How Sweet the Sound

by Vanessa Miller

  They were in front of her house again. She took the Bible from him and then wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight and taking in the scent of him. She would carry his scent along with her on the journey.

  Shar had her suitcase on top of her bed, folding up her dresses and piling them in one by one. As she did so, she realized that she was truly leaving home. She wouldn’t be seeing her mom or dad or even Landon for a while, and her heart began to ache a bit.

  She began singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” Her mother opened her bedroom door and came in humming the same song—“What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear. What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer.”

  “Shar, chile, you are singing my song,” Marlene declared as she began folding some of the clothes on Shar’s bed and placing them in her suitcase.

  “I know you like that song, Mama. I was just thinking about how much I’m going to miss you and everybody else, and the song just bubbled up in my heart until I had to sing it.”

  “I’m going to miss you too, baby. I just don’t know what I’m going to do without you around this house.”

  Shar looked at her mama. She had stayed up late last night getting the washing done for Mrs. Jackson, and then she had come to Shar’s room to help her pack. Marlene picked up Shar’s undergarments and began folding them. Shar moved them out of her mother’s reach. “You don’t have to help me with this, Mama. I can see that you’re tired.”

  “Tired or not, I’m not letting my child go off into this world without first making sure you’ve at least got clean undergarments and your dresses that need stitching get it.” Marlene sat down on the bed. “Now, if you’re concerned about how tired I am, I’ll just sit here and help you with the folding while stretching out my legs.”

  Her mama amazed her. She was so strong, even when she was weak. Marlene Gracey would sooner die than ignore the needs of her family. She would miss her mama every day that she was gone. But she would remain strong because her mother needed her. “Okay, Mama, you can help me all you want, just as long as you prop your feet up while you’re doing it.”

  Shar worked with her mother for the next hour on what should and shouldn’t go into her suitcase. When they were finished and Shar was latching the suitcase up, Marlene asked, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “Of course it is, Mama. Why do you ask?”

  Lifting herself up and planting her feet on the floor, Marlene looked her daughter in the eye and said, “You and your daddy got big dreams . . . bigger dreams than I’ve ever even thought of having. I’m not faulting you for that.” Marlene walked around the bed and put her hand on Shar’s arm. “But if all you got is dreams and your man done left with some other woman, then what do you really have to hold onto? I’m just worried that these big dreams your daddy’s got for you is gon’ cost you the love of a good man like Pastor Landon.”

  Shar sat down on the bed, and her mother joined her. “Look at you and Daddy. He once told me that from the moment he laid eyes on you, nothing could stop him from making you his wife. Now if Landon feels that way about me, then he’ll be here when I get back, right?”

  “A man has got his pride, whether he be a preacher or a janitor. You just remember that I told you that.”

  7

  The Tour

  1935–1937

  Shar, gal, get over here and help me sell this sheet music,” Sallie Martin, Thomas Dorsey’s business manager yelled.

  “Coming.” Shar ran over to Sallie and took the sheet music out of her hand. “Sorry ’bout that Mrs. Sallie. I got lost in the words of this song and just about forgot what I was supposed to be doing.”

  “You ain’t getting paid two dollars a week to read this here sheet music. You getting paid to sell it.”

  Shar’s mama had now been diagnosed with tuberculosis. So Shar was thankful to be able to help sell the music sheets to earn money for her mother’s medication. “I know Mrs. Sallie, but the words of ‘Never Turn Back’ just drew me to it. I just know that Mr. Dorsey will let me sing it if I keep practicing.” Shar patted her chest while clearing her throat. “Listen to this,” she said as she sang:

  I started out for heaven

  Such a long time ago

  For the world of temptation

  Made my journey hard and slow

  “Whatcha think?” Shar asked after she finished.

  “I think you have a very beautiful voice, Shar Gracey. But you don’t know nothing ’bout never turning back or dealing with no hard journey. There just ain’t enough heartache in you to deliver that song to an audience the way it ought to be delivered.”

  “I know I’m young, Mrs. Sallie, but what does that have to do with me singing a song like this?”

  Shaking her head at how naive Shar was, Sallie said, “I can respect talent. Lord knows I’m a better saleswoman than a singer any day of the week. But I keep on singing because I’ve got a story to tell. So, if you still got something to sing about after some no-count wants to lay up at your place drinking and gambling all hours of the night, and you have to struggle your way through . . . and you’re two seconds from giving up, then I’ll come hear you sing this song. Until then, go sell this sheet music to our customers, okay, gal?”

  On that note, Shar walked away. She had heard talk that Sallie was separated from her husband because of his penchant for gambling and drinking. And although she could admit that dealing with a man like that could make a woman’s way hard and cause her to want to give up, she didn’t agree that she had to go through something like that in order to sing that song. But she kept those thoughts to herself and just sold the sheet music as she was told.

  Shar had been touring with Thomas Dorsey’s choir for a year by then but still hadn’t been allowed to sing a solo. Mr. Dorsey gave the solos either to Sallie Martin or to half-living-right Rosetta Tharpe. Whenever Rosetta could drag herself out of the Cotton Club or whatever other nightclub she chose to sing her blues songs in, she’d show up at one of the churches they were singing at and Mr. Dorsey would let her lead his songs.

  That Mr. Dorsey would prefer Rosetta over her drove Shar crazy. She could understand why Mr. Dorsey allowed Mrs. Sallie to sing his songs . . . even if she was hard on the ears; Mrs. Sallie could sell his sheet music like nobody’s business once she finished singing. But Rosetta sold her own records after church service. And what’s more, that woman wasn’t even trying to live right. It was shameful, just shameful the way Rosetta would beg pardon from her church and promise to sing only gospel music, but the minute the Cotton Club called, she would backslide right back to her sinful jazz music.

  “I’ll take a copy of the song Rosetta sang tonight,” a portly gentleman said as he anxiously stood in front of Shar.

  “That would be the ‘Old Ship of Zion,’ ” Shar told him as she pulled that sheet out of her stack and handed it to the man. He handed her a quarter and then went on about his merry way.

  “Well, I guess that answers that,” Shar said to herself as she continued to walk around the fellowship hall selling copies of “Old Ship of Zion” and realizing that what Rosetta sang, sold. That made Shar more determined than ever to get Mr. Dorsey to let her lead his songs. She needed to show him that what she sang would also sell . . . and that she didn’t have to be double minded like Rosetta to make a name for herself.

  That’s what Shar admired about Mahalia Jackson. Folks in the choir liked to spread petty gossip about her, but they were just jealous. Mrs. Mahalia had God’s ear for sure, and she didn’t swing back and forth from the nightclub to the church to make a living, either. The nights Mahalia sang with Mr. Dorsey’s choir, they’d sell out of his sheet music.

  “Come on, gal. I swear you do more daydreaming than selling,” Sallie said as she ushered Shar out of the church building.

  “I’ve made some good sales, Mrs. Sallie.”

  “Yeah, but you could have made more if you had approached the people, instead of waiting
for them to come sniffing around you.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Sallie, I’ll do better in the next town. I promise.”

  “Let’s just go. We’re booked into a hotel tonight, and we need to get over there and check in before nightfall.”

  “But we haven’t eaten yet,” Shar protested. They’d missed meals before because a restaurant owner refused to serve them or the store they stepped into to get some meat for sandwiches wouldn’t serve coloreds. Shar was completely fed up with the eating situation on this tour. She didn’t have much while living in Chicago with her parents, but food had always been on the table. The sisters at the church they sang at today had cooked ham, green beans, yams, and bread pudding, and Shar wasn’t leaving without getting a plate.

  “We got to get over to that hotel before they just up and decide not to rent those rooms to us.”

  “But why can’t we grab a plate before we leave?”

  Sallie was about to object again, but Thomas Dorsey walked over to them and said, “Come on everybody, let’s get us a plate. Never know, this might be our last meal for the day.”

  If that’s the case, I’m getting two plates, Shar thought as she walked toward the kitchen, not even looking back to see if anyone else was following. Since she’d left home, Shar had lost ten pounds. She was homesick and knew that played a part in her weight loss, but most of it came from being denied food. So, when they had someone offering them free food, Shar wasn’t about to turn it down.

  Mr. Dorsey was spending the night at the pastor’s house, so he didn’t want to offend them by having his choir grab plates and leave. They sat down and ate the food at their leisure. A couple members of the choir—Emma Jean Parson and Matthew James—sat down with Shar.

  “Girl, I’m glad you pitched a fit about us eating. This food is good,” Emma Jean said.

  “I wouldn’t care if it was good or not. I’m starving and don’t have no money to get nothing to eat with,” Matthew said.

  “Tell me about it,” Shar agreed.

  “At least you get paid for selling the sheet music. Mr. Dorsey don’t let everybody do that,” Matthew complained.

  “I had to do something to earn money or I couldn’t come. My mama is sick and needs medication.”

  “Oh, Shar, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Emma Jean said.

  Matthew picked up his plate and stood in a huff. “I got problems, too. Shar ain’t the only one who needs money. If Mr. Dorsey wants me to keep playing the guitar, I need to get paid, too.” With that said, Matthew sat down at the next table.

  “Don’t let him get to you, Shar. Matthew complains about everything.”

  In the year that they had been touring, Shar had gotten used to Matthew’s mood swings. She knew that people were jealous of the money she was earning and called her the teacher’s pet behind her back. But Shar didn’t feel like any kind of teacher’s pet since she still hadn’t been allowed to lead a song or sing a solo.

  A man walked over to Shar’s table. He was dressed in his Sunday best, hair slicked back and shoes polished. He stuck out a hand in Shar’s direction. “I’m Deacon Morrison.”

  Shar shook his hand. “I’m Shar Gracey,” she said and then turned back to her food.

  Deacon Morrison sat down next to Shar and started chatting her up. He told her that he was a widower looking for a good woman to make his wife. He smelled like Old Spice, just like Landon smelled on Sunday morning. Shar didn’t want to be rude, especially since the food was so good and filling, but sitting there smelling Deacon Morrison’s cologne made her long for Pastor Landon Norstrom. Shar stood up. “I’m sorry Deacon, but I need to get a piece of that bread pudding before it’s all gone.”

  Shar hustled over to the dessert table as if getting a piece of that bread pudding was the only thing on her mind. But in truth, Shar’s heart was racing with thoughts of Landon. She and Landon had been trading letters twice a month since she’d been on the road. But the last few months, even though she sent Landon three letters, he’d only sent her one in return. She knew that Landon was busy. He had a church to run, and he was diligently working on a project to help colored people get decent housing. But each night as she went to sleep, Shar wondered if she had missed her chance at happiness.

  “Whatcha daydreaming ’bout now, gal?” Sallie said as she advanced on Shar.

  Startled, Shar turned toward Sallie. “I—I was just—”

  Sallie lifted a hand, halting Shar’s explanation. “Save it. Wrap up that bread pudding and let’s go.”

  Shar did as she was told and then followed Sallie out of the church. Deacon Morrison ran out the door behind them. “Miss Shar, Miss Shar,” he yelled.

  Shar stopped walking, but she really wanted to run away from this man with his Sunday-suit-wearing, Old-Spice-smelling self.

  “I brought you another piece of bread pudding.”

  Shar lifted the napkin in her hand. “I already have a piece.”

  “Well, now you have two. You can eat one tonight and the other in the morning before you all get on the road.”

  “Thank you, Deacon Morrison.”

  “Come on here, Shar. We got to get to that hotel before it gets too dark,” Sallie yelled from the bus.

  Shar was so tired of hearing how dangerous it was for coloreds to be caught out after dark in the South. If it was so dangerous, why on earth did they even bother to tour down there? She got on the bus and sat down with the rest of the choir members as they rode down the rocky road toward the grand hotel that the church had booked them into. There was usually a boardinghouse or a friend of a friend that allowed the choir to spend the night in most of the towns they performed in. But every so often they came to a town that didn’t have any boardinghouses or friends that could take them in. Once, they even slept on the church floor because the only hotel that was in that small town refused to rent rooms to colored people. But no matter how bad their sleeping arrangements were from town to town, nothing would stop them from spreading God’s good news. Like Mr. Dorsey said, “The gospel is just good news.”

  They arrived at the hotel, and Shar put her bread pudding in her bag. She then slung the bag around her back and got off the bus with the other choir members. Stan, the bus driver, walked ahead of them as he attempted to go into the hotel. But a white-haired man with the meanest scowl that Shar had ever seen came barreling out the door before Stan could lay a finger on the knob.

  “Get on away from ’round here,” he said as he held up a thick tree branch.

  Stan held up his hands. “Hold on, sir. You got us all wrong. We supposed to be here. Pastor Barnes of the church down the street made reservations for us.”

  “Then he should have told us that he was trying to rent rooms for a bunch of jungle bunnies and I would have let him know that we don’t have no rooms available.”

  “We’re not trying to cause no trouble, sir. We just need a place to lay our heads. We’ll be gone by first light of morning,” Stan said with hat in hand and head bowed low.

  “I said get.” He waved the stick at them. “Unless you want me to take this here stick to you.”

  Another man came barreling out of the hotel looking madder than a bull in a bullfight. “What’s going on out here, Joey?”

  Joey pointed his stick at them as he said, “A bunch of coloreds trying to get inside the hotel.”

  “What?” The man’s nostrils flared as he looked at Stan. “You trying to cause trouble, boy?”

  With his head still bowed, careful not to make eye contact, Stan said, “No trouble at’all. We just want a room for the night.”

  “Sleep outside with the dogs where you belong,” Mr. Angry-bull-face said.

  These men were acting as if their very presence would defile the place. Shar wanted to do or say something, but it felt as if she had a mouth full of molasses and her feet were glued to the ground.

  Matthew James, the guitar player, stepped up. He grabbed Stan’s arm and began pulling him back. “Come on, Stan, I’d rather sleep outsi
de than to stay somewhere we ain’t wanted.”

  Shar could see that the man with the stick didn’t like that comment. But before she could get the molasses out of her mouth and warn the group, the man lashed out at Matthew.

  “We don’t take kindly to uppity negroes around here,” the man said as he swung that big thick stick. The stick connected with the back of Matthew’s head, and he went down like he’d just received a one, two punch from Joe Louis.

  The man with the stick kept hitting Matthew, while his friend started kicking him so hard that Shar feared Matthew’s ribs would break. Her father had told her that he left the South because he was tired of seeing young boys hanging on trees for the crime of being colored. When he’d said that to her, Shar had wondered how anyone could simply stand around and watch something as horrific as that happen without doing anything about it. But as she looked around at her choir members and saw that they were all watching the beating that Matthew was getting without saying or doing anything, she realized how it happened . . . fear closed mouths and paralyzed feet.

  But Shar could stand the silence no more. She opened her mouth and screamed at the men. She shouted so loud that the man with the stick stopped hitting Matthew and turned toward her. The hatred Shar saw in his eyes startled her. She’d never met this man before . . . never done anything to him. “Stop it! Stop it!” Shar shouted at them again and again.

  As she rushed toward the man, her fear was stripped away by the idea of being hated for nothing. She wanted to claw that man’s eyes out and give him a reason to hate her. The man raised the stick in her direction. It was covered in blood . . . Matthew’s blood. “You’re killing him,” Shar screamed as she continued to advance.

  Sallie and Emma Jean grabbed Shar’s arms and pulled her back toward the bus. “No, I’ve got to help Matthew.”

  “How you gon’ help him? By getting whooped on the head, too?” Sallie asked as they drug Shar kicking and screaming onto the bus.