The Lost Songs

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Lutie’s confession stabbed Kelvin in the heart.

  He wanted to run up the aisle and hug her forever and squash the guilt out of her. Lutie wasn’t responsible for Saravette!

  Lutie struggled for breath, like the basketball player whose last free throw will win or lose the championship. She blew out one long huff of air to calm herself. She said, “Saravette never heard me sing. This is my last chance.” Lutie raised one hand.

  Sometimes when she sang hands up, she was conducting herself, adding more beat. Sometimes she was waving. “Hey, Lord. You like your song?” Mostly she was signaling that she was a believer. This time, she was cupping the good news in her palm and pulling it in.

  “Ain’t got no sword,

  Got just an ironing board.

  Can’t fight for you, Lord.

  But show me where to stand, Lord.

  Want to make life here grand, Lord.”

  Saravette had not had anything grand on earth, nor had she tried to make anything grand.

  But she’s with the Lord now, thought Lutie. That’s pretty grand.

  “Lord, I done give all I got to give.

  Don’t have to iron up where you live.

  I’m too tired to stand, Lord.

  Don’t care if life’s grand, Lord.”

  Lutie was in the home stretch. Only the refrain was left. She stopped and wiped away tears and pulled herself together. And then she finished Saravette’s song.

  “Take me home, Lord.

  Take me home.”

  18

  So much food.

  Biscuits and barbecue, salads and chicken, casseroles and pie.

  Piles of white paper napkins and red plastic plates.

  Jugs of tea and lemonade. Pitchers of coffee.

  Aunt Tamika and Aunt Grace welcomed everybody to the reception in the church hall, hugging and exclaiming and hugging again.

  In walked Lieutenant Andrews and his son, Pierce.

  “Donny!” cried Aunt Tamika. “You came! You’re such a sweetheart.” She kissed him.

  Lutie almost fell over. Aunt Tamika knew this cop? Liked him?

  Her aunt said, “Lutie, honey, do you know Pierce’s daddy? Donny Andrews is the one could always find Saravette when nobody else could.”

  Miss Veola said, “Mika, you keeping Donny to yourself? Hey, Donny.”

  “Miss Veola,” said Pierce’s father, smiling. “I didn’t get here in time for the funeral. I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry I didn’t get there in time to find your sister, Mika. We tried. When you called, we went hunting, but I guess we hit the wrong places.”

  Aunt Tamika said, “Donny and I were in high school together. Cochaired a dance once. Acted in a play. Three years of math in the same section.”

  Lutie felt this information should have been passed on years ago.

  “Hi, Lutie,” said Pierce. “I didn’t know any of that either. My daddy never tells stuff invades anybody’s privacy.”

  What privacy was Pierce talking about? And then Lutie realized: her own. Pierce’s daddy had probably always known that Lutie was the daughter of that sorry case. And he’d never once told.

  “I’m sorry about your loss,” Pierce said formally. He handed over a plastic cake holder, with a strap over the high lid, which a church lady swept away and carried over to the dessert table.

  “Your mother baked a cake?” said Lutie. Had Pierce’s mother gone to high school with Aunt Tamika as well and Lutie hadn’t known that, either?

  “We couldn’t come empty,” said Pierce. “Hey, Kelvin. Hey, Doria.” He shot a glance at his father and then said nervously, “Hey, Train.”

  “It’s too bad you missed the service,” said Doria. “Of course you knew that Lutie would sing and be fabulous, but guess what? Cliff sang, and he was fabulous.”

  Pierce’s mouth fell open.

  Lutie knew the feeling.

  Miss Elminah was handing them dessert plates with generous slices of Pierce’s mother’s cake, and red plastic forks.

  “I love dessert first,” said Kelvin. There was his mama coming in, all of a flurry because she’d missed the service and didn’t have any food with her. But she was here.

  “Your mom looks pretty,” said Cliff.

  “Tell her that,” said Kelvin. “Nothing she likes more than a man telling her she’s pretty.” Kelvin thought of an old hymn: Order my steps, Lord. I want to walk worthy.

  Had Cliff Greene wanted to walk worthy all along and couldn’t? Because his brother and his neighbors were nailing him to a track that went the other direction?

  And when did I ever step up, Kelvin asked himself, and pull him back?

  Kelvin liked to think of himself as one who walked worthy. But he hadn’t taken one step toward Cliff, and time after time, he had walked away from Train.

  Cliff had to get here alone, thought Kelvin.

  Miss Veola bustled up. How small she was. Like a chipmunk compared to Kelvin. She said, “I have prayed so long, Cliff Greene, that it wore ruts in my prayers. And here you are.”

  The high emotion that had brought Train to the altar to sing was back under control. He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Miss Veola began to pray and both boys scrunched down, hoping she would lower her voice and that it would end soon, but that was never the case with Veola Mixton and the Lord.

  Lutie saw Mr. Gregg charge in the door. He stopped, squinted and looked around for people he knew. He greeted Miss Veola and then Lutie’s aunts, whom he knew from concerts, and finally Lutie. “You sang from the Laundry List and I wasn’t here?” he accused her. “Lutie!”

  “This was her mother’s funeral, Mr. Gregg,” Doria reminded him.

  “Oh, right. I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry for your loss, Lutie. How are you managing?”

  “Fine, thanks, Mr. Gregg. Thank you for coming.”

  “Did anybody record it? Can I hear it? Can you do it again for me?” he asked.

  There was something wonderful about his single-mindedness. Lutie loved him. “We haven’t recorded any of the songs, Mr. Gregg. But we will. I’m thinking that my uncle Dean and my aunts and I will go to a lawyer first. And then you and Professor Durham and all of us will decide what’s next.”

  “I get to be in on it? Think my name could appear on the CD? I am, like, so dying for worldwide attention.”

  Lutie was laughing. “It’s more likely to be Court Hill–wide than worldwide.”

  “Nope. National treasure,” he said.

  “You haven’t even heard any of the songs yet,” she pointed out.

  Mr. Gregg swung on Doria. “Doria,” he demanded. “Those songs national treasure or mediocrity?”

  “Treasure,” said Doria, smiling. “But maybe not national. Maybe the personal property of the Painter family.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” said Miss Veola. “If Jimmy Gregg gets to be on the CD, do I get my benefit performance? I have a church to build, you remember.”

  Lutie was suddenly awash in tears. It was her church being built bigger and finer. And she almost hadn’t helped. “What’s a good date?”

  “Let us give thanks!” called Miss Veola.

  People who had been eating all along pretended they hadn’t.

  Silence slowly settled on the room.

  Heads bowed. Even Cliff Greene’s. He stared down at his plastic plate. It was covered with chocolate crumbs and a slick of icing. Miss Veola launched into a blessing over the food, and Cliff stood on the outside of the prayer. These people had easy lives and an easy tomorrow. But when he went back to school, contempt would replace respect on many faces. He could already feel the shame of backing down. What Miss Veola called victory, everybody Cliff knew would call defeat.

  Could he do this? Stay on this side of life?

  Did he want to?

  He closed his eyes and let his own words roll back. Cross my creek, Lord. Wash my feet, Lord. And I’ll wash yours.

  It worked, a little.

  But it didn’t work eno
ugh. He wanted out. He didn’t want one more old lady touching him or smiling at him. He didn’t want these easy safe people who had so much to be thankful for.

  Outside Fellowship Hall was air and safety.

  Outside he could be Train.

  He turned away, letting Cliff fall off like a jacket.

  Kelvin watched him go.

  In school tomorrow, thought Kelvin, in front of all the guys he wants to impress, and all the guys he has impressed, and all the guys DeRade assigned him—it won’t be easy to be Cliff. Being Train—that would be easy. We need to sing shotgun with Cliff, one of us on each side, so he can’t end up next to the usual voice part.

  Nice plan. One flaw. Cliff had to cooperate.

  “Amen!” called Miss Veola.

  I’m not great at school and I don’t care, thought Kelvin. I’m not great at sports and I don’t care. I’m great at one thing, though, and I do care about that.

  Lord, he said silently, you and me got to work together here. Gotta keep Cliff from being Train long enough for it to stick.

  Voices and laughter filled the room, and the crowd looked for Lutie and her aunts, and people filled their plates, and Kelvin caught up to Cliff and filled the exit. “Let’s fix a plate to take to your mama,” he said. “When we bring it by, I’m going to tell her all about the funeral. She’ll want to know how great you sang.”

  Kelvin didn’t see his kindergarten friend in the silent person standing beside him. But he didn’t see DeRade, either. I can do this, Kelvin told himself. I can guide some steps. “Besides, I wanna talk,” he said to Cliff. “You won’t believe what I’m thinking. I can’t believe what I’m thinking.”

  Cliff didn’t show any interest but he didn’t reach for the doorknob either.

  “I’m thinking I might be a preacher after all,” said Kelvin.

  “Well, don’t make it sound like throwing yourself in front of a bus,” said Cliff.

  “I can’t go it alone,” said Kelvin.

  “You have me join, you’re gonna have a awful small crowd. Nobody else would come.”

  “Two’s a start, though. But you know what? First? Let’s eat. You check out that dessert table? It’s awesome.” Kelvin bumped Cliff back into the room. Toward the good food. And the good people.

  Trees clap hands and sing, thought Veola Mixton. There are blessings all around.

  She watched her young people. To her they were all young.

  She decided not to text the word “Stop” anymore.

  She would write Go.

  Go with the Lord. Go with each other.

  Go.

  Azure Lee and Doria had finished Pierce’s mama’s cake and were looking over the biscuit selection. Ham biscuits, chicken biscuits, biscuits with gravy. Azure Lee bit down thoughtfully into a ham biscuit. “Pierce likes you,” she said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yup.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He said.”

  “Clearly?”

  “Clear enough. Go over there and talk to him, Doria. It’s perfectly reasonable, you know. You’re the only white kids here.”

  Doria whispered, “I have this crush on Kelvin.”

  “Everybody has a crush on Kelvin. Give it up. Go talk to Pierce.”

  Doria looked over. Pierce was looking her way already. Smiling at her. He held out a plate, like he wanted to share the dessert that lay on it. She began walking toward him just as her cell phone rang. It was Nell’s ringtone. Doria turned her phone off. “Hi, Pierce. Your mama made a great cake.”

  “My mama?” he repeated, laughing. “Next thing you’re going to ask to meet my daddy.”

  “I might even call him sir.”

  “No way. You gotta stay a little bit Yankee. That’s half the fun.”

  Half the fun, thought Doria, would be twice the fun I usually have.

  Pierce put two more desserts on her plate.

  Across the table, Kelvin rescued Cliff’s dessert plate just in time. Lutie flung her arms around Cliff and said, “Oh, you were the best. Thank you for singing. It made me cry. It made me know things. It made me feel good.”

  Music, thought Doria. And prayer. And friends. They do that.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I’ve always gone to church, but beginning in my early teens, I didn’t sit in the pew with everybody else. I was the organist. I had my first church job two years before I was old enough to drive. When I was in junior high and high school, I accompanied my school choirs, and when I had my own family, I accompanied all their school choruses.

  A few years ago, I moved from Connecticut to South Carolina. Choosing a church was difficult. I attended several, from a tiny country church to a megachurch. When I finally found the church that was just right for me, I decided to sing in the choir instead of play the organ.

  One Sunday, there was a request in the bulletin for volunteers the next Saturday afternoon. I signed up. It was a hot-meal ministry in a community called Paradise. “Paradise” to me is a word reserved for the heaven that Jesus promised to the thief on the cross beside him.

  It was so strange to use it in ordinary conversation. “I’ll be serving supper in Paradise.” “Have you been to Paradise yet?” “What did you think of Paradise?” I have seldom had a Saturday afternoon that provided more food for thought.

  But Paradise did not seem quite the right name for this neighborhood. I asked several people where the name came from. Everybody agreed that the name Paradise had been given to the community because generations ago, women there had taken in laundry, and they sang as they worked, and when people drove in to pick up their laundry, the singing sounded like paradise. I loved that story. I never verified it. I just went home and started to write. What had those women been singing? What songs had kept them going over the years and through the labor?

  I wrote the songs in this book so easily that I felt as if I had been singing them all along. And perhaps I had. I think the yearning for God to come in person and help in time of trouble is universal. And I strongly believe that another yearning in each of us is the desire to help others. There’s nothing as satisfying as lending a hand. I loved writing this book, and I loved all the people, and the songs they sang, and the help they gave.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I thank Mary Baker; her husband, Jimmy; and their son, young Jimmy, for serving supper in Paradise, and letting me be part of it. I thank Sherry Boyce, who suggested that I should sign up for it, and who was an early reader of this manuscript and corrected several errors. I thank the people of Paradise Community. Thanks to young-adult librarian Cheryl Brown, who read the manuscript and whose comments were so encouraging. Thanks to our minister, John Warren, whose sermon I am quoting and whose name I am using. Thanks to Fort Mill, the town in which I live, where I am constantly awed by yet another person who is generous with time, money, work and prayer.

  Most of all I thank Beverly Horowitz, my editor, who kept me going as I floundered through many variations on a theme and who helped me to reach the story I wanted to tell.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Caroline B. Cooney is the author of many books for young people, including Three Black Swans; They Never Came Back; If the Witness Lied; Diamonds in the Shadow; A Friend at Midnight; Hit the Road; Code Orange; The Girl Who Invented Romance; Family Reunion; Goddess of Yesterday (an ALA-ALSC Notable Children’s Book); The Ransom of Mercy Carter; Tune In Anytime; Burning Up; The Face on the Milk Carton (an IRA-CBC Children’s Choice Book) and its companions, Whatever Happened to Janie? and The Voice on the Radio (each of them an ALA-YALSA Best Book for Young Adults), as well as What Janie Found; What Child Is This? (an ALA-YALSA Best Book for Young Adults); Driver’s Ed (an ALA-YALSA Best Book for Young Adults and a Booklist Editors’ Choice); Among Friends; Twenty Pageants Later; and the Time Travel Quartet: Both Sides of Time, Out of Time, Prisoner of Time, and For All Time, which are also available as The Time Travelers, Volumes I and II.

  Caroline B. Cooney lives in South Ca
rolina.