by Lisa Samson
One girl named Ruby, the other named Grace.
We went out for drinks afterward at a more respectable club and that summer we lazied through the afternoons, lying out on the beach. Well, I lay under an umbrella, not only due to my pale skin but because in the city that puts on the Miss America pageant year after year, I still didn’t have too much to be proud about with my bustline. I got a view of Dorothy Benham who was to become Miss America 1977, and was thankful I never had to stand next to her because, let me tell you my white trash roots would have clearly shown! And not only that, she sings opera. Opera always wins out over any other type of singing on the singers’ scales.
But the talking sure was good there on the beach with Ruby and Grace! As girls do, we learned all about each other the first day.
Grace lay in the sun, bronzing away. “I’m from a regular family, I guess. Got parts in the school plays and all and tried Broadway, but the only job I ever landed lasted an hour and led me to this gig. Ruby here’s the one with the story.”
Grace turned over and fell asleep.
And Ruby went on. Foster homes, too. We connected over that. But Ruby wasn’t able to lock the door to her room like I did, so Ruby eventually ran away and involved herself in all sorts of things, and all sorts of guys. “I could tell you some tales about the kind of losers there are out there. Makes you want to become a nun or a lesbian.”
I gasped.
Ruby laughed. “You are straight off the farm, aren’t you?”
“You’d be surprised.”
I told her my tale. But I told her Mama died. Even then, it wasn’t anything I wanted anyone new in my life to know.
By mid-July the Songbirds took flight. I designed and sewed us some classy costumes and we found a couple of lower-order casino gigs. Together we rented a room at a boarding house and I held down the fort on nights that Ruby and Grace had dates. Shades of Vermont still lingered in that I felt too young and inexperienced to get involved in that sort of thing again.
Thank the Lord for that!
5
While Ruby never stayed out all night during our time in Atlantic City, Grace sure did. She’d pick up men after shows and we wouldn’t see her again sometimes until the next gig. There Ruby and I would be waiting in the casino dressing room, costumes in hand. I’ve got to give it to her, though, she was only late once and Ruby and I covered beautifully with her alto and my melody going. We even decided that night that if Grace should ever up-and-at-’em we’d do just fine as a duo. We figured we’d add a couple of little dance steps if she ever did leave because we could do that sort of thing and Grace couldn’t. We weren’t talking major tap or jazz ¡moves, just some dips and swirls like those girl groups in the ‘60s used to do.
But we knew we’d never kick Grace out and we knew she would never leave, because she needed people. Grace needed people to parent her, and Ruby and I didn’t.
One night Ruby and I sat on the bed sewing sequins on the costumes I decided to make since December was coming. Little Santa outfits. Spangled and sparkling and something more out of a Christmas wine TV advertisement than anything to do with the real meaning of the holiday. I hadn’t thought of the real meaning of Christmas for a while now.
“You know that ‘people who need people’ song?” I asked.
“Of course. Sappiest darn thing I’ve ever heard!” Now Ruby could take her beautiful features and contort them into the ugliest faces known to mankind when she felt deeply or had an opinion, which was a lot because Ruby was a thinking type of girl with rubbery type of skin.
“Those words make me think, though.”
“What about? How sappy it is?”
“Oh, shush, Ruby. Think about it, people who need people are the luckiest people in the world.’”
“You think so?”
“Well, why wouldn’t that be the case?”
“I don’t know. But it feels wrong to me.”
“So how would you write those lyrics?”
“People who love people are the luckiest people in the world.”
“So, it’s more of an ‘I choose’ type of thing?”
Ruby tied off the line of thread she’d been attaching the sequins with. “Definitely. It’s on your own terms.”
“Hmm.”
“I tell you what, girl, I don’t need anybody. And you don’t either. And look at Grace.”
“Yeah. Out with all sorts of guys, night after night.”
“Exactly. That’s a people that needs people.”
I handed her the red thread. “I see what you mean.”
“I’m insightful, Charmaine. You are, too. Lives like ours either wear you down to the bone or give you calluses, thoughts, lessons.”
“You think Grace is wearing down to the bone?”
“With her upbringing, she’s just starting lessons you and I learned by the time we were twelve, I’ll bet.”
I reached for the embroidery scissors and snipped off a length of white to begin attaching the fake fur to our little caps, á la White Christmas.
“So let me ask you a question, Ruby.”
“Shoot.”
“If we’re so great, why are we sitting here sewing Santa-helper costumes and Grace is out on the town?”
“We choose, Charmaine. We choose to be here.”
I shrugged. “Well, okay, I guess. Sounds a little hollow to me, though.”
Ten minutes later, I threw down my handwork. “I’m tired of sitting around. Let’s go out.”
“Where to?”
“Who knows, Ruby? But we need to have a little adventure. Besides, I could use a little fresh air. This place is awfully small.”
I swear a camper van had more room than that apartment.
“Well, all right. Just promise me we don’t have to set foot in a club or a casino.”
“That’s an easy promise to make. Talk about the saddest places on earth.”
We shrugged into our winter coats, locked up the apartment, and headed out toward the boardwalk.
“This is going to be a chilly stroll,” Ruby said.
“I don’t care.”
“Me either, I guess.”
“You know, Ruby, I always though casinos were supposed to be fun places.”
She sideglanced me. “Just come straight to the point this time, baby.”
“Nobody sitting at those tables or at the slots ever smiles.”
“You know, you’re right. I never thought about it before. You’re really something, Charmaine.”
And I remembered Mrs. Evans then and how she’d always tell me exactly the same thing. I couldn’t say I was really ashamed of my life at that time. Singing was fun, I didn’t feel it was wrong. We sang clean songs, dressed modestly albeit with some flash and sass. But I knew I could do more with that gift box still sitting there in my throat. And did singing in casinos count as burying your gift in a napkin? Well, if it did, that napkin was most definitely a cocktail napkin.
“You ever think we could be doing more with our lives, Ruby?”
“All the time, girl. All the time.”
6
Ruby and I heard loud singing and stomping and clapping coming from a sidestreet off the boardwalk.
“What in heavens name is that?” I asked.
“Sounds like revival to me, glory to God!”
“Oh, my lands, you tickle me, Ruby!” I tied my scarf more tightly about my neck. “Does that fit in with the definition of a club?”
“As far as I’m concerned … yes, if you define it by how likely you are to get hit on. But let’s go in anyway. It’s warm and there’s no boozers.”
We turned right, hopped down the stone steps and headed toward the music and noise. A couple of drunks wafted by like two old hamburger wrappers, balled up and smelling of yesterday’s grease.
The older one wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Ha! Ha! We did it again. Got the meal and didn’t stay for the preaching!”
Oh, my Lord, the other one was a w
oman! I could hardly believe the soft voice that came out of her. “You’re going to ruin it for the both of us, Glen.”
“Shut your trap, Gina. Just shut it up right now.”
And poor Gina did.
Ruby’s eyes met mine. We continued toward what I guessed then was a rescue mission or something. So much for no boozers being present. A cross, outlined in bluish-white neon tubing swung in the breeze on rusted hinges. “Do you think they’re married, those two hobos?”
“Beats me.” Ruby shook her head. “Bet they’ve got kids all through the New Jersey foster system.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re real people, Charmaine.”
“Who, foster kids?” My lands, that was out of the blue for Ruby
“Yeah. You know what I mean?”
“I guess so. Like there’s kids, Jere and Gloria’s kids, and Bob and Jean’s kids, and Lou and Pete’s kids, and then there’s foster kids, like we’re some big nebulous blob with kids’ arms and legs sticking out?”
“Something like that, although I’ve always thought of it more like being in some black hole of a womb by the lady with the name ‘Foster.’ The Foster kids. They don’t mean nothing to nobody.”
“Amazing the difference an apostrophe ‘s’ makes.”
“All the difference in the world.”
The light from the mission struck our faces.
“You ever want to get married and have your own kids someday, Ruby?”
She shook her head, then shrugged. “I don’t know yet. What if I died or something after they were born? Then what?”
The music inside stopped.
“I want my own kids. And I want them to have an apostrophe ‘s’ before their title of ‘kid.’ And I want them to have two names. I want it to be Charmaine and Ralph’s kids or whatever”
“Ralph?”
“It’s the first name that came to mind.”
“Still.”
“Ruby, that isn’t the point.”
Ruby curled her long fingers around the door handle. “I know, but couldn’t you have come up with something a little more suave than Ralph right off the bat?”
“I guess not. My lands, here I was opening up and you start in on me.”
She yanked on the door. “Lets get inside where it’s warmer
“You said it.”
We walked inside.
Oh, my goodness! I saw the collection of misfits inside the large, unadorned room and I wanted to fall to my knees and weep, but all I could do was let the usherette, aged and smiling, dressed in a bright yellow Salvation Army-style uniform, lead me and Ruby to the front row of wooden folding chairs.
The music started up again.
7
Thank You, God. Thank You, God. Thank You, God.
I got to my feet there in the rescue mission, feeling the warmth of a rickety heating system that clanged a tinny merengue in direct opposition to the rhythm of the old hymn belched from an old organ. Under the pressure of the fingers of a man who reminded me of the cowardly lion, only thinner, “At Calvary” stuttered.
“Years I spent in vanity and pride,” they all sang with conviction.
Vanity? Pride?
These people?
Now, me, I realized, could attest to both of these earthly attributes. Up there every day jiggling my hiney in time to Supremes’ tunes. Pouting out Shirelle lyrics like I knew anything about what the songs said. And the Marvellettes? Don’t even get me started. That “Mr. Postman” song gets me to this day. Because rest assured, after Mama left I felt like I lived for that man, hoping against hope he’d be bearing a maternal love letter.
Stop in the name of love.
Reflections of the way life used to be.
Baby love, my baby love.
Mama said there’d be days like these.
A piano joined in with the organ, and the man’s fingers moved with the tenderness of the lover I hoped to have someday.
Ruby handed me a Kleenex. “Let’s sit down before we make more of a scene.”
“Well, at least the song is still going.”
“I like it. Have you ever heard it before?”
‘”At Calvary’? Of course! Who’s never heard of ‘At Calvary’?”
“Me.”
“Oh.”
“Come on. ”
We sat on old wooden fold-out chairs painted a chalky yellow. “You think these seats will hold us?” I whispered.
“It’s worth the risk. Look there’s a songbook on the floor.” She picked it up. “What did you say that song was called?”
I told her.
Ruby turned to the song and her quilt of an alto wrapped around the notes and warmed them to perfection. I couldn’t sing, so I let her do it for the both of us.
“You were made to sing gospel music, Ruby,” I whispered, feeling almost prophetic.
Ruby just smiled, nodded, and kept on reading notes.
I remembered what it was like to pray as I sat there listening to Ruby sing. The hymns continued for ten more minutes.
“Mansion Over a Hilltop.” “Rock of Ages.”
“Nearer My God to Thee.”
Ruby’s voice filled me.
The heating system seemed to say, “Come, come, come. Come, come, come.”
“Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee.”
For some people, spiritual renewal comes on gradually like the flowers of spring. The crocuses of realization bloom. The daffodils of decision open up next. Then all sorts of blossoms burst forth. The white blooms of obedience. The red tulips of intimate prayer and finally, the roses of unending praise.
For others, spiritual renewal is like venturing into a hothouse in mid-winter, heaters at full blast behind a snowstorm swirling about the crystal panes of glass. The door opens, and more heat ventures out than cold swishes in with your entrance and you find yourself barely able to breathe in the vapors of blooming flowers. Hibiscus, tea roses, hyacinth, paper whites, lilies, and gardenias. Oh, the white pure gardenias that puff out breaths of sweet perfume from their gentle petals, rounded, sweet petals that expand when your head descends in shame and fashion a pillow, a perfumed, Holy bosom.
“Cast all your cares upon me.”
“I will give you rest.”
Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.
My Lord and Savior, I am weak and weary.
I prayed for Him to let me lay my head upon His chest, to hear the beating of His holy Heart. I prayed that He’d fine-tune my ears. I gave myself back to Him.
“I’ll give back the gift you gave me,” I whispered.
Nobody wants your gift, Myrtle Charmaine, least of all God.
“Be quiet, Mama,” I whispered. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“What?” Ruby leaned over. A tear from her great brown eye splashed on my forearm.
I took her hand. “Ruby?”
“It’s nothing, Char. Look, here comes the preacher man.”
8
I never expected the preacher to be the same guy that had been pouring punch over at a side table as the singing was going on. In fact, I didn’t really notice him, until the piano player stood up and said, “And now it’s time for the preachin’! Reverend Hopewell?”
And that was it. The entire introduction.
Trust me on this one. We’re a lot slicker these days, but not |quite as dandy as that couple down in Charlotte.
The guy at the punch table straightened up, finished ladling the red mixture into a Styrofoam cup, smoothed his suspenders with shaking, flat hands, then grabbed a big brown Bible at the |corner of the table. Now I mean really big, like the wee bit smaller cousin of the family Bible. Hardback, too.
“My, my,” Ruby whispered and I held back the laughter.
“Must be serious about God’s Word, Ruby.”
“Either that or he’s half blind and needs the big-print version.”
Back then, I wondered how Ruby knew of the large-print version. Turns out there was one in the closet of her roo
m in one of her foster homes, but I didn’t ask right then because Reverend Hopewell thumped his Bible down on the lectern and stared.
He just stood there looking at the crowd and all I could think was how glad I was we weren’t in our costumes or he might have thought we were prostitutes or something. But we sat there in our hats and coats looking respectable and his eyes alighted first on Ruby who nodded once like some wise old sagey person, and then they rested on me. I couldn’t see the color of his eyes because of the peckish lighting there in the mission, not to mention it sprayed a general green glow everywhere, but they were rimmed by dark lashes that spiked out in isosceles triangles underneath his blondish brows.
Half his mouth lifted, then he looked down at the Book, slid a slender, nonmanicured hand over dark blond hair that seemed to be thinning before our very eyes, and cleared his throat.
“The man needs a hairpiece,” Ruby whispered.
“Are you going to listen to the message or not?” I hissed.
“Okay, okay. I’ll be quiet.”
“I’d appreciate that, Ruby.”
Then the preacher said, “Let’s pray.”
So we did.
And it was just like he brought us right up to God’s throne and that he knew what was in our hearts. He talked about waywardness and loneliness and asked the Holy Spirit to comfort. He talked about sin and stain, and praised Jesus for His blood that washes it all away. He prayed for every one there, rich and poor, male and female, black and white, down and out, “and all ways in between dear Lord, because You know and love us all. Amen.”
“You believe that?” Ruby whispered.
“Believe what?”
“That God loves everyone.”
“Of course.”
“Oh.”
The preacher cleared his throat. Oh, what a skinny guy! Thank the Lord he didn’t have a big old Adam’s apple or he’d have been stereotypical. His hair shone a soft gold, fine and precious, and his eyes were kind. That’s all. Just kind eyes with dark lashes.
He’d slipped on a plaid sportscoat during his walk to the podium. The shades of burgundy, gray, and green, caught my eye, too. I realized the jacket was thin, close to threadbare, with faded fibers bunched up too close in some places, spaced too far apart in others.
I leaned closer to Ruby. “If he’s like most preachers, get ready for some fire and brimstone.”