Sing for Me

by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

  Nils watches me for a moment. “No one’s getting hurt, right? Especially you?”

  “No! Everything’s fine! I’m better than fine!”

  “I guess I can keep your secret, then. For a little while.”

  He forces a smile. I wish it inspired one in me. But I’m too busy thinking of Theo and the others last night, bruised and bleeding.

  “No one’s getting hurt,” I say. Another lie. “No one will get hurt.” Plagued by guilt again, and doubt, too, I somehow make this sound like a promise.

  Not an hour later, Mother tells me that Rob called the Nygaards’ house and left a message for me. His mother is sick. He’ll have to stay with her tonight. “Though why he thought you needed to know this, I have no idea,” Mother says.

  I know why. In just a few hours, I’ll have to find another way to Calliope’s. Another way home for Sophy and Mother. I’ll have to find another way to lie.

  Once upon a time, I might have said that Zane’s birthday party was in full swing. Now that I’ve been to Calliope’s, I have to say this party’s got no swing. Not seven o’clock at night, and most of the guests are yawning, having consumed a rich dinner. After an ardent conversation among some of the women about the latest bestselling novel, Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind—“I’ve never read the like! Such a fascinating portrayal of plantation life.” “I know. All those slaves! So loyal!” “And the passion! It kept me up nights, I’ll tell you!”—the conversation falters. Each and every person, even Zane, looks bored. No wonder so many of the guests rely on cigarettes for something to do. If come nine o’clock tonight, they’re all still this bored, maybe one of them will take me to Calliope’s. Maybe someone else can take Sophy and Mother home.

  I’m just about desperate enough to ask.

  At least Sophy’s not in the midst of all this smoke. She’s safely tucked away in the kitchen with Mother, who’s arranging twenty-five candles on Zane’s cake. Nils is in the kitchen, too, washing his way through stacks of dishes. Only I am out here in the midst of the revelers, strolling from library to parlor to game room and back again, pushing a tea cart on which stand pots of coffee and tea and stacks of cups and saucers.

  “Miss!”

  I start. I’d been wondering which guests might consider the favor I need to ask. Who at this party besides Zane would venture to the west side of the city? And as for the south side—well, life on a plantation in the pre–Civil War South is one thing. It’s Gone with the Wind in more ways than one. Life in Bronzeville is another thing altogether. It’s right over there, just a few miles away, and I believe most everyone here would like to keep it as distant as antiquity.

  The young lady who Missed me lifts a finger to attract my attention. “Here.”

  I push the tea cart across the library to the window seat where she sits with a young man.

  “I’m terribly thirsty.”

  I study her, this young lady. She’s elfin, a wisp of a waif in a green velvet dress, with a pert nose and a long, slender neck that seems even longer and more slender because her black hair is twisted up in a high French knot. A high school friend did my hair up like this once, back at our other house. She and I were just going out for ice cream, but we pretended we were on our way to a cotillion. We’d read about such events in novels.

  “I said I’m thirsty,” the young lady says.

  She sounds worse than a child, which is how I realize that she is one. She’s probably younger than Sophy. She purses her lips at the young man who sits beside her. He’s about Sophy’s age, too—just a boy, really. He rolls his eyes, understanding his friend’s predicament. Help these days!

  “Cold punch. That’s what’s called for,” she says.

  I bob my head as Mrs. Nygaard directed me to do when presented with a request, then trundle the tea cart off toward the kitchen. I’ve been avoiding Nils all day—or he’s been avoiding me. Regardless, we’ve caught only glimpses of each other. So now I fix a smile on my face in anticipation of encountering him with Mother and Sophy also present. All must appear as it should be between Nils and me.

  But when I trundle the tea cart through the kitchen door, I see only Mother, setting the last candles into place, and Sophy, sitting in her chair. There’s the sound of footsteps descending the cellar stairs; perhaps Nils heard me coming and fled. If I’m feeling concerned about giving myself away, surely he is.

  I pull the kitchen door closed behind me. “The cake looks delicious.”

  Mother goes to the sink and washes her hands. “Only the flowers to add now.” Drying her hands, she nods at a bowl of purple and orange blooms on the table. “They’re edible.”

  I can’t imagine the taste of flowers, but I believe her. In this house, anything is possible, except a ride to Bronzeville. I go to the counter where the punch bowl stands and ladle some into a pitcher. I am setting the cup on the tea cart when the kitchen door swings open and Mrs. Nygaard makes her entrance.

  “It’s time,” she announces.

  “Already?” Mother looks startled. “I thought you said eight o’clock. I’m sorry, Andrea. I’m not quite finished decorating—”

  Mrs. Nygaard cuts her off. “Given the circumstances, I prefer that you address me by my surname, as I’ve repeatedly asked you to do.”

  Sophy hisses softly so that only I hear. I hope only I hear. I hope that Mrs. Nygaard continues to act as if Sophy doesn’t exist. There’s frosting on my sister’s upper lip. Mrs. Nygaard won’t like it if she sees that Mother has been treating Sophy to tastes.

  “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting.” Mother twists her hands together.

  Mrs. Nygaard purses her lips in irritation. “The flowers, please.”

  Mother gets the bowl and starts carefully arranging the blossoms in little clusters on the topmost tier of the cake. She cleans as she decorates, working carefully from top to bottom. But apparently she isn’t working fast enough. Mrs. Nygaard snatches the bowl from Mother and, in a flurry of purple and orange, tosses blossoms hither and yon over the frosting.

  “There.” Mrs. Nygaard sets the empty bowl on the table and pats her hair into place. “Now, then. Zane has made a request, one that surprises me, I must admit, but here it is. Zane wants to hear Rose sing.”

  My hand is at my throat. I swallow hard and lower my hand. It takes some effort to keep from yelping. “Really?” This comes out in a kind of squeak.

  Mrs. Nygaard regards me. “Really.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not prepared.”

  Mother says, “Take off your apron, Rose.”

  Numbly, I obey. I’m wearing another black dress—this one provided by Mrs. Nygaard. It’s a little nicer and cleaner than last night’s, but not much. I run my hands down the skirt, smoothing it. Really, there’s no need to worry, and certainly no need for a sparkling belt. This isn’t a gig, after all. It’s a favor. No, an obligation.

  “ ‘Happy Birthday’?” I ask. “Is that what he’d like to hear?”

  “I assume so,” Mrs. Nygaard says dryly.

  Mother quickly adds, “Just don’t make a spectacle of yourself, dear.”

  “Indeed. Don’t do that.” Mrs. Nygaard presses her fingers to her temples. She appears to have a headache. “Sing the song through once, then lead our guests as you lead the congregation.”

  “You’re singing, Rose?”

  I whirl around at the sound of Nils’s voice. He stands in the cellar doorway. He must have come up the stairs without my hearing. His gaze is troubled.

  “Again?” he asks.

  “What do you mean again?” Mother says.

  “He’s talking about church. It’s been almost two weeks since I sang in church, Nils.” Somehow I am smiling. “But we’re not talking about church. We’re talking about right now, Zane’s party, ‘Happy Birthday.’ ” Dodging the tea cart, I rush to the door. “Where shall I stand to sing, Mrs. Nygaard?”

  She frowns. “Wait a moment.” She points at Mother. “Light the candles.” Points a
t Nils. “Bring the cake into the library when the guests join in singing.” Points at me. “Come.”

  I follow Mrs. Nygaard into the library, where she positions me by the door. Word must have spread; the guests have all gathered here. Dr. Nygaard sits in the warm glow of the fire. Zane stands beside him. Zane knows what’s coming, it’s clear from the way he flicks his eyebrows at me. And suddenly I’m glad to sing for him. It’s the least I can do, given the way he helped me out last night, driving Sophy and Mother safely home. I can wish Zane all happiness with this song.

  I flick my eyebrows back at him, a signal that all is well.

  Mrs. Nygaard raises her hands, quieting the conversation. “As you know, it’s my son’s special day. But then, every day is my son’s special day as far as I’m concerned.”

  Polite laughter fills the room. Zane hides his face in his hands and then looks up, grinning. He appears at ease with this attention. He appears entitled to it.

  Mrs. Nygaard looks at me. “Now,” she says.

  I sing “Happy Birthday.” I sing with all my heart, thanking Zane, blessing this new year of his life as best I can. I work my way through the song. Zane is smiling, happy. I lift my hands so that others will sing along. But no one does, and I want Zane happier yet, so I sing the song again, solo. I improvise a little to keep it interesting. Lift my hands higher, and sing it a third time, slower, so people can join in if they like. Join in now. But still, it’s only me, my voice filling the room.

  Zane beams at me. At least there’s that.

  This time, when the song is finished, I am finished, too. Silence takes up the space where my voice just was. I glance over at Mrs. Nygaard. She is rubbing at her temples again.

  “That’s certainly not the way you sing in church,” she says.

  I’ve changed, I realize. The nights in Bronzeville are changing me, and my voice. Calliope’s is changing me. The Chess Men are changing me. And Theo. My singing is changing for the better, I think. I hope.

  Silence expands all around. I clear my throat to break it. Lift my hands again. “Please,” I say. “Together. Let’s sing.”

  Before anyone can so much as make a peep, someone starts to clap. It’s Zane. Others join in. The applause grows. People stamp their feet. The elfin girl nods proudly at me, like I’m something she created. “Brava!” someone shouts. And others shout, “Encore!”

  “Rose?” Mother says.

  She stands in the kitchen doorway. Nils is there, too, holding a cake on fire. That’s how it appears to me at this moment. The candles’ waxy scent, the lingering odor of sulfur from the many matches Mother must have struck to light the many wicks, wafts toward me. The cake wavers in the heat; Nils sweats from it. But though the green wax is dripping onto the white frosting now, Nils doesn’t carry the cake to Zane. He stands staring at me until Mrs. Nygaard tells him to hurry, hurry, hurry. Mother tears her gaze from me. She heads back to the kitchen as Nils bears the cake over to Zane. After a few attempts, Zane blows out the candles. Applause fills the room again. By the time Nils has set the cake on a side table, Mother has returned, pushing the tea cart, which now holds dessert plates, forks, and napkins.

  “Shall we hear another from our guest singer?” Zane asks as Mother pushes the tea cart over to where Nils stands, cutting the cake. Nils pauses, knife in hand, and gives me a wary look, as does Mother. They needn’t worry. I am finished being the unpaid entertainment for the evening. I am finished revealing my secret passion.

  I start to shake my head, but then I glimpse Mrs. Nygaard’s scowl. Dr. Nygaard plants his hands on his knees and leans forward in his chair. If I decline and anger them, what will happen? I think of our family’s past and our future. I think of Sophy in her wheelchair, sitting close to the kitchen radiator for warmth.

  “What would you like her to sing?” Mrs. Nygaard gives Zane a bright, forced smile, but people think she is putting out a general call for requests. “ ‘Danny Boy,’ ” someone says. And others: “ ‘Greensleeves.’ ” “ ‘America the Beautiful.’ ” “ ‘Keep Your Sunny Side Up!’ ”

  Zane looks at me. “You choose, Rose.”

  Fine. Let everyone else think I’m singing for our supper. The truth is, I’m singing for my sister.

  I close my eyes and pretend I’m surrounded by the Chess Men. I can almost believe I hear Theo’s fingers lightly flying over the piano keys:

  My heart is sad and lonely

  For you I pine, for you, dear, only

  The last verse of “Body and Soul” finished, there’s not a moment of silence. The room erupts. For a moment I keep my eyes closed, taking it all in—the applause and whistles. People are asking where I perform, when I’ll perform again.

  “She doesn’t perform. She sings in church,” Mother says.

  I open my eyes. Mother is handing around plates of cake. She passes by me to retrieve more servings from Nils. As she does, she whispers, “Skam dig.” I don’t know much Danish, but I know this. Shame on you.

  Cake is being eaten. Presents will be opened. There are dishes to be done.

  I go to the kitchen, roll up the sleeves of Mrs. Nygaard’s black work dress—the bruise Dad gave me has gone greenish—and plunge my hands into the water in the sink. Sophy watches me from her chair.

  “Sing,” she says.

  The sound of water sloshing reminds me of all the times I’ve bathed her. I sigh. “ ‘Shall We Gather at the River’? Or ‘Washed in the Blood’?”

  Sophy laughs like I’ve made some kind of joke. “Body. Soul,” she says.

  I turn back to the sink. Grimly scrub at a glass. “I just sang that one, Sophy. And you know Mother doesn’t like those songs.”

  Sophy slams her feet against the chair, startling me. I turn sharply toward her, my hands dripping soapy water on the floor. Her lips are pursed in a pout. She reminds me of someone. The elfin girl demanding cold punch—that’s who Sophy reminds me of at this moment.

  All in a rush I’m tired, very tired, of taking care of other people. And I still don’t have a ride. Not for me or Mother or Sophy. I still haven’t gotten what I need. What we need, I mean.

  “I don’t want to sing right now,” I say. I plunge my hands back into the dishwater. I rinse the glass clean. I wash all the glasses that still need washing. Mother and Nils are bringing in the dirty dessert plates now. Mother won’t talk to me; she hardly looks at me. Nils asks only if I need any help. No, I tell him. I’m fine. Mrs. Nygaard will have something for him to do soon enough, I’m sure.

  And I’m right. Mrs. Nygaard calls Nils and Mother into the other part of the house and sets them to work there. I’m left to tackle the kitchen alone, with Sophy for company. But Sophy, exhausted from the day, is soon asleep in her chair. I work quietly, quickly, plate by plate, fork by fork, setting Mrs. Nygaard’s kitchen right again.

  But what will happen if I leave before the job is completely done? I’m not worried about myself. I’ll endure whatever consequences come my way. But Mother—what might she suffer at the hands of Mrs. Nygaard if I leave things less than perfect?

  By nine o’clock the party is over, the guests are gone, and the kitchen is clean. If I run for the El now, then I could make it to Calliope’s on time. But where would that leave my mother and sister?

  That’s what I’m wondering when Zane bursts into the kitchen, holding two coats, his and mine. “Come on!” He grabs my arm and tugs me past suddenly-wide-awake Sophy to the back door. “I just threw everyone for a real loop.” He’s practically crowing this news. “I told my parents that all I really want for my birthday is to go out on the town with you. I said there’s a singer I’ve been dying to hear who’s finally performing in Bronzeville, and tonight was my only night to hear her. I didn’t say it was you, of course. I simply hinted that you and I might be an item. You should have seen the looks on their faces, Rose! I mean, I know Nils is your fellow, but for tonight, let’s say what we have to, to get where we need to go. Agreed? I’m suffocating in this ho
use. I need to get some fresh air and really celebrate. And as for you—well, you know what you need to do.”

  I shake my head. “Mother and Sophy—”

  Zane shoves his arms into his coat. “Stop worrying. I’ve taken care of that, too. Poole’s got it all worked out with our chauffeur. Sophy and your mother will be luxuriously transported to your place. There are just a few more things to tidy up, and Nils will help. The work will be done in no time.”

  Somehow I’m wearing my coat. Zane must have worked some other magic, slipping it onto me without my knowing.

  Now he opens the door, and Sophy’s voice pierces the air.

  “Singer? Me, too?”

  I turn to her. From her chair by the stove, she stares at me. Her expression is troubled, forlorn. She wants to escape again. She wants to celebrate with Zane. She wants to hear a song.

  “Great idea, Sophy!” Zane glances at me, checking for my okay. “Let’s get you bundled up for the drive.”

  The wind rattles the frost-covered windows. It’s bitterly cold again. There might be another storm brewing. It wouldn’t be safe taking Sophy out on a night like this. If Mother ever found out, she’d really and truly never forgive me. Heck, I’d never forgive myself if something happened to Sophy. That would be pain from which we’d never recover.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I say. “Not tonight. You could catch your death.”

  Her pained expression makes me want to weep. To keep from doing just that, I bolt from the kitchen. Zane steers me toward the garage, where his sleek car awaits us, already running, warmed up by Mr. Poole.

  That night, singing my heart out, I pour all the pain of Sophy’s expression into the sad songs. I pour all the joy of her afternoon escape into the happy ones. I wish, oh, I wish she was here.

  I wonder at the music in my life. I look at Theo, his hands on the piano keys, and remember Nils, a butterfly in his hands, and I wonder about these men, too. What is my calling? Who is calling to me? How will I answer? I wonder all these things and more.