Songbird

by Lisa Samson

  “Mm”

  Then the preacher closed his eyes and prayed to himself for about ten seconds and I liked that although I wondered if it was for show like those swimmers and Olympic athletes who make the sign of the cross before competing, leaving you wondering if they really prayed at all.

  But his fingertips skated lighter than fairies’ feet on the slick surface of the lectern and they vibrated a little like tender branches in a winter.

  This nervous preacher was asking God to calm him. I just knew that. For some reason, I was able to crawl into his head.

  When he began his sermon, I did my own praying, because I knew that it wasn’t an accident that I sat there, perched precariously on a yellow wooden fold-out chair in the middle of a sad little storefront mission in Atlantic City.

  Then a fiery message gushed like a consuming lava river from the lips of the preacher who had been shivering in the winter of nerves only a moment before, a fiery message like nothing I’d ever heard before. But it wasn’t the fire of hot coals or blowtorches. It was a cauterizing fire, sent from God to clean out the festering misery of the soul. See when a man is given a gift like Harlan’s and he uses it for the Lord, you can believe him when he tells you God loves you and wants you to live a victorious life of faith. You can believe him when he says, “Choose you this day whom you will serve.”

  “God loves you! He’s calling you to come. Won’t you come today as brother Windsor plays the invitation?”

  And he pleaded with the Holy Spirit to come and touch hearts and turn them toward the cross. And brother Windsor began “Just As I Am” and I sang, too, one of the only voices in the crowd.

  “Do you know Jesus? Why not come and kneel at the altar and make sure you’re going to heaven? Why not become His child?”

  I turned at the touch of Ruby’s hand on my arm. She cried and said, “Come with me, Charmaine. Will you?”

  “Of course, Ruby.”

  Harlan held out a hand. “Now is the hour of your salvation.”

  And we knelt there together as Ruby prayed to have her sins forgiven. It really is like the song says. “Oh, precious is the flow, that makes me white as snow. No other fount I know. Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

  9

  In the back corner of the mission hall the preacher and Ruby sat in deep discussion. They leaned forward, knee-to-knee on two of the fold-out chairs, Ruby asking questions and this Harlan Hopewell fellow answering them, flipping through the pages of a much smaller Bible, looking her in the eyes, patting her arm, nodding his head, shaking his head. One time, I believe I saw a tear glisten on his cheek.

  |Having consumed about five cups of Hawaiian Punch, I read a flyer about the Harlan Hopewell Evangelistic Crusade once with each cup. The crusade consisted of the preacher, Harlan Hopewell, and the piano player, Henry Windsor, and the brochure said they met in seminary in 1968 where they started going to prisons “to spread the Gospel message that Jesus saves!”

  I did the math. He was about thirty-one years old now and sure looked younger, like a gangly older teen. He hadn’t lost that innocent earnestness of someone on the first round of dough-rising in the ministry. He didn’t appear to have been punched down yet by fellow Christians, the air of pure intentions and calling puffing out with hopes and dreams. But I assumed that would come. Sooner or later, it always came. Unless of course, he stayed on the road and didn’t have to deal with the same old complaining Christians day after day. According to the brochure, they’d been to every state below the Mason-Dixon line and east of the Mississippi.

  Preacher Hopewell grew up in Chesapeake, Virginia, and Henry Windsor hailed from Greenville, South Carolina. A picture of the two of them in front of the High Point Theological Seminary sign gave me indication they’d been called to do exactly what they were doing, for behind them the motto, TELLING OTHERS IN SPIRIT AND IN TRUTH shone in gold letters. I guessed Windsor was the spirit and Hopewell was the truth.

  I looked over at Ruby and Preacher Hopewell and realized this discussion would last a while. The old couple that ran the mission walked over to me on Hush Puppies.

  The woman, in a plain, long-sleeved peach floral dress with matching belt, smiled and said with a soft, high voice, “They might be a while. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you. I just drank so much punch I couldn’t put anything else in!”

  “I’m Loretta and this is Joe, my husband. We run this place.”

  “I’m Charmaine Whitehead.”

  I’d noticed the couple earlier in the evening, sitting in two chairs at the back storefront window where Ruby and the preacher now sat. The lights of the neon cross outside illumined their hoary heads, the lady’s tarnished with yellow, the man’s gradually getting darker the farther down it flowed from the top of his large head.

  “How did you come into the mission tonight?” Joe asked, straightening his brown tie and hiking up his plaid pants by a belt with a huge brass buckle that said “Mack” with a bulldog looking out from between the legs of the “M.”

  “Ruby and I went out for a little walk after a night of sewing and came in to get warm.”

  “Good thing. Looks like the Lord had plans for your friend here.”

  Loretta nodded, turned, and poured herself a punch. “Isn’t wonderful? What about you, Charmaine? Do you know Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior?” I noticed the back of her hair was caught in a braided bun, a large braided bun, but he bangs were freshly curled and sprayed as stiff as feathers.

  “I got saved when I was thirteen years old. Right in our kitchen.”

  Joe hiked up his pants again. “Well, praise the Lord.”

  “Amen to that!” Loretta said.

  “How long you folks been here at this mission?”

  And so these good people invited me back to their little apartment that consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, and a sitting area holding only two rose-colored recliners and a straight chair. Joe insisted I sit in his recliner.

  “We’ve been here at the mission for the past twenty years. Were on the mission field in South America for twenty-five. We’re Pentecostal Holiness, you know.”

  Well, I didn’t. But it sure explained that big bun in her hair, but hot his belt buckle! That seemed a little flashy for a Holiness type.

  “But we wanted to come home, right Loretta?”

  “That’s right.” Loretta reached beside her chair and pulled out a lap desk on which some puzzle pieces and a magnifying glass rested. It appeared as if Joe had attached very thin molding around the edges to keep the pieces from sliding off. She placed clear pink reading glasses on her nose.

  I set my purse on the floor. “How long has that vagabond couple been coming in here? The ones that left early?”

  “They come every night. And they never stay,” she said.

  I leaned forward. “And yet you still let them come and eat?

  I’m so glad.”

  Joe just smiled. “Miss Whitehead, we’re not the types to turn hungry people away.”

  “That’s right, sweetie. We figure sooner or later they’ll stay. It’s not up to us to be picky about the rules when souls are at stake. God always provides enough food. And they’re our own rules, so if we break them …” She just waved the magnifying glass.

  An idea struck me. “Ruby and I sing in casinos. We have a little group with another girl called ‘the Songbirds’ and well, whether or not we should be singing in casinos and all isn’t the issue, but what I was wondering is maybe I could come on Sundays and sing here. I don’t have a home church yet, and, oh, I don’t know, maybe you already have a singer and I shouldn’t even be asking.”

  Loretta set down her magnifying glass. “Are you kidding me? We could use a little life, not to mention prettiness, here in this godforsaken place.”

  Joe cleared his throat, reached over and laid a tender hand on his wife’s knee. “Actually, Miss Whitehead, God’s about the only thing we really do have. Sometimes Loretta gets discou
raged. Sometimes it’s hard to be here day after day.”

  I pointed to the doorway. “That Harlan Hopewell fellow has the right idea. Going from place to place. Almost a nomad for the Lord!”

  “That kind of life appeal to you?” Loretta asked.

  “Not really. You know, I’m nineteen years old,” I lied, “and I’ve never really lived in a home of my own.” I didn’t want to explain. There’d be time for that. “Will you tell my friend Ruby that I’m heading back to the apartment and I’ll meet her there?”

  “Of course.”

  Joe and I stood to our feet. Loretta remained in her recliner “Nice meeting you, Miss.”

  “Please, just call me Charmaine. Especially since I’ll be back on Sunday.”

  “We’ll be counting on it!” Loretta chimed and told me the service began at nine

  A.M

  Ruby and Preacher Hopewell were steeped in prayer, so I huffled into my coat and let myself out onto the street, careful hot to let the brass bell tinkle against the glass door.

  I looked for the vagrant couple all the way home, but didn’t see them. I thought about them and I wondered who their parents were. I wondered why I didn’t end up like them. I won-lied if someday, maybe I would.

  But see, if I was on the other side of the microphone, holding onto it with all my might, ministering to others with notes and words, maybe I’d divide the chance of becoming just like hem in half and then in half again.

  Grace was still out when I arrived home.

  Not that I thought she’d be there.

  But in the mailbox sat a letter from Luella telling me all sorts of things about the kids, her artwork, and life at Suds ‘N’ Strikes. I couldn’t understand for the life of me, just then, why it seemed so important to leave Baltimore behind.

  10

  Ruby and I sang together at the mission that next Sunday. Harlan Hopewell gave the message to me and Ruby, Joe and Loretta, and the kitchen staff volunteers and the lady in the yellow uniform. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm.

  “They tend to stay on the streets on days like this,” Loretta whispered when I asked where all the homeless were.

  After the message on the Prodigal Son that made me feel worse than I did before it was preached, we convened around one of the big tables in the large dining room.

  Joe handed me a platter of turkey. “We always have a nice meal on Sundays. There’s a benefactor who owns a food service company that supplies the meats here. Don’t know what we’d do without him.”

  We filled our plates with Sunday dinner. And I caught Preacher Hopewell’s eyes on me, and he smiled with a lanky sort of grin. I looked down and stabbed my pile of mashed potatoes.

  “How long will you be staying here in Atlantic City?” Ruby asked.

  “For two more weeks. Then it’s off to Little Rock.”

  I turned to Henry. “You play a fine piano there, Mr. Windsor.”

  “It’s even better when you two girls are singing to it. That was real pretty this morning.”

  “Thanks,” Ruby said, and I swear she blushed.

  “Thank you.”

  Preacher Hopewell looked at me some more. And I turned redder than my stupid hair that had blown to mammoth proportions on the walk over.

  “Your message was beautiful, Preacher Hopewell,” I said.

  “Call me Harlan.”

  “Call me Charmaine.”

  Ruby smirked. “Call me anytime.”

  “Oh, Ruby!”

  After we helped clean up the kitchen, Harlan suggested we all take a walk on the boardwalk. Joe and Loretta said they always take a nap on Sunday afternoons. Ruby said she’d already told Henry she’d help him work out new harmonies on “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” and so I said, “It’s just me. Is that okay?”

  “I’ve heard Ruby’s story, but I haven’t heard yours, Charmaine.”

  I put on my light jacket, and he shrugged into his worn sportscoat and we set out in the springlike weather. Thank the good Lord I was able to steer the conversation away from my story and onto Harlan’s. Thank the good Lord he hailed from a normal family who lived in Chesapeake and owned a garage that specialized in brake work and lube jobs. “But we did everything else mechanical, too. I grew up underneath cars for the most part. We had long days, I tell you and we worked hard.”

  “Is your daddy still alive?”

  He shook his head. “No. Died when I was in seminary. Got mouth cancer.”

  “Oh, my lands! Did he chew tobacco?”

  “Yep. Never saw my father without something tucked in front of his teeth.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She’s something! One of those happy people that roll with the punches. I’ve often said the woman for me will be that happy type like Ma.”

  “Sounds like a saint.”

  He laughed. “Oh, no. A temper went along with that, but they were only temporary storms, sometimes even like summer storms where the rain is falling and the sun is shining at the same time. My father worshiped her.”

  “Any brothers and sisters?”

  “A sister named Bee who lives in Tennessee. She takes all my mail and calls for me when I’m on the road. And my brother E.J. who just got divorced.”

  “Oh, my!”

  “Don’t I know it. The woman he married was one of those sad-sack types that blamed everybody and everything else for her troubles. She was something. My brother couldn’t do anything right and he tried so hard. Tore E.J. apart. Here he did everything he could for the woman, supported her, cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, took care of the kids, my mother did too—watched them during the day, and then she ended up divorcing him.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Yep. Got in with some crackpot psychiatrist who told her E.J. was ‘enabling’ her. Whatever that means. That she had major issues. Whatever that means. And she ditched him, leaving behind their two children, ran off to Virginia Beach and opened up an ice cream stand on the boardwalk. Says she’s never been happier. ‘All the fresh air and sunshine is what I needed, E.J. I just needed to be free to be happy. And you couldn’t make me happy.’ ”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle at his mimicking voice. “I’m sorry, but you sounded so funny.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not your problem anyway, Charmaine. I’m sorry I’m going on about it, but you’re so easy to talk to.”

  “I try to be openhearted.”

  “Ma is like that, too.”

  I smiled. “That’s nice, Harlan. She sounds like a good woman.”

  He walked me back to our boarding house and stood with me by the steps that led up the side of the building to our floor. “I know you didn’t want to talk about yourself, Charmaine. I wanted you to know that I knew. I didn’t want you to think all I cared about was myself.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Because people look at preachers that way, you know. And I guess it’s deserved. But I’m trying not to be one of those. I’m trying to be a good, decent man.”

  I looked at him and knew something. I knew that my father was definitely NOT a man like Harlan Hopewell.

  “You’re going to be around for two weeks, then?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe one night you can come hear the Songbirds over at the casino. You don’t have to gamble or nothing like that!”

  He laughed. “I’d like that.”

  “And you can meet Grace. She needs Jesus so badly, Harlan.”

  “We all do.”

  “I get scared for her, though.”

  “What nights do you sing?”

  “Every night but Monday and Tuesday.”

  We made arrangements for him to come late Friday night, after the service at the mission. But I knew I’d see him before then. I knew that for the first time in my life I’d met a man who was capable of carrying my baggage.

  I said good-bye and let myself into our little room. Grace lay asleep on her bed. The room stank. She’d turned the heat up ful
l blast. I almost threw something at her.

  Shameful. The girl was so shameful. How could she waste her youth, her beauty, and the love invested in her by her parents on dates for drinks? So far she’d been able to keep these dates at arm’s length. Or so she claimed. But luck like that runs out sooner or later. At least I didn’t wish that on her.

  I continued working on the Santa costumes, sitting on the outside steps, sewing the final sequined holly leaves onto the hats. I fumed in Grace’s direction and I despised her with such strength I hoped the girl would never wake up and do us all a favor.

  Oh, Lord! I prayed, the thought sending fire of another sort of shame through my arteries and up to my head, causing it to bow further. I thought of the Woman at the Well again and how Jesus didn’t judge her.

  But the anger wouldn’t leave me.

  Grace woke up an hour later and scraped herself off the bed and down the hall to the bathroom where I assumed she retched up those free pretzels and peanuts.

  I hurried inside.

  On the bed, a large bloodstain sank into the bedding. I knew Grace had her period last week. Women’s cycles always seem to get in sync when they live together and we were already on the same wavelength in the menstruation department.

  Did she know?

  Did she remember what had happened during her drunken stupor?

  Had she been raped or was this something else?

  I quickly stripped the bed, folded a towel in half and placed it over the stain on the mattress and pulled on fresh sheets.

  Groaning, Grace entered the room just as I was finishing and fell into the bed. “Oh, Charmaine, I feel just awful.”

  “Go back to sleep honey. I’m right here. You’ll be okay soon. Just sleep it off.”

  Had I done it? Had I protected her from herself?

  Nobody can protect you from yourself, Myrtle Charmaine.

  But I knew how things festered deep within the mind. Things the person who owned that very brain didn’t even know existed.

  See I’ve got my own demons. I know this. I know it right well and so far in the years since Mama left I’ve been able to somehow keep them quiet. But they’ll come out someday. Or maybe somebody is going to drag them out of me.