All for a Song

by Allison Pittman

  “Oh my.”

  The mirror’s ornate, gilded frame held a new face for her this morning, and a confusing one at that. But then, she was still wearing her nightgown. Minutes later, even with the new dress clinging perfectly to her body, something seemed amiss, like a mesh of different fashions had come to roost upon her—the makeup not suited to her face, the dress too revealing of her shape, her hair clinging to a world that had disappeared with the Great War. Something was missing.

  And then she remembered the scarf.

  It was silk, she knew, but heavier than any silk she could remember, and the colors within its pattern were as rich as those in the woods back home. A good yard long and eight inches wide, she held it at arm’s length, trying to decide exactly what to do. She sat down on the edge of the bed, dislodging Roland’s note, sending it fluttering to the floor. When she bent to pick it up, she noticed for the first time a drawing on the back of it—a simple sketch, really, of a woman who looked remarkably like Dorothy Lynn, her head wrapped in a scarf remarkably like this one, creating a cap that tied in a knot under one ear, left long over the disappearing shoulder.

  He knew.

  Using the picture as a guide, she created the same look on her real, live self.

  Now, what to do for the intervening hour before she was to meet Roland downstairs? She glanced over to the upholstered wingback chair by the window, where her guitar sat upright, as if waiting. It had been days since she touched it—quite possibly the longest time she’d ever gone without at least strumming a few notes. She crossed over to it, but instead of opening the case, she pulled open the curtains, filling the room with sun. Then, not quite satisfied, she opened the window and leaned out, breathing in the air tinged with the unmistakable scent of the nearby ocean. Below her was a bustling street—automobiles and people vying to see who could create the most noise. It had been just that way last night, and she imagined it was possible that Los Angeles never did experience the natural cycle of sleep and restoration.

  She closed her eyes and listened for a song, drumming her fingers on the sill in search of a rhythm, but none came. She leaned farther out, imagining the crowd below to be nothing more than an audience unleashed, hoping something worthy would come from her voice. Instead, she was met with a sharp whistle down below and opened her eyes to see a middle-aged man looking straight up at her.

  “Hey, doll!” His voice easily carried up the four stories. “G’head and jump. I’ll catch ya!”

  He held his arms wide open in anticipation of an embrace, and she pulled herself quickly back inside, slamming the window shut.

  Dorothy Lynn moved as far away from the window as she could and sat on the unrumpled side of the bed next to the ticking clock. Still nearly an hour before she was supposed to meet Roland. Having spent so many nights in hotels while traveling with Sister Aimee, she knew what she would find upon opening the bedside table, and there it was. The Holy Bible, with the familiar Gideons’ light.

  She took the Bible from the drawer and opened the front pages, seeking the list of Scripture references intended to guide the reader to passages that would provide comfort and instruction in times of need.

  The Way of Salvation.

  Comfort in Time of Loneliness.

  Courage in Time of Fear.

  Strength in Time of Temptation.

  And more . . .

  At this moment, so many applied, but given the encounter at the window and the uncertain days ahead, she ran her finger down the page, registering the verses meant to give “Courage in Time of Fear.” Though the chapter and verse were instantly familiar, she turned to the passage, the sixth chapter of Ephesians.

  Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might. Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

  Dorothy Lynn closed the book and went once again to study her reflection. Respectable, modest, and—even in her limited estimation—fashionable. How proud Darlene would be at the transformation, not only in her outer appearance, but her inner appreciation. The dresses she’d brought from Heron’s Nest lay forgotten at the bottom of her trunk, and the thought of wearing them seemed as foreign as wearing something like this had once been. In this outfit, she could belong with any other stylish woman on the streets, in the lobby, even in the magazines.

  And what had that gotten her when she ventured a peek out the window?

  “‘Wherefore,’” she said, quoting from memory, “‘take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.’”

  Still early, and feeling fully armed against wickedness, she walked out of the room, locking the door behind her, and dropped the room key into her purse. There was one panic-ridden second when she couldn’t remember which way to turn to find the elevator, but a ding from around the nearest corner guided her steps.

  The operator gave her an appreciative look, as did more than one patron in the lobby when she emerged on the first floor. The women, she assumed, admired her dress, but she wouldn’t let herself think about what might lie behind the men’s glances.

  The lobby, he’d said. At noon. Perhaps he’d forgotten just how vast the lobby was. Did he mean near the entrance? At the desk? Dead center under the stained-glass skylight? Whatever confidence her appearance had given began to fade as she noticed everyone around her was moving—men walking brisk and tall, women with a perfect slow, slouching slink. She, once again, stood frozen.

  “You look lost.” The voice was thick and unpleasant, much like the man behind it.

  “Just waiting,” she said. “For a friend.”

  “I should be so lucky to be your friend.”

  She recognized immediately that there’d been no harm in his conversation and worked up a smile that she hoped would convey both disinterest and warmth as he touched stubby fingers to his hat and backed away.

  The encounter, brief as it was, renewed her confidence. She took a deep breath and moved her body in a stroll of nonchalance. Strains of music underscored her sliding steps, rising above the conversations echoing in the marbled room. A single piano, played in a way that brought the notes dancing through the air. The only piano she’d ever known was the weathered instrument in her father’s church. It had three missing keys, and those that remained battled valiantly to pound out the Sunday hymns under the unrelenting fingers of Mrs. Rusty Keyes.

  She found herself being pulled by the music, enticed by its sheer prettiness, and followed it to the source—a gleaming white grand piano near the window looking out into the street. The pianist was a thin gentleman with even thinner blond hair that showed gaps of pale pink scalp between the comb marks. He largely played unnoticed in the midst of so much milling, save for a modest audience gathered directly around the piano. Dorothy Lynn moved closer behind him, wanting to get a glimpse of his long, agile fingers that moved like ten pale ribbons in a breeze.

  His milky tenor voice gave life to lyrics about somebody’s sweet jazz baby. He finished the tune with a fanciful run on the keys followed by a final jaunty chord. The sparse crowd rewarded him with polite applause, and Dorothy Lynn joined them in their praise.

  The pianist took up a soft, rambling tune and asked, “Any requests?”

  “Yeah,” said a man in a garish red plaid suit. “Beethoven’s Fifth.”

  “Sorry, fella,” said the pianist without missing a beat. “I haven’t learned the first four yet.”

  The crowd laughed, and once again Dorothy Lynn joined them.

  “‘Apple Blossom Time’!”

  Dorothy Lynn couldn’t tell which woman had shouted it, but everyone in the crowd sighed their approval.

  “No way, Betty,” the pianist said, letting his fingers continue their ambling up and down the keyboard. “Songs about
weddings give me the heebie-jeebies.” He shuddered and struck an ominous minor chord, much to the crowd’s amusement.

  “‘Alice Blue Gown’!”

  It was the same woman’s voice, and this time the mere mention of the song title provided the comedy. Everybody laughed and echoed the request.

  “Hey, c’mon! Bad enough I was too thin to fight, you gotta get me singin’ about my favorite dress? What are ya doing to me?”

  But the crowd would not be deterred, its single voice taking on a lighthearted jeer.

  “Well, I can play it,” he said finally, the first measures of the tune already beginning to take form, “but one of you ladies is gonna have to sing it. Any volunteers?”

  All demurred at the prospect, and those who attempted the first note or two were roared down by the others.

  “Hey there, sister.”

  Dorothy Lynn looked over her shoulder to make sure he was talking to her.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You’re looking mighty coy. Wanna give it a whirl?”

  She knew the song, of course. It was the same tune she and Darlene were dancing to when Roland came to the house that afternoon. The memory was sweet, and she could still hear her sister’s voice singing along with the record.

  She listened. “Is that the only key you know it in?”

  Apparently the crowd found her a good-natured ally, one not afraid to stand up to the uncooperative entertainer.

  “This better for you?” He immediately transposed the tune to a lower key, of which, after testing it out just under her breath, Dorothy Lynn approved.

  Once again the introductory notes, and then she sang.

  I once had a gown, it was almost new,

  Oh, the daintiest thing, it was sweet Alice blue,

  With little forget-me-nots placed here and there,

  When I had it on, oh, I walked on the air!

  By now this was nothing new to her, singing in front of a crowd, but the intimacy of this setting elicited none of the anxiety of being on a stage. Nor did it ignite any sense of power. She could walk away at this moment, midverse, before the chorus, and no consequences would follow. But here, though her voice rose in well-received solo, she felt like nothing more than one of the crowd, and when the next line came, she opened her arms wide, beckoning the others to join her.

  And it wore, and it wore, and it wore,

  ’Til it went, and it wasn’t no more.

  When they launched into the chorus, men and women alike were singing of their cherished Alice blue gown, leaning on each other in exaggerated sentimentality. Each verse, though, was hers alone. When the final note died away, applause five times what the pianist himself had received filled the cavernous hotel lobby, and the elegant musician stood from his bench only to bow to Dorothy Lynn.

  “Baby, baby, baby.” He came to her, wrapped his long arms around her, and—this stranger—planted a crushing kiss on her cheek. “You could make me a star.”

  She was too surprised to respond with anything but a laugh, and before she knew it, he was back at the keyboard with the first notes of “Second Hand Rose,” and she enthusiastically joined him.

  Singing had never felt like this before. At times it had given her peace, at other times joy, but she couldn’t recall a time when she had fun. This seemed more like a long, lyrical laugh, a musical game. She looked like a new woman and sang like one too, scooping some of the notes with a jokey growl to the delight of her playmates just an arm’s length away, quick to supply lyrics when her memory faltered.

  She was midway through the final chorus when Roland Lundi joined the crowd. The hat and suit were familiar, but the expression on his face was as alien as his new tie—not angry, but clearly not amused. When the song ended, his applause was polite; in fact, were he the only one clapping, there might not have been any sound at all. As he approached the piano, Dorothy Lynn didn’t know if she should be prepared to gloat or apologize, but it turned out neither would be necessary. He strolled right past her, hand outstretched to the man at the keyboard.

  “Look at you, Bernie. Trying to steal my girl?”

  “Roly-poly,” the pianist—Bernie—said, pumping Roland’s hand with an enthusiasm that dislodged a few strands of his thin hair. “Back in town, are ya? She’s yours? She’s fabulous.” Then, to Dorothy Lynn, “Ditch this bum and run away with me. New York, baby. Broadway.”

  “I’m not his girl and I’m not goin’ to New York,” Dorothy Lynn said. “I don’t think I’d last an hour with either him or the city before going crazy.”

  Then Roland was beside her in a way he’d never been before, his hand in the curve of her waist, tucking her close.

  “Don’t be cruel, sweetheart,” he said, giving her a proprietary squeeze, “making poor Bernie here think he stands a chance.”

  Bernie shrugged in comic defeat. “What is it about you dames always going for the Valentino type? What’s wrong with being tall and pale with the physique of a wet noodle?”

  It all had the humor of a rehearsed comedy routine, and Dorothy Lynn joined the spectators in laughter, even offering a good-bye wave worthy of a stage-left exit. Once they were away, however, with Bernie’s next serenade a distant melody, she wrenched herself from Roland’s grip. “I’m not your girl.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she said, instantly deflated. “For the compliment and the clothes. I feel—”

  “Chic? Stunning?”

  “Different. I guess I got rather carried away back there.”

  “Don’t sweat it, sweetie. You looked like you were having fun, but Bernie’s kind of a cad-about-town.”

  “Well, then, that’s one more thing for me to thank you for.”

  He steered her out of the hotel and onto the street, where her eyes automatically scanned for the car they’d driven in the night before.

  “Today we walk,” Roland said. “Fresh air and exercise—at least as far as the streetcar. Then lunch, then church.”

  “Church? It’s Thursday, isn’t it?” So many days’ travel, she’d lost track.

  “Friday, actually. But who’s counting?” Another of his answers that answered nothing.

  “This is our stop.” Roland reached up to ring the bell, then cleared a way to the back of the car, descending first so he could stand on the sidewalk and hand Dorothy Lynn down.

  “I’m telling you, six months from today, you’re going to see people lined up around the block here. Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday—it won’t matter. Remember that last night in Kansas City? People scrambling to get through the door? That’s what we’re going to have here, only there won’t be any panic, because there won’t be any final nights. It’ll be Sister Aimee Semple McPherson every day, every night. Bringing the Word of God to a dying world.”

  Dorothy Lynn paid no attention to the sights around them, focusing only on Roland’s face as he spoke, his hands as they gestured toward an imaginary marquee. “Because we all told her, ‘You’re only one woman. You can’t be everywhere at one time, so be in one place all the time.’”

  “But why not in the middle of the country? Why out here?”

  He laughed. “‘Out here’? Sweetheart, give it time, and Los Angeles, California, is going to be the center of the world. And here’s why.” He stopped and, putting his hands on her shoulders, turned her around to see what would have been impossible to miss.

  A temple.

  There was simply no other word to describe it. Too big for a church, too sacred for a theater. The rounded building rested below a huge, domed roof. Columns were interspersed along the facade, its surface awash in blinding white. She’d seen pictures of the Roman Colosseum in her history textbook in school—grand even in its state of ruin. Here, on the other side of the world, stood its rival. Not its equal, of course, and certainly not created with such pagan intent, but truly colossal, even behind the scaffolds of construction.

  “Look at that,” Dorothy Lynn said, as if it would be possible to do
anything else.

  “Angelus Temple,” Roland said. “The Church of the Foursquare Gospel.”

  “It’s enormous!”

  “Want to see inside?”

  “Can we? It’s not open, is it?”

  Roland reached into his pocket and retrieved a ring of keys. “Remember this from here on out: stick with me, and you can go anywhere you want.”

  She punched his arm playfully but followed him behind the tall, wooden fence, past wheelbarrows full of concrete and bricks. Men of all shapes and sizes touched their caps in greeting as they walked by, and a few even took off their leather work gloves to shake his hand, welcoming him back.

  “Is there anybody you don’t know?” she asked as they made their way through a maze of garden beds. “Are we havin’ dinner with the mayor?”

  “Not tonight. He’s otherwise engaged.”

  “But you know him?” she asked, surprised at his response to what she’d meant as a joke.

  “I’ve met him once or twice. Sometimes, since her divorce, Aimee needs an escort to social functions.”

  “And you’re happy to oblige?”

  “She changed my life. What wouldn’t I do?”

  They arrived at a nondescript door set in the middle of a looming white wall. It took three tries for Roland to find the right key for the lock, and when he did, the door opened like a great, gaping maw.

  “Goodness, Mr. Lundi. How much time have I spent with you in dark hallways?” Still, she walked over the threshold and gasped when the closing of the door plunged them into complete and utter darkness.

  His familiar touch steadied her.

  “There’s nothing in here. Just walk.”

  The place smelled of concrete, lumber, and paint—not unpleasant, but raw. She kept her hand firmly in the crook of Roland’s arm.

  “Can’t you light a match or something?”

  “Hold on.”

  She had just a second to wonder if “holding on” wasn’t his intent when the soft sound of a switch brought forth light.