bernie’s pulse racing. Although he hadn’t seen her since the day over six weeks ago when she came in to sell her grandfather’s gold coin, she’d often crept through his thoughts. Having Henry in the store each day talking about his sister contributed to Bernie’s fascination with the young woman. He’d had no more than a few minutes of time with her, yet he felt as though he knew her from Henry’s description of her hardworking attitude, her willingness to care for her siblings, and her desire to keep the family together. He found he admired this woman whose sweet face and beguiling curls haunted his dreams.

  “You do that,” Bernie said, “and tell her if she has questions about tithing to come see me. I’d be glad to share some scripture with her.”

  Henry plopped on his hat and turned toward the door. “I’ll tell her, but don’t count on her asking. Ever since our folks died and Richard ran off, she hasn’t been too interested in talking about God. I think she thinks God let her down, and even though she takes us to church ’cause Mom and Dad went, she doesn’t really want anything to do with Him an
ymore.” The boy waved, unaware that he’d just thrown icy water over Bernie’s heart. “See you tomorrow, Mr. O’Day.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Helen awakened early Saturday, teased from sleep by a recurring dream that pricked her conscience—a dream in which Bernie O’Day, attired in fine clothing including a top hat that glistened as if covered in sequins, offered her his elbow and invited her to attend the opera with him. Why couldn’t she set that dream aside?

  Bernie had been exceedingly kind to her family. Besides purchasing the coin, his putting Henry to work after school and paying him a fair wage had eased their financial burdens significantly. Henry’s pay covered their weekly groceries, allowing her to put extra toward the hospital bill that had seemed insurmountable after Mom and Dad’s accident followed by Lois’s lengthy illness. In another few months, the bill would be paid in full, and then she’d be able to put money into the bank to save up for—

  No! She needed to stop thinking about the Conservatory. That time was past. She had to focus on the children—getting them raised, putting them through school, seeing to their needs. Lois was only nine. Helen would be far too old for the Conservatory by the time Lois grew up enough to be on her own. Helen resolutely pushed aside the sting of regret. The children were more important than some silly aspiration about singing on a stage.

  So why did she continually dream about being taken to the opera by Bernie O’Day?

  She sat up, careful not to bounce the bed and awaken Lois, who slept on the other half. On tiptoe, she crept out of the room and down the hallway, past the room Henry and Carl shared, and on to the closed doorway behind which Mom and Dad’s bedroom remained undisturbed. She rarely entered their room because it brought back too many painful memories, but on this morning she discovered a need to visit it. To visit them and the days before they’d left her.