“I got one more left,” Roland said when he released them from their pose.
“Let me get the two of you.” Don took the camera and the two men traded places. This time she stared straight at the photographer, knowing how small and square and upside-down she must look in his eyes.
“That’s it.” Don bent to put the Brownie back in the car and reached out to run a finger along the guitar case.
“Your guitar’s in there,” Dorothy Lynn said with a quaver to her voice. “You can have it back if you like.”
“It’s yours,” he said. “Keep it.” She found herself awash in relief.
He hugged her then, and she held tight, so grateful for the warmth that had been absent from their first embrace. She wanted to remind him one more time to write to Ma, or to her, or to Darlene, but the truce they’d called seemed so fragile, she dared not disrupt it. Instead she said, “I love you, Donny. We all do.”
“Give my love to Ma.”
“The wedding’s Saturday after next,” she ventured, “in case you change your mind.”
He lifted the hat off her head and kissed her at her temple. “I’ll be thinking of you.”
And she knew, if she walked down an aisle at all, she’d walk down alone.
She’d insisted he bring her to the beach, hoping the sound of the waves would clear her head. This was the last place she’d truly felt at peace, and she searched for that feeling again as she stood at the edge of the sea. How terrifying it must have been for early man to see such a sight, to think that the world simply dropped off and ended where the ocean’s water poured over the side into some unknown abyss. Then, too, how enticing to see it stretch, seemingly forever. An endless future. No wonder they climbed into vessels and set sail to parts unknown. Mountains could be climbed, roads traveled, but the sea presented itself as infinite and unforgiving. It drew and it drew. Large, crashing waves, so impressive in the distance, reduced themselves to deceptively harmless lapping. She looked down to see them covering her feet, then receding, then covering again. A matter of a few steps, and she’d be drawn in, drawn under, swept away.
She dug her heels in deeper, burying herself up to her ankles. The endless unknown was Donny’s choice, and with her hands held high, she sent him silent blessing, asking the Creator of this miracle to do the same. Her brother’s life was in her Heavenly Father’s hands, and he’d kept him safe thus far.
“This far and forever,” she said, and her words disappeared in the sound of the surf.
Not long, and the sun would dip under the horizon, ending this day, but for Dorothy Lynn it would end so much more. Her future stretched behind her, in the east where the sun would rise in the morning. Back home, by whatever means would get her there. Back to Brent if he would have her. And even if he wouldn’t.
She lifted her foot from where she’d covered it with cool, wet sand, and balanced the solid mass before shaking it, sifting the clumps between her toes into the shallow space below.
A high-pitched whistle pierced the wind, and she turned to see Roland returning from his errand to buy them each a cold drink from a vendor farther up the beach. He held the bottle of Coca-Cola high, beckoning. Back at the car, Dorothy Lynn did what she could to knock the excess sand from her feet before climbing in to join him, perched atop the backseat. Using a small, metal opener, he pried the top off each bottle, sending a fizzy hiss to join the pounding surf. They took a first, long drink together—she welcoming the sweet scratch of the liquid to a throat that had spent the better part of the day sore with unshed tears.
“What can I tell you, sweetheart?” Roland wiped his lips with his sleeve. “War changes people.”
“Ma was right. A fool’s errand.” It occurred to her for the first time that Ma must have suspected Donny’s state of mind all along.
“No such thing,” Roland said. “A dead end, maybe. It’s the fool who takes that same road again.”
“You can be very wise when you want to be, Mr. Lundi.”
“So I keep trying to convince the world.”
“You’ve convinced me. And I guess Donny would agree with you. That’s why he never came back. Says he’s changed too much. Maybe I have too. He makes it seem so easy, starting over.”
“You wouldn’t be the first kid to want a bigger life than what was waiting on the farm.”
“There’s no farm.”
“You wouldn’t be the first girl to leave a guy hanging, either.”
His voice made it impossible to know whether he spoke of Brent or himself, and his eyes kept the answer hidden in an ocean-long gaze.
She nudged her shoulder against his and took a guess. “You’ve already moved on, Mr. Lundi. With Miss Lucille, the dancer? I’m surprised you remember my name.”
“Dancers,” he said dismissively. He drained the last of the dark drops before tossing the green glass onto the beach, leaving Dorothy Lynn with no clearer understanding.
“I don’t know if Brent will be waiting for me when I get home. If he’ll still want me. And it’s almost certain he won’t after I tell him—if I tell him . . .”
“So don’t.”
“If he’s my husband, he’ll have a right to know.”
“But he’s not. See that fellow down the beach?” He pointed to a young man in rolled pants and shirtsleeves walking along the water’s edge. “Your guy has about as much a claim on you as that one. Who’s to say he can’t come over here with a line that’ll make you forget me and the reverend both? You’re about as obligated to that preacher of yours as you are to him. Or to me.”
“There’s one difference,” she said, running her finger along the cold, curved shape of the bottle. “I don’t love that fellow on the beach.”
The silent possibility that she might love him mixed with the salted air, and she drank the last of the caramel-sweet drink to keep from saying so out loud. When she finished, he took the bottle from her and tossed it to where it made a satisfying clink against his. Then, while the effervescence of it lingered, he kissed her. This was not one of the fatherly kisses she’d come to expect or anything like the drunken collision at the edge of her memory. This was a man kissing a woman, a mutual giving and taking of taste and touch.
“Oh, Roland,” she said when he released her for breath, but then his palms were cool against her pulse, and she let him kiss her again. Not out of fear or twisted obligation, as she had when she launched herself on him the night of the party, and not out of the physically-charged desire she’d felt from the first time she kissed Brent. This was the first kiss born from the woman she’d become. A kiss for this moment, for its own sake, given and received without gratitude or promise.
Her hat tumbled to her feet as he pulled her closer. She could feel the faint roughness of the afternoon’s whiskers as he trailed kisses the length of her neck; it was how she imagined the warm sand would feel beneath her bare skin.
This could be home. No fear, no questions. No expectation of truth. What was it Donny had said? “Nobody cares who I am or where I’ve been or what I’ve done. I don’t have to tell them anything. They don’t ask questions. And if they do, they don’t expect the truth.”
And yet—
“Stop,” she said, not sure if she was talking to her mind or her body. Whatever the case, Roland obeyed, at least as far as his kisses were concerned. He still held her close, her cheek resting against his temple as the horizon beckoned. “There’s a part of me, I think, that will always wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed. Just like Donny. Become a whole new person, maybe even a famous one. But I don’t think that’s a person I’d ever want to be.”
He pulled away and looked at her. The dark fringe of his lashes framed an indulgent, almost humorous smolder. “So? Stay.”
“You don’t mean that.”
He offered what was probably meant to be a noncommittal shrug, but she sensed something deeper, something she never would have expected if she’d been the same girl who had stumbled into his solitary Chine
se lunch such a short time before.
“Do you love me, Roland? And don’t say no, because I won’t believe it. A girl knows—a woman knows.”
“Of course I love you.” Even the vastness of the sea and sky left no room for doubt. “About as much as you love me.”
“And how much is that?”
Her fingers were entwined in his, and he raised them up to kiss them. “Enough.”
It should have been the perfect answer, complete in its simplicity, but for one last time she relied on the wisdom he’d gained from living so much more of a life than she’d ever dreamed possible. So she, too, kissed their interlacing and looked up, searching for one final answer.
“Enough,” he repeated, “for me to put you on the next train home, because you should never give up a guy you want to marry for one who doesn’t want to marry you.”
She rested in the pool of his affection. “It’s more than that, you know. It’s my whole life—Brent just happens to be at the center of everything. Or at least he should have been. And he will be, just as soon as I get home.”
“And that, sweetheart, is when I hope you’ll love me enough to let me remain a fond, distant memory.”
“Always.”
It seemed the perfect time to wrest her hand away from his, and she smoothed her skirt, wishing she could smooth away the awkward moments certain to follow.
“Just promise me one thing,” he said, and she waited silently, watching his jaw tense in preparation for the words to follow. “Quit beating yourself up, understand? And promise me something else, too. When you go back home, don’t you fall on your knees asking that preacher to forgive you. You walk into that place with your head up high. You did something noble for your family. You did something beautiful for God, and don’t you ever let anybody take that away from you. You understand?”
She nodded and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her blouse.
“Look at you,” he said, “already halfway back to the country life.”
This time when he took her hand, it was only to help her step gingerly from the backseat to the front, where she stuffed her stockings into her purse and slid her shoes on her bare, sandy feet. Roland emitted some halfhearted grumbling about his fond memory being nothing less than half the beach tracked into his car, but by the time he’d tugged his hat down low, lit a smoke, and brought the engine to its powerful purr, she knew she’d been forgiven.
The car bumped over sand and rushes before finding the smooth surface that would take them back into the city. Dorothy Lynn closed her eyes and let the salted air rush over her, almost rough against her skin. At the edge of this cleansing darkness, she heard Roland’s voice.
“For the last time—you love this fellow?”
She lolled her head in his direction. “Yes.”
“Really, truly, like the movies, love him?”
“Yes!”
He took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it over the side. “Well then, baby. That’s enough.”
Enticed and emboldened, she ripped her hat from her head and held it in a clenched fist as she stood, steadying herself with a grip on the windshield. Never before had she felt this free; never before had she moved this fast. The wind freed her hair from its pins, and it whipped about her head and face, turning her into what her mother certainly would have dubbed a “wild, wood-born child.” She might have sand between her toes rather than bits of hard-packed forest floor, but she’d finally become that child again. If she took the time, she might just hear the whisper of a new song, but the roaring wind took it away. It would whirl and twirl and wind its way to reunite with her in the clearing.
The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.
ECCLESIASTES 1:6
BREATH OF ANGELS
6:00 P.M.
Supper is a quiet affair, but the solitude is a welcome relief from the tedious company of the afternoon. They’ve brought her a cup of warm beef broth and a plate of buttered bread.
“After all that rich cake this afternoon,” Nurse Betten said as she set the tray on Lynnie’s bedside table, “you want something easy on your stomach.”
Now Lynnie sips the broth and nibbles the bread, wishing it were melba toast.
It’s only six o’clock, but the room is already autumn-dark. It’s the best part about getting old, being able to put a day behind you as soon as the sun sets. She’ll take her last sip of broth during the final, feel-good story on NBC News with Brian Williams, waiting for Nurse Betten—or somebody—to assist her in one last trip to the bathroom, then doze until ten, when she’ll wake up to watch the local broadcast and see what has been happening in the world just outside the walls of Breath of Angels.
Another day. One of the many the Lord has given her.
There is a soft rap and a sliver of light slices across her darkened room, revealing the thin, irregular silhouette of Charlotte Hill.
“Can I come in?” she asks, and waits as if Lynnie can give her an answer before slipping through the narrow opening.
On the TV, a nine-year-old girl hauls a little red wagon along the sidewalk in some bighearted adventure. Charlotte watches the television, and Lynnie watches Charlotte, and that’s what happens until Brian Williams wishes them all a good night. Lynnie reaches for the remote, which is never far away, and pushes the big button at the top, plunging the room into deep shadow until Charlotte snaps on the lamp.
“Looked like a nice party this afternoon.”
Lynnie lets out a beef-broth-tinged breath and rolls her eyes.
Charlotte laughs. “All right, it looked terrible.”
Why didn’t you come in?
“They don’t know me, or that I’m family. Grandpa Jimmy—he’s your nephew too—always said we had family here, but Great-Grandpa . . .”
Never wrote more than a few letters until Ma died, and then . . . nothing.
“He lived a long time too, you know. He died about twelve years ago. He was almost a hundred. I guess longevity runs in our family, huh?”
Not Darlene. Just sixty-seven when her heart gave out.
“I remember him, though. Even though I was a kid, I loved to hear his stories about the movies. I can watch them with my friends and say, ‘See that? My great-grandfather built that.’ And my grandmother still talks about the day she fetched Lon Chaney’s makeup case and when she made Joan Crawford scream because she was hiding in one of the cabinets of a set her daddy was working on.”
Joan Crawford. Lucille LeSueur. She’d never forgotten the name.
“I told them that I was going to come find you as soon as I turned eighteen.”
Of course you did. It’s the age of adventure.
“It took me a while, though. I’m about to turn twenty. When I knew I was coming here, I looked for everything I could find about you. I didn’t bring the record, because I was afraid it would break, and Grandpa only had one copy. I’ve looked for it on eBay, but no luck so far.” She is speaking incredibly fast, taking what was left of Lynnie’s dinner and moving it to the table by the door. “But I thought you might want to see these.” She drops her leather backpack on the bed near Lynnie’s feet and takes out an old cigar box wrapped with twine. “These were with Great-Grandpa’s things. I snuck them out of Mom’s antique closet.”
She’s working the twine with her short, dark fingernails, finally untying it as the door flies open and Nurse Betten pokes her head through.
“Happy birthday again, Miss Lynnie,” she says before her eyes light on Charlotte. “What are you still doing here?”
“Just visiting,” Charlotte says. “A little longer. I’m kind of a fan.”
“A fan?”
“She was a singer. Back in the twenties? Gospel music, like bluegrass.”
“Is that a fact?”
“You know that song . . . ?” Charlotte sings a few lines and, hearing it live—not with that device—Lynnie could
swear she is hearing her own voice transported through time. Roland Lundi would love this girl.
“I love that song!” Nurse Betten says. “And you’ve got a real nice voice. You should go on one of those shows.”
“Maybe,” Charlotte says. “If I could ever get the courage to go onstage. People scare me.”
Lynnie wants to say, Just close your eyes, and they disappear, but Nurse Betten beats her to it before waving a chastising finger in Charlotte’s direction.
“And not much longer. Miss Lynnie’s had a long day, haven’t you, Miss Lynnie?”
She shouts this last part, a habit Lynnie despises, and starts to duck out the door when Charlotte calls her back in. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course, sweetie.” Nurse Betten comes inside. “What do you need?”
Charlotte takes a deep breath. “I’m not a CSV. I’m not a volunteer at all. See? No badge.”
Nurse Betten claps her hands and shoots Lynnie a smile. “So you’re just a fan? How exciting. But you didn’t need to sneak in. We would have let you come visit.”
“No,” Charlotte says. “I’m family. Distant, long-lost, whatever. My great-grandfather was her brother.”
“Oh.” Nurse Betten draws out the sound as if giving them a clue to the time it takes for her to come to a full understanding. “How was the party? Was it nice? I wish I could have been there, but—”
“I didn’t go to the party. They don’t know me; we’re not, you know, close.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Life is so short.”
Charlotte laughs, and Lynnie loves her for it. “Not always.”
Nurse Betten looks confused for just a second before a chuckle ripples along her scrubs. “Well, I’m glad the two of you had a chance to visit today. But not too late, if you don’t mind. They get so tired at this age.”
“I understand.”
“Can I get you anything? Coffee, maybe? Or there’s cake from her party. The family left it for the nurses.”
“That sounds awesome,” Charlotte says. “Thank you.”
All for a Song Page 28