Sing for Me

by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

  Ira, Dex, and Jim are backstage now. They grin at me, nod at Rob. A white towel flashes as Ira mops the sweat from his brow. At some point he must have taken off his tuxedo jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves; the veins in his arms bulge from the hard work of drumming. Dex drops into a chair and starts cleaning the inside of his clarinet with a brush. Jim squats down by an open kit bag, digs out a jar of salve, opens the jar, and dunks his thumb inside like Peter Pumpkin Eater pulling out a plum. Only Jim just pulls out his thickly coated thumb and tenderly massages the salve into the tip. The callus there has split, and so has the nail. Guess plucking away at a bass for hours can do that.

  There’s a movement at the door, and Theo enters, his smile lighting up the room.

  “What a night!” He’s about to say more, but then his bright smile fades. He’s seen Rob.

  But Rob’s eyes are clear tonight. He holds out his hand to Theo, and Theo takes it. They shake hands, man to man. The way Rob might shake with another white man, or, I suppose, Theo might shake hands with another black man.

  Rob says, “She’s my cousin. You’ll take good care of her?”

  “I will,” Theo says. The other Chess Men say they will, too.

  “I’ll take good care of them, too,” I say, which makes everyone laugh, even me. Tired and giddy with laughter, I lean into Theo again. His hand touches the small of my back, supporting me. What’s happening here? Something’s happening. His touch is tender. I don’t want him to take his hand away.

  Rob goes to the door. Only when he’s in the hallway does he look back. He clasps his hands together and raises them to his chin in an appeal that surely extends to me and may extend to God. The gesture takes my breath away; it’s something a much older person would do—someone from our parents’ generation, perhaps, or, more likely, our grandparents’. “Be careful,” Rob says over his clenched hands. “Be careful together.” And then he’s gone.

  Theo is beside me. That’s what turned Rob into our grandfather.

  The other Chess Men are packing up their instruments now. Theo busies himself organizing sheet music into folders. He takes notes on tonight’s playlist, and jots down ideas for what Friday might hold. He says good night to the others, then turns to me. He doesn’t ask if I need a ride. He simply nods. Yes, I’ll take care of you. I follow him from the room, keeping a safe distance as we wend our way out the back door and into the alley, where his car waits.

  We are silent the whole way home, him in front, me in back. Only when Theo pulls up in front of the apartment does he speak.

  “So, Friday?” It is still dark, but the streetlight illuminates his face. He looks weary, yet hopeful. “You’ll be our vocalist again?”

  I nod, and there’s his smile.

  “Could you arrive a little earlier on Friday, though—say, eight? It would be good if we could put in a little more practice.”

  “Eight is fine by me.”

  Theo’s smile fades as he glances warily at the apartment building. “Are you sure it will be fine with your family, though?”

  I tell him not to worry. I’m not sure how, but I’ll make it fine.

  THIRTEEN

  Wednesday and Thursday pass as Wednesday and Thursday will. Friday is on the horizon. When I finally sleep on Thursday night, I dream that I am running through dark streets in my blue dress, running and running, trying to get somewhere—where I don’t know, but I know it’s a place as important as my life. Someone is chasing me; I hear footsteps not so far behind. Someone will catch me if they can, stop me if they do. I run harder. I am almost there. Then a hand comes down on my shoulder.

  Someone is shaking me awake. It is dark and cold. Friday—it’s Friday. I was supposed to arrive at Calliope’s at seven. If it’s this dark, I must be late. I must have taken a short nap after work, and it turned into a long one.

  “Rose.”

  Mother’s voice. Mother’s hand on my shoulder, drawing me from my dreams.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly six.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I can make it to Calliope’s by eight.

  “Wake up, Rose.” Mother raises her voice. “Sophy, you, too. We have to get some breakfast into you both.”

  I’m aware now of Sophy’s warm weight in the bed. Sophy never takes naps in the late afternoon or early evening. If she does, she won’t sleep at night. She mumbles something into her pillow. Something that sounds like a version of “not hungry yet.”

  I rub my eyes, confused. “Breakfast? Don’t you mean dinner?”

  “Not unless you want to have dinner for breakfast. I’ve got oatmeal on the stove. Come on.” Mother gives me another shake. “Hurry now. We can’t be late.”

  Nearly six in the cold, dark morning. That’s what time it is. The day still stretches before us.

  Sophy groans.

  “Late for what?” I dread the answer; it’s lurking like a shadow at the back of my mind.

  “The Nygaards, sleepyhead! Zane’s party.” Mother clucks her tongue. “I told you about this after church last Sunday, Rose. Remember?”

  “I guess I forgot.”

  Mother heads for the bedroom door. “Bring only a work dress today, Rose. Tomorrow you’ll pack a nicer one for the party. Quickly now!”

  Mother hurries from the room. A snore escapes from Sophy. Clearly, Mother’s words had no effect on her. On me, they had plenty. Wide awake, I sit bolt upright in bed. If I know Mrs. Nygaard, she will have us cleaning until late tonight to prepare for her party, and tomorrow, the party itself will go late into the night. I will not make tonight’s eight o’clock rehearsal and performance. Or tomorrow night’s, either. And if I don’t show up at the performance, the Chess Men will never perform at Calliope’s again.

  I need to come up with a good excuse to slip away.

  I go to the closet, rifle through my small collection of work dresses, pull the cleanest one from its hanger, and put it on.

  If only excuses could be found in closets.

  In spite of the cold, we’re sweating, Mother, Sophy, and I, pressed so close together at the back of the El car that the heat we gathered during our dash to the station continues to intensify. Mother has taken the seat by the window. Sophy sits on her lap, her back braced against the glass. I sit beside Mother, with Sophy’s legs stretched across my thighs. So far, so good. Sophy hasn’t had a spasm we weren’t able to control. The wheelchair stands in the aisle beside me; I hold tightly to it to keep it from rolling off down the aisle. Once, on a trip like this, the wheelchair got away from me; it banged into a conductor, nearly knocking him off his feet, and he asked us to leave the train. Learned my lesson that day, standing with Mother and Sophy on the El platform in the pouring rain.

  Mother’s breathing hard—too hard. I suck in a slower, deeper breath for her, and for Sophy, too, just in case. And for myself.

  Still haven’t come up with a good excuse.

  At least we’re on the right train, barreling inelegantly toward posh Hyde Park and the Nygaards’ mansion. At the El station, two trains passed above us while we waited for the kind stranger in the brown, grease-stained coat who helped us carry the chair, then Sophy, up two flights of stairs to the platform. The next train that came was packed with people. Finally this one arrived, and there was a car that wasn’t so crowded. We could leverage ourselves inside and down the aisle. Now Sophy is nodding off; Mother, too. I stare out the window, too tired to close my burning eyes. Buildings flash past, and the people below, the cars and trolleys, and time. Tonight—what might have been, what might still be—feels as distant as last night’s dream.

  The train lurches in a new direction. If I’m correct, we’re nearing Bronzeville now. I search for landmarks, but nothing catches my eye. The sidewalks are filled with people bustling off to punch the clock. Not a white person to be seen at this time of day. Once this would have disconcerted me. Now I only hope to catch a glimpse of Theo, or Mary, or Mrs. Chastain.

  The train banks abruptly
east toward the lake. Sophy and Mother sleep on. In spite of her frailty, Sophy’s legs are growing heavy. I adjust her weight and rest my head on Mother’s shoulder.

  A rotten stench startles me upright. I must have nodded off, too. We are passing close to the stockyards now. The odor brings tears to my eyes. I cup my right hand over my nose and mouth, my left hand over Sophy’s. This smell, if anything, will surely upset her, and when she’s upset, she’s at risk for something worse. When Sophy and I give muffled groans of discontent, Mother’s eyebrows draw together in irritation. From behind the sleeve of her coat, she reprimands us. We should count our blessings, she says. Dad could be working in a slaughterhouse. Or I could. Or Mother herself. We could be meat packers instead of what we are.

  “What are we, exactly?”

  Mother gives me a sharp glance. “We are clean folk with good manners. We don’t bring this smell into our home.”

  With her voice still muffled by her coat sleeve, she reminds me that before she met Dad she was housekeeper for the mayor of Luck, Wisconsin. She learned about the finer things of life doing that job. Dad learned about them as a sailor, exploring port cities. They’ve passed this knowledge on to their children. We should always remember, never forget, the fine things we’ve learned, Mother says. We have surrounded ourselves with them in the past. We will surround ourselves with them in the future.

  I interrupt her. “Sometimes the fine things in life are different for different people. A stockyard worker might think his life is just fine. Who’s to say it isn’t?”

  “If the stockyards are so fine, then why are we trying not to breathe this very air?” Mother’s tongue works at her cheek, prodding the back molar that has been troubling her so. “I imagine there are many down in the yards who would trade much more than a day’s work for a trip to the dentist.”

  Sophy and I exchange grim looks. We didn’t realize that this trip would also include a dental visit to Dr. Nygaard—an additional benefit of our employment we’ve yet to take advantage of. Makes sense, I suppose, that our checkups should occur this weekend. Dr. Nygaard’s office is in his house. Mother’s teeth, and Sophy’s, too, need attention. As for me, I like sweets well enough. It’s only a matter of time before my own teeth are in trouble, too.

  We rattle on. The air improves as the train moves forward, but it’s some time before Sophy will let me lower my hand from her nose and mouth. Finally the train grinds to a halt. We are in Hyde Park. I push the wheelchair aside and slide from beneath Sophy’s legs. Mother manages to stand, too. Hefting Sophy in her arms, she staggers to the door of the train and out onto the platform. I’m right behind with the wheelchair. The platform’s wide, wooden boards tremble beneath our feet as the train thunders off. Mother settles Sophy into the wheelchair, then catches her breath and balance. I look around, hoping, but there is no kind man in a brown, grease-stained coat to be seen. In fact, the platform is empty.

  “The stairs.” Mother points. “We can’t wait around for help that won’t come.”

  I wheel Sophy to the stairs. There, Mother and I weave our arms together and make a place for her to sit. A princess chair, Dad named this configuration of our arms. We wrestle Sophy forward and scoop her up. We manage to carry her down thirteen stairs, navigate the landing, and carry her down another flight of thirteen. At the bottom Mother and I collapse onto a bench with Sophy still wedged between us.

  “The hardest part is almost over.” Mother is trying to be reassuring, I know, but given the household tasks that await us, her words fall flat. She adjusts Sophy’s hat and coat, murmuring, “There, there.” Mother gives me a look, then, and I know what I must do. I can feel Sophy’s worried eyes on me as I climb back up the stairs. I can feel her eyes on me as I push the wheelchair down twenty-six stairs, twenty-six jarring bumps to the sidewalk.

  “Hardest part, over and done with.” I add my reassurance to Mother’s. Again, it falls flat. I still haven’t thought of an excuse to escape, after all. Thinking of an excuse is proving to be the hardest part for me.

  We head into Hyde Park. What was a cold, gray morning has turned drizzly. Mother reminds us that we only have a few blocks to walk, and then she sets off down the sidewalk. I trudge along behind, pushing Sophy. The wheelchair spews slush on my shoes. Icy water runs down the back of my neck.

  By the time we arrive at the ornate wrought-iron fence that guards the Nygaards’ enormous brownstone, my feet and ankles are sopping wet. Mother straightens her hat, marches up the walk and past the bronze lions that roar silently on the front porch. I stay with Sophy on the sidewalk. Mother raises the knocker and lets it fall with a thud against the massive door.

  The door swings open. A slight, silvery-haired man dressed in full butler’s livery stands at the threshold. He scowls at the sight of us. Mother bravely wishes him good morning; still he looks down his nose at us.

  “You were expected at the back entrance.”

  A flush saturates Mother’s throat and cheeks. She apologizes, and asks for the butler’s help carrying Sophy inside. The butler’s training gets the better of him and he complies, negotiating another princess chair with Mother. Sophy grimaces. Me, too. When Sophy is awkwardly in their arms and finally inside, I start to wrestle the wheelchair up the front steps. But the butler pokes his head out and gestures toward the back of the house, the door there.

  Down his nose he looks. “Mind the rules, you.”

  The back entry leads to a mudroom. I park the wheelchair there and go inside to the kitchen, which is blessedly warm and empty. There are freshly baked rolls cooling on the counter. It seems hours since that oatmeal. I lean over the rolls now, breathe in their buttery scent, and my mouth waters.

  Footsteps sound at the kitchen door. I whirl around, expecting to see the butler. Instead Mrs. Nygaard stands before me, a drooping calla lily in her hand.

  “Well, well.” Her voice is languid and cool. “I see you’ve made yourself right at home.”

  Her sarcasm is not lost on me. My ability to respond to it, however, is.

  She turns on her heel to leave the kitchen, tossing the faded flower into the garbage bin as she goes. “Follow me,” she says without so much as a backward glance.

  I follow.

  My first job, Mrs. Nygaard reveals, is to clean the ashtrays. They had a smaller get-together last night and are still cleaning up the mess. “There should be fifteen,” Mrs. Nygaard clarifies. “About two in every room on the first floor. You can worry about the second floor later.”

  I blink at her. Good Danish Baptists don’t smoke. But then good Danish Baptists don’t find excuses—or desperately try to find excuses—to slip away to Calliope’s, either.

  The corners of Mrs. Nygaard’s mouth tip down in her version of a smile. “You needn’t worry, Rose. The ashtrays are for our guests, not us.” And she drifts off to another part of the house.

  What Mrs. Nygaard neglected to mention, I realize shortly, is that ashtrays—at least the Nygaards’ ashtrays—can prove difficult to locate. I find them in the strangest places, places I’d never have thought to look and might not have found if it hadn’t been for Sophy. While Mother polishes silver, I wheel Sophy about the first floor of the house, and we turn ashtray hunting into a game. Sophy seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to finding them. Look under that settee, her eyes tell me, and there, sullying the carpet, lies a crystal bowl of lipstick-stained butts. Now behind that game table, Sophy says with a jerk of her head. On that marble mantel. Beside that toilet.

  My fingers are gray and chalky by the time we’ve worked our way through all the rooms. All told, we’ve stacked thirteen ashtrays on the kitchen counter.

  Mrs. Nygaard, who is discussing the party menu with the cook, frowns at the stacks. “You’re missing two.” Mrs. Nygaard has high cheekbones and pale, thin lips she shades with coral-colored lipstick. Her eyes are the very color of the ash that coats my hands. Her blond hair crowns her head in a cap of chic coils. I always think she’s beautiful until I tak
e a second look, and my gaze snags on the hook of her nose. And now the smoldering ash of her eyes. “Please do locate them,” she says. “Then use a toothbrush and vinegar and make them gleam.”

  Sophy and I finally find an ashtray beneath a teacup on a library bookshelf. The last one caps the head of the marble angel guarding the doorway to the conservatory. The game isn’t fun anymore. Sophy seems tired and sad. I balance the ashtray on my own head, mimic the angel’s pose, and manage to wrest a smile from her. To make her laugh, I do a little dance, one I saw at Calliope’s. Dancing, I can’t help but sing:

  Forget your troubles

  Come on get happy

  Sophy looks past me, and her eyes widen. She stops laughing. I turn to find Zane standing just behind me. He’s wearing a white shirt and vest, white slacks, white shoes. He holds a tennis racket.

  “Working hard, Rose?”

  “Yes.” I take the ashtray from my head and slip it into the pocket of my apron. I smell like ashes. Sophy smells like ashes, too. Zane smells like bay rum. He studies Sophy and me. His eyes are nearly the same gray as his mother’s, but they have a warmer cast.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “About what?” I keep my voice nonchalant. Acknowledging humiliation only makes it worse. I’ve learned that.

  “This.” Zane gestures at the rooms all around, then points the round head of his racket at his chest. “You should be our guests, not our—”

  I hold up my hands—stop!—because I can’t bear to see myself and my family through Zane’s eyes.

  “We better get back to work.” I wheel Sophy in her chair away from Zane.

  I’m halfway down the hall when I hear Zane’s uneven step, the drag of his right foot across the floor. I turn back to him. “Is there something you need?”

  He shrugs. “I was wondering if Sophy might like to escape, that’s all. Our neighbors the Sloanes have an indoor tennis court, and they’ve invited me to play. Their house is just a stone’s throw away. They’re a lovely elderly couple. I imagine you’ll like them just fine, Sophy, and I know they’ll like you.” Zane pats his racket against his right leg. The gesture reveals how thin and frail his thigh is. “Neither Mr. Sloane nor I are up for much of a contest, so the game won’t go on for too long, I promise you. Then we’ll have something to eat and drink, and enjoy their new record player. They have quite a music collection. Everyone from Mozart to Mezzrow.”