A Song of Home

by Susie Finkbeinger

  But then she’d snap at her partner for stepping on her toes or glare at Delores when she made her way to her desk, and I’d remember how nasty she was.

  “Folks is as they is,” Meemaw might’ve said. “Ain’t like to change this side of heaven.”

  After all my eleven years of living, I had to think she’d have been right about that.

  Every once in a while Bert would come over and watch us dance, hoping we were unevenly paired. When we were, I’d have him dance with the younger girl named Gwendolyn. She seemed just pleased as punch to be dancing with him even if he did stomp on her feet more often than not.

  When I wasn’t at school or home helping Opal with chores, I was out in the woods that stood between the house on Magnolia Street and the apple orchard behind Uncle Gus’s barn. I’d climb over snow-buried stumps or clumps of leaves. I’d try to climb into the branches of trees I thought had been there since God spoke Michigan into being. There, not too high above the earth, I’d read out of a book I’d stowed away in the wide pockets of my coat. It wasn’t near warm enough to be sitting out in the air like that and Mama’d have pitched a fit seeing me there with my skirts all bunched up on my legs.

  But Mama wasn’t there to see me. She was off who-knew-where doing who-knew-what with Abe Campbell. She’d not called or so much as written a note since the time Daddy’d gone off to see her.

  It was just as well. We didn’t need her. We were doing just fine living the way we were.

  At least I talked myself into believing that just about every other day when my heart tried to trick me into missing her.

  A couple days a week Opal still gave me a dance lesson. She’d keep the radio off, the only music was her counting off the rhythm. Then we’d go to the kitchen to get supper around, Opal putting the radio on in the background. Every once in a while a good song would come on and we’d both put down whatever it was we were chopping or stirring and we’d dance with small swings of arms and kicks of feet so as not to knock over anything from the stove or the counter.

  It was a Thursday and Opal had put the casserole in the oven. Her other chores for the day were done, so we went out to the living room and danced for a couple songs before one of them made Opal stop right in the middle of a step. She went over to the radio and put her ear up to it, shutting her eyes with a smile tipping up the corners of her lips.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Hush,” she answered. “It’s Cab Calloway.”

  Even though my heart was pumping loud and my body still wanted to move, I settled in next to her, our ears close to the radio to listen to that man as he half sang, half hollered out a whole bunch of nonsense words.

  The way Opal knit her brow and sighed while listening to that song, I would’ve thought that Cab Calloway had set the earth to spinning. She put her hands to her chest and slumped back against the radio stand as if the very thought of him made her weak and unable to put together any words, just sighs and swooning.

  “If I ever make it to New York, I’ll find him,” she said after the song ended. “I promise you I will.”

  “You’d go to New York?” I asked. “Why would you do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know how to explain it,” she answered. “I guess it’s easier for somebody like me in a big city, Pearl. There are more who look like me and think the way I do.”

  I did not understand what she was talking about, but I didn’t say a word to her about it.

  “There’s a club on every block in the city. At least that’s what I’ve heard.” She smiled, closing her eyes like she was dreaming. “I bet I could go to a different place every night of the week and never get tired of it. Can you imagine?”

  “Do you think you’d get famous if you went there?” I asked.

  “Maybe.” She opened her eyes and raised one brow. “They’re always looking for dancers out there for the shows. I could make a little money to send home.”

  She stopped and bit on her bottom lip.

  “Do you think you’ll ever go?” I asked.

  “Probably not.” She reached up and fussed with the back of her hair. “I’d never have enough money to make it there.”

  I thought if I could scrounge up all my nickels and dimes, I could save until I had enough to buy her a train ticket or a seat on a bus. Maybe I’d even hold back a little so I could get her a store-bought dress so she wouldn’t have to wear one of her flour-sack ones in the city. While I was at it, I didn’t think it would take too much more to get her a brand-new pair of shoes—the kind she could dance in.

  I imagined her getting off the train or the bus, looking at all the buildings that reached up to touch the clouds, her neck craning to see the top of them. It would be loud, New York would be, with lots of people bustling down the road. But Opal wouldn’t be scared about it. And she wouldn’t be nervous. Not one little bit.

  She’d feel right at home there. Nobody’d look at her funny, trying to figure out if she was white or colored. They wouldn’t look at her tight curls and her full lips or her bright eyes and her fair skin and think of how she didn’t belong. They’d just see her, how her eyes lit up when she smiled and walked and how her hair bounced. What the folks in New York would see was Opal.

  And that was good enough.

  She’d be walking down the street, paying too much attention to all that was around her to see what was right in front of her. With a thump and a bump, she’d run right into a man wearing the most beautiful suit she’d ever seen.

  He’d put his hands on her shoulders and ask if she was all right. She was and would tell him so. But then she’d move her eyes up to his face.

  “Cab?” she’d ask, feeling weak in the knees the way women in the movies sometimes did.

  He’d nod. “That’s right.”

  He would ask her name and say it was just right, the kind of name that should be on a marquee somewhere. Opal Moon. A name meant for flashing lights. That would make her blush and smile her prettiest of smiles.

  “Say, you wouldn’t happen to dance, would you?” he’d ask. “One of my girls is out sick with the flu. I could use a gal like you in my show tonight.”

  Opal would tell him she did dance and he’d believe her. Taking the suitcase out of her hand, he’d give her his arm and they’d walk down the road together, not even noticing the cars speeding by or the people rushing past them on either side.

  She got up, Opal did, from in front of the radio, saying she needed to check on the casserole, and left me sitting there on the living room floor, the radio playing a song that made me feel sad for some reason I couldn’t put my finger on.

  As much as I would have liked to keep Opal with me, I knew she couldn’t stay forever. She’d have to go back to her family or strike out for a new town, maybe even a big city like New York.

  There had to be someplace that would be more home to her than Bliss ever could be. I just had to believe there was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It’d been the kind of March day that could make a person forget how bitter cold winter had been. The sun had been kind and Ray and I’d stayed out all day in it at the farm.

  I’d always been taught that Sundays were for Sabbath rest. Running around with Uncle Gus’s tan dog and exploring in the barn, climbing trees and feeding the hens out of the palm of my hand seemed about as holy as a day got.

  When I’d told Aunt Carrie that, she’d smiled.

  “You think that’s all right?” I’d asked.

  “God sees even the smallest of sparrows,” she’d said. “Chickens too, I imagine. And if He takes notice and delights in them, then isn’t it sacred for us to do the same?”

  I told her that sounded real nice.

  As was usual on the farm, time got away from us. Daddy called for Ray and me to get in the truck so we could head to the house on Magnolia Street. I dragged my feet, wishing we didn’t have school the next day. One thing about warm weather, it sure made me long for summer.

  We rode home in q
uiet, the three of us just letting the goodness of the day rest on us. Daddy had the windows rolled down just enough that the sweet smell of almost-spring air danced around us, mussing up our hair.

  Once we pulled onto our street we saw Bert and his dad out in their side yard. The pigeon was in its cage, placed under the tree.

  “Now what do you think they’re doing?” Daddy asked, cutting the engine of the truck.

  “Looks like he’s puttin’ together a coop for that bird,” Ray said. “Bert’s been talkin’ about it for a month.”

  “Huh. How about that.” Daddy nodded. “Think I’ll go over and see how it’s going.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said.

  They both got out of the truck, before I budged an inch. Ray dashed ahead of Daddy and crossed the street. They said their howdies to the doctor and Bert who was holding a hammer in a way that made me mighty nervous.

  “Hi ya, Pearl,” Bert called over to me as soon as I slid off the truck seat.

  I put my hand up in a wave and turned to go to the house. Ever since he’d given me that heart-shaped card, I’d done my best not to pay him too much attention. I didn’t want him thinking I was in love with him the way I imagined he was with me.

  And I especially didn’t want him or anybody else to know that I’d hidden that card away in my dresser under an old blouse that didn’t fit so well anymore. Or that I took it out every couple days to look at that cat he’d drawn and the words, “you’re pretty.” I’d never gotten a Valentine before.

  Holding the porch railing, I made my way up the steps, breathing in the last little bit of that spring day. As far as I’d been concerned it could not have been a more perfect Sunday.

  I’d forgotten how often the best of days were followed up by awful ones. I’d let myself think how good it was and always would be, not paying any mind to my gut that told me it couldn’t last.

  I opened the door and stepped inside, feeling the comfort of being back home. The sinking sun let a beam of light break through the window in the living room that made it look even warmer than it already was. I pushed my hand into the stream of sunshine, trying to catch the dots of dust on the air but only managing to stir them up.

  I thought of how Beanie would sit and stare at the dust as it danced in the beams of light. She’d sit on the floor of our bedroom, her legs stretched out in front of her, just staring straight in front of her for what might have been hours.

  When I’d ask her what she was doing, she wouldn’t answer me. She would just make her grunting sounds like she did when something had her attention.

  I wondered if she was doing that very thing in heaven just then, looking at the dust in the tubes of sun that streamed into whatever kind of mansion Jesus had built just for her. But that dust wouldn’t be made of earth. Heaven dust was made of gold and silver.

  Beanie would like that very much, I was sure of it.

  Closing my eyes, I hummed the tune of a song we’d sometimes sing back in Red River. I couldn’t remember the exact words. But I did remember something about Jesus holding us in His strong and righteous hand. Not a sparrow fell but He knew about it. And I did believe that He’d seen Beanie and held her right in the palm of His hand.

  I hummed that song until I heard a sound from the direction of the kitchen. Like a drawer being pushed shut. There shouldn’t have been anyone in the house. Daddy and Ray were across the street and Opal had that day off.

  Another sound. Like a cup set on the counter. Then the faucet, rushing water. A footstep.

  Flashes of fear zipped through my body and my heart pounded. A sickening ache clenched my stomach and my breathing shallowed.

  Another footstep. It was from a hard-soled shoe. Not Opal’s, I knew. Her shoes didn’t make near so much noise.

  Holding my breath, I waited, listened. Heard no other sounds.

  “It’s nothing but your imagination,” I whispered to myself. “There’s nobody here.”

  Then the kitchen door swung open and one footstep clomped and another. The steps drew nearer and I opened my eyes, ready to fight for my life if I had to. Ready to scream bloody murder if I had to. It wouldn’t take half a minute before Daddy’d be there to save me.

  Turning, I saw who it was.

  Mama.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Meemaw liked to tell the story of the woman caught in sin and dragged out into the streets of old Jerusalem by the Pharisees. As to what her sin was, I’d never asked Meemaw, but I was sure it had to do with fornicating by the way Meemaw’s voice lowered to a whisper when she mentioned the word sin.

  “Them men pulled her out and threw her right in the dust,” Meemaw’d say, shaking her head.

  I imagined that woman’s clothes were torn from them dragging her and her hair a mess, too. She’d have been crying, streaks of tears cutting through her dirty face. Scared, she’d fold up into herself, maybe even cower, ducking her head just in case a rock came through the air at her.

  “Now, it was at Jesus’s feet them men threw her,” Meemaw’d go on.

  Jesus would have known what she’d done. Far as I’d been told, He knew everything in all the world that’d ever happened and everything that was to come. He’d look at the woman, I was sure of it, feeling pity in His heart for her.

  “Them men wanted Jesus to condemn that woman,” Meemaw would say. “They wanted Jesus to say it was all right for them to stone her.”

  I’d heard enough Bible stories in my days to know that throwing rocks was how they punished somebody in old Israel. I never did think it was a nice thing to do. Couldn’t hardly understand how it came to be that God put it down in the law of the land. When I’d asked Meemaw to explain she’d just told me that God was God and He got to make up whatever rules He saw fit.

  Meemaw’d told me that Jesus bent Himself down and wrote a little something into the sand. When I’d asked her what it was He’d written, she shook her head and told me that nobody knew.

  “That’ll be a question for you to ask once you reach heaven, darlin’,” she’d say. “It don’t matter so much what He wrote as what He said.”

  Jesus, the tip of His finger dusty from His writing, stood upright and looked at the men. I always wondered if His face held anger or sadness or maybe a little bit of both.

  “Then, the Lord said, ‘Whoever is without sin may throw the first stone.’” Meemaw’d close her eyes like she wanted to think on those words for a minute or two. She’d put a hand to her chest and she’d shake her head back and forth, her lips trembling. “And not one of them fellas so much as picked up a pebble, let alone a stone. They all turned tail.”

  Jesus hadn’t watched them go, but in His never-ending wisdom, He knew they’d left. He looked at the woman. She’d have stopped crying, not sure what to make of what had just happened.

  He asked her where the men had gone, if none of them had stayed.

  She’d shake her head. I imagined she’d have had a hard time finding her voice just then.

  “I don’t condemn you,” He’d say to her. “Go. Don’t sin anymore.”

  I wondered how clean that woman lived after that.

  We stood facing each other in the living room, Mama and me. Neither of us had bothered to take our jackets off. I still had the sunshine of the day warming my skin and she held her old carpetbag in front of her, letting it bob against her knees.

  Not for a second did I take my eyes off her face. And not even once did she look at mine.

  I didn’t want to throw stones at her, but I sure didn’t feel like forgiving her.

  “Hi, Mama,” I whispered.

  I let myself take a good look at her. She seemed different to me. Not messy, but shabby, like she hadn’t been taking care of herself as much as usual. Her pale face, sunk-in cheeks, and the purple under her eyes were all new. A flutter in my heart made me worry that maybe she was sick. At the very least she looked like she hadn’t slept in all the time she’d been gone.

  She took another step closer to me and put
down her bag. She rested her hands on her chest like she wasn’t sure what else to do with them. I looked from her face to her hands.

  As hard as Mama had always worked at scrubbing and folding and picking and dusting, her hands had always been beautiful. She’d kept her nails trimmed and filed into perfect arches and she’d put salve on her knuckles to keep them from getting cracked in the dry weather.

  But that day, her hands were red and cracked and her fingernails were short like they’d all broken off. An ache spread from my chest to my stomach, making me feel like I might just get sick for the deep sadness that set in all the sudden.

  For all the times I’d imagined her coming home, I’d never thought it would make me so sad.

  “I need a glass of water,” I told her, stepping around her toward the kitchen.

  Turning, I watched over my shoulder to see if she’d follow. She did, looking around the dim living room as she walked. She even ran two fingers across the table in the corner by Daddy’s chair.

  “Opal keeps the house real clean,” I said, turning from her. “You won’t find any dust.”

  “I’m glad,” Mama said, but her voice sounded flat and empty like she wasn’t glad at all.

  In the kitchen I took a glass from the cupboard and drew cool water from the tap. I sipped at it so Mama wouldn’t get after me for gulping or slurping. But she didn’t even look at me. She stood with her fingertips on the countertop, feeling of it like she couldn’t believe it was real.

  “Did you have supper?” she asked. “I can cook up something for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I told her. “We ate at Aunt Carrie’s house.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Are you hungry?” I asked, pushing my hip against the counter.

  She shrugged. Mama had never been one to shrug. She’d always said it was too common a thing to do and made her think whoever it was doing the shrugging didn’t give proper thought to whatever it was they were asked.

  But she’d shrugged and didn’t look me in the eye.