Sing for Me

by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

  “Good.” Nils sounds distracted because he is distracted, still staring off at something I can’t see. He is walking quickly now, even for him. No jogging about it; I have to run. In the next puddle of streetlamp light, I look up at him and see the back of his head. He’s leaving me behind. Did Theo leave me behind? Is that what’s happened?

  I’m about to call Slow down, please! when Nils whirls around, lopes back to me, swoops me up in his arms, and runs, runs, runs toward the lake. I feel small in his arms, which feels all right for a moment—this is how it’s supposed to be, this is what I was raised to expect, this is what dreams are made of, being cradled like this, being carried over the threshold—but then he stumbles and my head whacks against his shoulder, and I come to my senses. “Put me down,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. Or he won’t. He runs on, cradling me in his arms.

  I am frightened. I fling my arms around his neck, lest he drop me. He must take this as a sign that I am where I want to be. He runs on. We pass the planetarium and in its massive shadow the air turns cool. Then we are by the water. Nils leaps down to the first tier of stones, jarring me; he leaps to the second tier, and I feel the bones of his arms, his shoulders, and his ribs, jarred by the impact of his landing. He staggers, and then leaps to the third and final tier. We are just above the water now. He walks to the stones’ edge. For one horrible moment, I wonder if he’s going to throw me in just so he can save me, little woman that I am in his arms. He’s struggling to catch his breath, struggling, I realize, as the moonlight illuminates his face, not to cry.

  But he doesn’t drop me into the choppy water; not yet. He bows his head. “Save us,” he says to someone I imagine must be God. Then he sets me down.

  When my feet touch stone, I gasp with relief. I look at Nils and he looks at me.

  “Marry me, Rose,” he says.

  I close my eyes. In the darkness, I gather my thoughts. I open my eyes. I tell him yet again that I’m sorry. He is a good man, a great man—the best of the Old World in the New, and even more than that. But I’m not the girl he used to know, not entirely. And I’m not the young woman he wants me to be. I’m someone different from that.

  “I’m called to be someone different,” I say.

  “And with someone different.”

  “Yes.”

  I push back the shock of hair from his eyes, and hold him as he collects himself. How can it be that a man this tall can weep like a small child in my arms? The single shadow we make breaks and mends again on the waves.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Next afternoon while Mother and Dad are at work, I sit with Sophy on our bed, reading aloud from Gone with the Wind. It is not the kind of book Mother would want us to read, or Dad either, probably. Dad likes manly stories where women play a certain part. Mother likes the Bible. I know we’re playing outside the fence, reading this kind of romance; Sophy knows it, too. But ever since I heard people talking about the book at the Nygaards’ party I’ve been curious about it, and this morning, when Sophy resisted every book I pulled from our shelves, we decided to take a trip to the library, and there it was on display. When I told her what I knew about Gone with the Wind, Sophy was as eager to read it as I was. In the hours since, we’ve been unable to put it down. A deep pleasure—the book is this and more. I am dismayed by Scarlett’s selfishness. I admire her spirit. I linger over the descriptions of the slaves, wondering again and again what Theo would say if he were here to read them, too.

  The day is warm and sunny, the window is open, a breeze stirs the curtains, and for these hours, Sophy and I are not in Chicago. We are not even in this century. We are captured by the book, we’ve escaped through it, and, for our different reasons, we’re grateful.

  Then Andreas walks into the room, holding an envelope in his hand, and thrusts the envelope in my face.

  “For you,” he says.

  I set the book down, take the envelope from Andreas, look at the handwriting there: the full curve of the R that marks the beginning of my name, the particular slant to all the letters that follow. I remember the note he left so many days ago now, the phone number he wrote on the church bulletin so many weeks—no, months—before that. Tracing the indentations made by his pen, I read the return address. It’s an unfamiliar number on an unfamiliar street in the unfamiliar city of New Orleans. Then I trace and read the address he knows by heart: mine.

  I am back in this time and place, and he is here, too, as best he can be.

  “It’s from him, isn’t it?” Andreas says.

  “Yes.”

  Sophy says his name. “Theo,” she says, and her voice is happy and relieved. “Open it!”

  “Rose.” Andreas’s voice is heavy with warning. I look up at my brother. The sudden fury I feel surprises me. It’s true what they say: my blood is boiling. It must be, to make my scalp prickle so, and my neck, too.

  “Dolores is a Catholic,” I say.

  “Was, not is. Dolores changed that,” Andreas says. “Some things can be changed. Some things can’t.”

  I think about the way I was raised. I remind myself that I was raised to be a fine Christian woman, a lady. My blood may be boiling, but I am still the woman I was raised to be—at least in this way. And I still have a calling that’s important to me, no matter what Andreas says. I draw back my shoulders and sit up straight. Calmly, regally, I thank Andreas for bringing Theo’s letter to me. “You may leave now,” I say. “Or I will.”

  Andreas turns on his heel and storms off, and Sophy laughs and gives me an appreciative look. She loves Andreas. But she grows weary of his judgments, too.

  I don’t laugh. Andreas’s words made me angry because they are, in part, true.

  I tell Sophy I need to stretch my legs. I’ll be back shortly, as soon as I read my letter. She nods, understanding. “Tell me,” she says. I promise I will tell her all that I’m able to tell about Theo. I help her into her chair by the window. Then I put on my shoes, take Theo’s letter, and slip out the back door so I don’t risk running into Andreas, who is preparing next Sunday’s sermon in the front room.

  I walk to Garfield Park. Though my memories of Theo draw me toward the Conservatory, I decide to stay outside in the sunlight. There’s an open bench by the lagoon, and I sit down there. I watch the happy couples paddling about in the swan boats. At Julia and Paul’s suggestion, Andreas and Dolores tried boating here just a few days ago. “We had the time of our lives!” Andreas said afterward and, from the smile on Dolores’s face, I believed they did. If things had worked out differently, if life had been different, Nils and I might have taken out a swan boat this summer. It will only be a matter of time before Nils enjoys boating here with someone else, I’m sure.

  I press Theo’s letter to my heart, press down the pang of envy that I feel for Andreas and Dolores, Julia and Paul, Nils and someone else. If life had been different, if the world were different, Theo and I might have found ourselves enjoying the lagoon on this beautiful day, but life isn’t different, the world is what it is, and Theo and I never will sail across the smooth, green lagoon, splashing water at each other and laughing, or opening a picnic basket and sharing a lunch, or talking together quietly, making plans for the future right out in public, where anyone can see. We won’t sit together on this bench, watching others in swan boats do the same. We won’t be together, truly together, in the naked light of a Tuesday afternoon. We won’t.

  But we might someday, mightn’t we? One can always hope. I can always hope. He can. We can, together.

  I can’t wait any longer to know his hopes and fears. I slide my fingernail under the envelope where Theo’s tongue perhaps touched, and I take out the letter, a single page, carefully folded by his beautiful hands into thirds. I open it:

  Dearest Rose,

  If you are reading this, then you know I couldn’t keep from writing you. If you aren’t reading this, then I think you may have done the reasonable thing and thrown my letter away.

  There is a garden I would like to show yo
u here in New Orleans, a garden as beautiful as our Conservatory, only it is out in the open air. If we visited this garden in the night we would walk together at our risk, as we walked the dark streets of Chicago. In New Orleans, as in Chicago, we would be expected to keep our lives separate.

  But there is a chance in this city if we were wealthy enough that one of us could buy a house built around a hidden courtyard. That is the beauty of some of the homes here. They offer private gardens where people can be alone, hidden from the world.

  Papa lives in a shotgun house where any passerby can stand at the front door and look straight through to the back. There is no hiding here.

  This is where I am.

  After days of jumping from one train car to the next, I got off in New Orleans. After a few more days of searching this city, I found Papa. Now I live with him, and we walk and talk and pray. I listen to music, and we walk and talk and pray some more. On days when there’s a funeral, I walk with the mourners, and I mourn with them.

  Here I am again in my first home, only to realize this place is no more home than anywhere else.

  I still love you, Rose. I haven’t stopped. Not for a moment. But I cannot offer you a life of homelessness.

  This is what I tell Papa, what I am writing you now.

  And this is what Papa says. He says on this earth we are all homeless and searching, though we may fool ourselves into thinking otherwise. He says it doesn’t matter, the color of our skin. We are traveling through this world, seeking another home. Of course, even Papa has to acknowledge that the color of our skin often dictates the nature of our travel, the quality of our journey, and our companions along the way. But still, Papa says, none of us is so different from the other in our searching.

  We are not so different, Rose, and our differences only complement each other. I believe that. God knows, I believe that.

  But until the rest of the world believes that, how can we be together? If I returned to Chicago, would I build us a little house with a courtyard, our secret Eden, and would we marry and live in our little house and love each other in our hidden garden, and only those who believed in us—my mother, sister, and Papa, your sister, the Chess Men, and Rob, and others we may meet along the way—would only they join us there? Would we make music only there? Would we eat of every good fruit, but only there? Only there, would we be safe and sound and happy and whole and complete in each other? Or would we be trapped in the garden of our making? Would you become a caged bird that couldn’t sing?

  These are the things I’m thinking about, Rose, and talking about with Papa, and praying about, too.

  Meanwhile, I am hearing all the great good music that this place holds. I long for you to hear it, too. I long for you.

  Theo

  I write Theo back. I tell him to keep thinking, talking, praying, and please, oh, please, I tell him, please keep writing to me.

  We can make a home out of homelessness, traveling with Jim, Ira, and Dex, making music wherever they’ll have us. I’ll send money home—every penny. If we drive far enough, long enough, in the right direction, maybe we can find a place to settle down.

  I write this.

  And I pray that we’ll be able to find the strength, the spirit, to travel through life together and find that place. And if he says no, he can’t take that journey, I pray for strength and spirit, too.

  I write Theo about the time that is passing, the weeks that fold one into the other. I write about the Chess Men, how we are getting by, holding on, playing each and every set, waiting for his return.

  He writes back.

  He tells me about the music he’s been listening to, and playing as well. He’s been sitting in with bands. Swing bands are hot in the Crescent City, like everywhere else, he writes. So I’ve been playing my fair share of swing. Hoping it helps my playing. Thinking it will. We are good at this, but I think we can be better. Look at that. You are my we. You and the Chess Men. I miss you, Rose. I miss you all. The people I’ve been playing with, the music I’ve been playing—it only shows me how important you are. Papa is telling me to pay attention to this fact. “Home isn’t always a place,” Papa says.

  Labor Day and Julia’s wedding weekend are fast approaching, I write to Theo. I’ll be her maid of honor. Aunt Hulga has done a beautiful job on both our dresses. My dress is gray lace, which sounds plain, but it isn’t. It’s like spun silver. When the wedding is done, I’ll be able to wear mine to sing. Mother fixed my blue dress, but I am eager for other options. We are holding on at Calliope’s, the fellows and I. I am holding on. But I’m hoping I can let go soon, and just hold your hand instead.

  I allow myself to come right out and say this on paper. And then I send the letter off.

  I hope that, too.

  That’s all that Theo writes in his letter when he writes back.

  A few days later, he writes more:

  I’m coming home to you. Papa and I have been praying for guidance, seeking wisdom as to how I should return. I don’t want to run back to you, Rose, hopping trains to make the journey. Doing that makes the way long, hard, and unpredictable. I want to look at a map and chart my way safely. Already I’ve mapped out a few clubs here where the Chess Men will be well received, should we choose to come to New Orleans. Turns out there are owners who are interested in varying their lineups. Swing may be king, but it’ll abdicate for a couple of nights. Of course, it’d be like Calliope’s. We’d play off-nights or between sets or after hours. But at least we’d have some new places to play.

  At the last minute, Julia has decided to change the location of her wedding, I write back. Paul’s church flooded in a summer storm. Julia and he had a long talk, and now the wedding is going to happen at Aunt Astrid’s farm—the very place where Andreas, Sophy, and I were born, and Julia and Rob, too. It’s Julia’s favorite place in the world, and I’ve got to hand it to Paul and his family and friends: the thought of being married there has made Julia so happy, they’ve agreed to drive the long hours and make a weekend of it. Aunt Astrid and her friends in Luck are opening up their homes to the guests, and some people will rough it by camping on Aunt Astrid’s land. We’ll all get a little vacation out of it.

  I have to confess something, I write. When I first met your mother, her still-waters-run-deep spirit reminded me of the lake at the edge of the spruce forest on Aunt Astrid’s farm. Julia wants to be married by that lake. If only you could be there, Theo. She’s asked me to sing a song. If only you could play it on the piano, the way only you can.

  Theo writes that he is leaving New Orleans.

  He’s decided to drive up the coast to New York. He’ll stop in a few cities along the way, but his real destination is Harlem. There’s got to be a club in Harlem that’s like Calliope’s. There’s been so much going on in Harlem. It’s a renaissance, people are saying. I want to be a part of it. I want Dex, Ira, Jim, and you, most of all you, to be a part of it, too. Oh, Rose. I hope. I have hope again.

  I slide this letter back into its envelope, and put it under my pillow with the others. When I rest my head on my pillow at night, the paper rustles like a whisper. I’m coming home to you. That’s what his letters say.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Saturday before Labor Day, I walk across a freshly mown field to the still-waters-run-deep lake on Aunt Astrid’s farm, a bouquet of black-eyed Susans, baby’s breath, tiger lilies, and roses the color of sunset in my hands. The spruce forest rises on the other side of the lake, and as I approach the water, wind stirs the pointed tops of the trees, and they bend and bow and beckon gently to me: come closer, it’s time. Julia and Paul’s guests, many of them my family and friends, flank me on either side, and as I pass, the children wave, the women smile, the men nod. Close to the front, Sophy catches my eye. If she’d been able-bodied, she would have been a bridesmaid, too. As it is, Dad pushed her down this path before me, and Mother walked beside her, strewing flower petals with each step. Sophy beams at me now; she’s content with her role. If Theo were here
, my happiness would be complete.

  I walk up to the gazebo that we spent much of yesterday building at the edge of this field, right beside the lake. Constructed of scraps of wood and cast-off pieces of tin, decorated with dried grapevines and thick chains of wildflowers, the gazebo is another kind of hidden garden, a shelter from the elements, a beautiful testament to Julia and Paul’s love. We erected an altar inside the gazebo, too—a simple piece of flat fieldstone, set up on four thick logs of a recently felled oak tree. Rob was the one who found the two long iron nails, pulled from railroad ties, in Aunt Astrid’s barn. He bound them together with twine to make a cross, then hammered the point of the vertical nail into a plank of wood and set it on the stone. Paul and his best man stand to one side of the altar and that cross now. Andreas stands before the altar. He’s positioned himself so that everyone walking down the aisle can see the cross, and I keep my eyes on it as I step into the gazebo’s shade. My gaze briefly meets Andreas’s. My brother smiles at me—his old, tender smile, the one I remember from childhood when I was playing the right way; this smile is not burdened by judgment. I smile back at him, and then I turn to look at the bride. With her arm hooked through her father’s, Julia slowly draws near, her sandaled feet gliding gracefully through the shorn grass, her butterfly sleeves fluttering in the gentle wind. I hear Paul sigh. He is as radiant as Julia, and as ready for this day.

  Julia pauses beside me. “I love you, cousin.”

  “I love you, too,” I say.

  She holds out her bouquet of roses and lilies and, taking it from her hands, I spot Nils in the crowd of guests. Like everyone, he is standing (to save energy and time, we left all the chairs under the reception tent, which is nestled a little farther back in the field, on a rise of land that will allow us to enjoy a view of the sunset and stars). Nils drove up yesterday with a group of friends from our church; he stands now by a young woman I don’t recognize. Perhaps she is someone he met back in Chicago, and invited here; perhaps she is a local girl. Regardless, they look happy together, and Rob, standing in the row just in front of them, looks happy, too. Rob wears another new suit. This whole weekend he has tormented me by saying that he’s going to spike the punch at the reception later; however, I don’t think any of the aunts, let alone his mother, will let him get away with that. And I don’t let his teasing get in the way of my high spirits. As far as I can tell, he’s drunk nothing but Coca-Cola so far this weekend. His gray-green eyes are still clear and serene.