Sing for Me

by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

  Envy courses through me. But then I see Sophy’s sparkling eyes, her sweet, happy smile, and my envy abates. When has she ever really escaped in her life?

  “You’d like that?” I ask her.

  She kisses the air yes.

  “It’s settled, then,” Zane says. “Least I can do is make one person happy while everyone else is working to make me happy.”

  He seems to know where the butler has stashed Sophy’s coat. He heads off to retrieve it and returns quickly, having done just that.

  “Keep her safe,” I tell him, buttoning Sophy’s coat.

  “Sure thing.”

  Zane sounds so cavalier, I can’t help but worry. I watch as he pushes her away. Then they are gone, and I am left with two ashtrays and a handful of hours until eight o’clock.

  I work like the dickens, washing, dusting, polishing. By lunchtime, even Mrs. Nygaard is impressed with all I’ve accomplished. The cook serves Mother and me split pea soup and a few of those delicious rolls. As we eat at the kitchen table, Mrs. Nygaard reveals what’s left on the to-do list for today. There are rugs to be beaten, bathrooms to be cleaned, and ovens to be scoured. Tablecloths, napkins, and hand towels to be ironed. Lightbulbs to be changed, candelabra to be arranged. We must finish the first floor today so we can come back early tomorrow and address the more public rooms on the second floor, then set up for the party.

  “And our appointments?” Mother asks. “For our teeth?”

  Mrs. Nygaard frowns. “Oh, yes. He told me to tell you. At the end of the day when everything’s been accomplished, that’s when he can fit you in.”

  My heart sinks. The day just got longer.

  The doorbell rings and Mrs. Nygaard goes to receive a delivery. Mother has more silver to polish in the dining room, so I quickly wash up our lunch things. I’m cleaning the sink when I notice a phone mounted on the wall before me, and beneath it the directory for the Danish Baptist Church.

  In the past month, I’ve acted without permission and broken the rules more so than ever before in my life. I do so again now. I dial Theo’s number—a number I know by heart. The Chastains’ phone rings and rings, but there’s no answer. My heart thuds in my chest. Time is wasting. Help, I pray, and another idea strikes me. I wonder, dialing Rob’s work number, which I also memorize fearing a situation just like this, if these new impulses of mine are born of choice, or if they’re becoming pure habit, or if they’re gifts from God. I swallow hard, press the receiver to my ear. Then there’s the operator’s voice on the other end of the line. She says she’ll have Rob paged. After a few minutes, he comes to the phone.

  “Mother? Are you all right?”

  “Can you talk? I’ll be quick, I promise.”

  Rob draws in a sharp breath. “Rose! What on earth are you doing, calling me here? I’ve only been at this job a few days!”

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t an emergency.”

  I tell him then where I am, where I want to be tonight, and how important it is that I get there. “If you ever want to hear the Chess Men play again, you’ll help me,” I say. And then I ask Rob for a ride.

  “How are you going to get out of there? I highly doubt the Nygaards have a fire escape. And how in God’s name are your mother and Sophy going to make it home without your help?”

  My knees go weak. How could I have been so thoughtless, or thoughtful only of myself—where I needed to be and how I needed to get there.

  I lean against the wall, try to get my balance. And then I see the boxes of candles for Zane’s cake, all lined up in a neat row on the counter, and I know the answer.

  “Just be here by seven and I’ll be waiting at the corner, I promise.”

  “You owe me a song, Laerke.” Without further ado, Rob hangs up the phone.

  “I’ll pay up. Don’t worry,” I say to the buzz of disconnection.

  I find Zane and Sophy in the library, safely returned from their escape. Sophy’s cheeks are still pink from the fresh air. Zane has positioned her wheelchair by a large window, and together they watch a cardinal feasting at the birdfeeder just outside. I go quickly to them, and only the flash of red glancing past the glass and their startled gasps reveal the stillness that I’ve disturbed.

  “I have to ask you something, Zane.” My words are garbled; I’m talking all in a rush.

  Sophy glares.

  “I’m sorry.” I press my hand to my throat. I can feel my blood surging there, the rapid throb of my beating heart. “I’ll leave you in peace, quick as can be. I just need to ask—Zane, can you do me a favor? Can you drive Sophy and Mother home tonight? I have somewhere I need to be.”

  Zane’s eyes widen at my tone. He understands. With a reassuring glance to Sophy, he draws me from the room. In the hallway, we exchange whispered words about where, and when, and why. Again, he promises he’ll keep Sophy safe, and Mother, too. I thank him, thank him, thank him. And then I get back to work.

  I fly through Mrs. Nygaard’s list, tackling rugs, bathrooms, and ovens, while Mother does the ironing. It’s seven o’clock by the time I’ve changed all the lightbulbs. Mother is still working on the candelabra. I return to the library and find Sophy sitting by a crackling fire now, tucked under a soft blanket. Zane has taken good care of her over the course of this long day. I touch her shoulder, rousing her gently. Blinking sleepily, she smiles up at me. She finds a way to tell me about the birds she saw at the feeder and in the trees, the winsome squirrels, the swift fox, the rabbit that just managed to escape him. Spring must be on its way, I tell her, if there was a rabbit. Her smile widens. But then I tell her that my work here is done. “I’m going to leave now,” I say, and her smile fades.

  “Tell me,” she says, and the why is in those words.

  I hesitate. There’s no time for the truth, I decide. The truth would take too much explanation. Anyway, I’m not sure how Sophy will take it when it comes. And the truth will have to come. I’ve never been able to keep secrets from Sophy for long. When I tell her my secret, the truth, I want to be able to stick around. She might need me.

  For now, I’ll try out my excuse on her.

  “Nils called . . . And this way, with Zane’s help, you and Mother will be able to get home a little earlier. It’ll be fun, riding home in Zane’s car, Sophy. And heaven knows it will be nice to get a little extra sleep before tomorrow.”

  “Fancy car,” Sophy says.

  I nod. “You better believe Zane’s got a fancy car.”

  “Oh. I believe.”

  Her dry tone makes me laugh. But then her expression goes sober.

  “Nils.” She draws out his name as if she’s testing it for believability.

  “Yes, Nils. You know how Mother and Dad feel about him.” I force out the half-truth. No, call it what it is: the lie.

  Sophy screws up her mouth, doubtful and confused, but then she says okay. “Have fun,” she tells me.

  Guiltily, I hurry from the room, find Mother, and tell my tale again. It feels no better that Mother practically shoos me out the door, saying she’ll make my excuses to Mrs. Nygaard. “We’ll be fine with Zane. You be home early enough to rise and shine, Rose!” Mother calls after me. “And make sure and thank Nils again for all his lovely gifts of late. The dill, the butter—you know.”

  I know. And I will thank him. First chance I have, tonight or tomorrow, I’m going to call Nils and thank him and apologize for turning him into a good excuse. The best of excuses, that’s what he is, and of course he’s so much more than that. He’s the best of Danish-American men. I’m going to tell him so, and ask his forgiveness, and together we’ll make a plan to really and truly do something special soon. Adler Planetarium Point on a starry night. We could do that. Or the train yards and freight cars where insects are aplenty—that, too. Whatever Nils wants, we’ll do it. We’ll go there. And if he asks to come to Calliope’s and hear me sing, well, that would be wonderful, too.

  I grab my coat and pocketbook, fly past the startled butler,
and out the front door—yes, the front door! Down the sidewalk I go to the corner.

  Long minutes pass during which I wait beneath the streetlamp.

  Then there’s a rumbling of gears and the rattletrap DeSoto with Rob inside rounds the corner, and now I’m inside the car, too. Never mind that I’m wearing an old black work dress. I’ve made my escape.

  FOURTEEN

  It is just after eight when Rob drops me off in front of Calliope’s, then drives on to park the car. The place is already crowded and noisy. From so far back, I’m unable to catch even a glimpse of the stage. I make my way forward until I’m just behind the first row of tables, and only then do I see: the stage is empty. The opening band must be taking a break between sets, mingling with the crowd. Here’s my opportunity to get back to the little practice room. I weave my way past one person after the next, hike up my black dress, clamber over the footlights, and duck behind the red velvet curtain.

  But the little practice room proves empty.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing here?”

  I spin around at the sound of a man’s accusing voice. George, the hollow-chested stage manager, stands in the doorway.

  “Backstage is off-limits—” He stops abruptly, and peers over his horn-rimmed glasses at me. “You’re that singer from Tuesday night.”

  I nod.

  George smirks. “Didn’t recognize you in that getup.”

  I look down at my dress. I hadn’t noticed the bleach stains and dirt on the black fabric before this moment. It’s worse than I’d imagined. No wonder he didn’t recognize me. The fact that I don’t have on a smidgen of makeup probably doesn’t help matters, either.

  I run my hand through my hair, smoothing stray strands into place. “Where are the fellows?”

  George shrugs. “Thought maybe you could tell me. Theo said they’d be here by now, practicing.”

  “Have they been late like this before?”

  “Never. And wouldn’t you know it? Tonight of all nights. The other band’s bus broke down, so they’re stranded in the middle of God-knows-where Kansas. Thought maybe you all could cover. The natives are getting restless out there.”

  “Theo and the fellows will show up soon. I’m sure of it.” I sound surer than I feel.

  “They better. There’s a lot of hungry musicians out there right now, drowning their sorrows at the bar, begging for a chance to play. The boss is keeping his eyes peeled for the best candidates.” George’s glasses have slipped too far down his nose; he pokes them into place. “You all may be good, but that doesn’t make you irreplaceable. Look at Lilah. Even Lilah wasn’t irreplaceable. My advice, missy, make some phone calls, track your mates down. You’ve got twenty minutes to report some good news. Otherwise I’ll get someone else to cover for the God-knows-where band, and if that someone happens to make the natives happy, and the boss, too—well, I might just ask them to play the night away. And things won’t end up well for you, if you know what I mean. The Chess Men have already pushed the boss a little too far as it is.”

  George turns and goes. Twenty minutes and counting, and he’ll have consulted with his boss, scouted the bar for hungry musicians, and picked the best of the lot.

  I start searching the room for a phone. When I find it, I’ll try Theo’s house again. Maybe someone will be home by now—Mrs. Chastain or Mary, but not Theo, because he will be on his way here. He has to be on his way here. Mrs. Chastain or Mary will simply tell me how long it will be before he arrives. They’ll tell me Dex, Ira, and Jim are with him. They’re running late, that’s all. They’ll be here in plenty of time.

  That’s what Mrs. Chastain and Mary will tell me.

  But there’s no phone to be found in this little back room.

  I run out into the club. In my hurry crossing the stage, I bump against the microphone. It’s on. The rasping sound of my shoulder against it bounces around Calliope’s. People look, look away. In this dress, I am the girl who does the cleaning. Fine by me. One benefit of wearing an ugly, dirty dress and looking unkempt (to put it nicely) is that you can slip through the crowd like a shadow. Shadow-like, I make my way to the bar. It takes some time to get a bartender’s attention. I have to shout to be heard. He points at the coatroom. Apparently there’s a phone back there.

  I duck and scurry my way to where the coat-check girl sits behind her half-door. Tonight her blond hair is curled, the scrolls and loops as elaborate as fancy frosting on a cake. She exhales and a cloud of cigarette smoke engulfs me. I peer through it and over her shoulder and, yes, mounted on the far wall of the coat closet is a phone. When I ask to use it, the coat-check girl holds out a hand, palm up. I don’t have a thing to give her for a tip. Not a penny or a piece of candy or a stick of gum. When I tell her this, she shrugs. “Sorry. Them’s the rules.” I say please please please may I, please, until she says, “Shut up, or I’m going to have you kicked out.”

  I shut up. I shadow my way backstage to the empty practice room again. I could take this as a sign from God: You shouldn’t sing these kinds of songs. Or worse: You shouldn’t sing at all. I could go home, lie down, give up.

  Or not.

  Or I could cover for the Chess Men, and I will, because they wouldn’t be late—not if they could help it. Theo and the others are only late because something has gone very wrong.

  A weight like a cold stone settles heavily in my chest at this thought.

  The microphone was on. All I have to do is walk up to it and sing.

  The weight grows heavier.

  Just that little thing all by myself. That’s all I have to do.

  “Ha.” My voice seems to float in the air before me, small and lonely. “Ha!” Louder this time. I believe in my voice, I remind myself, and others are relying on it. I say this to myself until the weight in my chest lightens. Just barely it lightens, but I can take a deep breath now and that helps.

  The mirror hanging by the door helps, too, once I’ve forced myself to look into it. With the mirror’s help, I try to make myself passably presentable. I take my hair down from its messy bun and run my fingers through it until it frames my face well enough. With a relatively clean towel, I rub my cheeks until they turn pink. My eyes are wide and bright with excitement—with fear, truth be told. But no one needs to be told that. Let the people out there simply see my eyes, wide and bright. As for my dress . . . well, there’s not much to be done with it except brush away the dirt with the towel.

  I am brushing at my sleeve when, reflected in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of something sparkling bright as a diamond on the top shelf of an open locker behind me. I go to the locker. The sparkling bright something is nearly hidden behind wads of dirty socks and T-shirts. Intent as a magpie, I reach for it. It is thin and cold and hard to my touch. I pull it out. It is a belt made of rhinestones. A belt as bright as diamonds that is surely Lilah’s.

  When Mother and Dad were first married and lived in a little house in Luck, the diamond fell from Mother’s wedding ring. It was a little diamond—nothing more than a flawed chip—but it was the only valuable thing Mother owned, the testament of her husband’s love, and she searched for it for days that turned into weeks. The space on the silver band where it had been gaped at her, day in, day out, as nagging and worrisome as a missing tooth. Months passed. The whole season of winter passed. Then early one Monday morning, she stood at the sink doing dishes, looking out at the clean laundry drying on the line. A breeze snapped the sheets and shook the blades of grass below, on which dew sparkled. One drop in particular sparkled more brightly than all the rest. The wind stilled, yet the tiny drop sparkled on, brighter than ever. Strange thing was, the sun had gone behind a cloud. Mother stared. Blinked. Gave a yelp and ran outside, her soapy hands dripping. She knelt down over the bright drop of dew and found her lost diamond. “A miracle,” she said. “Just when I had all but given up hope.”

  I cinch Lilah’s belt around my waist and turn back to the mirror. What it does for my black work dress isn’t a mir
acle, exactly. But it’s close enough.

  I go to the door, open it. George isn’t standing there, waiting for a report, but in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he will be. My twenty minutes are up.

  I take a step forward. Feels like I’m diving off a cliff, diving into shallow, rocky water, as I walk onstage. The place is as noisy as it’s ever been, and the lights are as bright, for which I’m grateful. With the microphone in front of me, I can almost pretend I’m still a shadow. Only the diamond belt has enough pizzazz to catch someone’s eye. George’s. He’s standing at the foot of the stage, staring up at me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he says.

  This is his job, I guess, to keep tabs on who’s where and why. I lean away from the microphone so it won’t pick up my voice. “Singing.”

  “Where’s your backup?”

  I don’t answer. Whatever I say, it won’t make a difference to George. He’ll let me stay up here and do the best I can alone, or he won’t. I lean back into the microphone again.

  “Nice belt!” a man hollers from the audience. Someone laughs, and others join in.

  In readying myself, I didn’t plan what song to sing. Now, not a note or verse is coming to me. I close my eyes, trying to clear my head and still my mind.

  “Great. Another off night at Calliope’s,” a man snaps.

  A woman says, “I’m heading for the Sunset Café. Anyone care to join me?”

  And then: “Laerke! Open your eyes!”

  I look down to see Rob, standing by George at the foot of the stage.

  Rob folds his arms across his chest and takes the strongest stance he can. “You owe me a song, remember? ‘Happy Days Are Here Again!’ That’s my request. Sing it. Now, Laerke. Now.”