We sang some more. Not just chants. Other songs, too. When I was singing I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Singing made me warm from the inside out, like a lightbulb.
CHAPTER 8
THE NEXT DAY, as we were gathering our books to leave, Sister said, Can you stay after?
I looked around me. She smiled. You’re not in trouble. I want to share something with you. She took my hand and we walked into the little room built onto the side of the schoolhouse. There was a bedroll, a crate of canned food, a small plug-in burner, a box of books, and a little stove. It was hardly big enough for the two of us to stand in and of course it was freezing.
You live here? I asked.
Mm-hmm, she said, smiling, like it was good news.
I can’t wait for you to hear this, she said. She cleared a plate and a cup and a book off the top of a tall narrow cabinet and pulled a key on a string from her tunic. Bending over, she stuck the key into a tiny lock on the lid and opened it. There was a record player inside. She tucked the key on the string back in her tunic.
Do you have a record player at home?
We have a radio, I said. I like The Shadow.
She lifted a record out of its sleeve and placed it on the black disc. The sleeve said “The Boswell Sisters” across the top and there were three women dressed as sailors sitting in a boat. SHOUT, SISTER, SHOUT! was written on the boat. Crackling sounds filled the small room, then this beautiful burst of several voices sounding like one. It made me want to cry and dance all at once. My ears had never heard anything like it. I actually touched my ears, the sound was that strange and that beautiful.
She took my hands and we did a little dance as she sang all the words. When the song got slow, we stopped dancing and Sister Idalia put her hand to her heart, singing along: “If that old devil should grab your hand, here’s one thing that he can’t stand. Shout, sister, shout!” Then the music picked up again and we danced and danced until we were breathless. Isn’t it fun? she said.
Why are you being nice to me? I asked, laughing.
Oh! This one! She pulled out another album.
Where’d you get all these?
My brother, she said. You won’t tell, will you? Father Eugene would have my hide.
No.
I want you to hear everything.
Why? I asked.
She looked at me like it was obvious. Because I think you’ve got a great voice. A big voice. But you don’t know where to put it yet.
Where would I put it?
It’s hard to explain. For starters, you need to get as much music in your head as you can.
I just sat there and watched her talk to me. It all felt like an odd mistake. Nobody had ever really paid attention to me before. I’d gotten in plenty of trouble and heard a thousand orders, but this? I didn’t know what to make of it. I felt it indirectly, like I was watching her be nice to someone else. To Laura, maybe. To someone good.
She put on another album. A woman with scared eyes on the sleeve named Dinah Washington. She was beautiful. Even her name made a little song. I said her name over and over in my mouth. Her voice was like cool water. Sister Idalia sang along. “Love brings such misery and pain. I guess I’ll never be the same.” This song made her eyes well up. I decided I wanted to sing. Not just stupid Latin church stuff but this, the kind of songs that made women cry.
We played it over and over until I knew the words and we could all sing together—me, Sister Idalia, and Dinah Washington.
She had other records, too. Sister kept saying, Just one more.
Then she looked at her watch on the chain she had attached to her belt. Oh, dear, we have to get you home. She straightened her coif and waved at me to follow her out of the room. I ran behind her down toward the well, where a rusty green pickup truck was parked. We jumped in and bounced up to the main road.
I didn’t know nuns had trucks, I said.
My superior is a good egg, she said. She let me come here on the condition that I have means of transportation, or, as she put it to me, “some way to get the hell out if you have to.”
I told her which direction to go. I was thinking two things on that ride. One, I am going to be whipped when I get home and two, Sister Idalia is not going to think I’m so special once she sees where I come from.
Dad and the girls were already in the yard when we pulled up.
You better let me do the talking, Sister Idalia said, setting the brake.
We walked up to my father, Sister with her back very straight, jaw stiff.
Mr. Hutnik, I presume? she said.
Yes, Sister, said my father.
I am Sister Idalia. The new teacher at Naomi’s school.
Father looked down at the ground and shook his head. What’s she done now? he asked.
I thought, This is going to be the end of school for me.
She’s not in any trouble, but we do have a serious matter.
Father smoothed down his hair.
She’s having some trouble with her multiplication tables, Mr. Hutnik. And this is affecting her grasp of mathematics as a whole.
Father frowned. I stared. My mouth hanging open.
If Naomi is ever to take a respectable job at, say, the bank or the grocery, or if she is ever to run a proper household, she will need at least a reasonable grasp of numbers. Now, there isn’t need for alarm. I believe she has the necessary potential.
Father’s brow was buckled and my sisters sneered at me. What’s to be done? asked Father.
Sister Idalia sighed. Well, I kept her late today but we are going to have to be vigilant. Do I have your permission to correct this . . . she glanced down at me, searching for a word . . . this troublesome issue?
Father winced at that word but nodded anyway.
Sister Idalia shook father’s hand. Then I promise to do my best by Naomi. God bless you, she said, turning on her heels.
I ran up beside her and walked her to her truck, giggling.
Quit it, she hissed.
You just told a huge lie to my father, I said.
She shot a look at me and hoisted herself into the truck. In service of a greater cause, she said as she fetched up her habit and shoved it under her thigh.
What cause? I asked.
The cause of you, Miss Hutnik. Then she leaned down and whispered, Music might be the only thing could save you.
She slammed the door.
I walked back toward the house and Murielle sidled up to me. You’re going to end up with us, she said.
I looked at her.
If you don’t do better at school, she said, smug.
Maybe so, I said to her with a sad little look on my face. A little kick of the dirt.
She’s pretty in a way, Murielle said as we lay wide-awake that night. I looked at her face as she stared at the ceiling, absolutely certain I shouldn’t open my mouth. I wonder what her hair looks like.
The moon had lit up the room with a strange, dark light.
Have you seen it? she asked.
What?
Her hair?
No, I said, turning away from her.
Seems like you know your tables. You been teaching them to us. Maybe you’re teaching us wrong? she said. One of your tricks.
I’m not teaching you anything wrong, I said. Go to sleep already.
I lay there in the moonlight breathing deep until I was sure she was asleep. Then I just let my head run back to the music, to little phrases I’d committed to memory. I felt my throat move a little as I imagined singing. And I understood that this must be love, to visit a place in your mind where music is playing, to have such a place at all.
PART TWO
When I Fall in Love
Sophia
CHAPTER 9
CHICAGO, 1965
I HAVE TO START going to school early every single day, the Sisters say. Because I don’t know my times tables yet. Jim says he’s going to get me there on time, and if we get a move on, he’ll let us stop for Danishes.
&
nbsp; As we walk it’s so windy that I hold Jim’s arm and turn my face into his sleeve.
How come I have to?
Because every kid has to learn them. Your friends have to.
I don’t have friends, I say, but I don’t think he hears because of the wind and because he’s working on his math is important speech.
I want you to do well in school, Jim kind of shouts. I want you to have options.
I don’t know what that means.
A girl has to have options. You gotta trust me on this. I mean, what do you want to be when you grow up?
It depends, I say.
On what?
On bomb or no bomb.
He stops and looks down at me. There’s not going to be any bomb.
You don’t know.
You still have to learn math. Then he stops to pull his camera out from under his coat and photograph a door that is hanging by one hinge, its glass shattered into the shape of a star.
Can we stop at the bakery? I ask.
We don’t have time.
You said!
He gets us Danishes but we have to eat them fast because the bakery is right by the school.
One of the nuns, Sister Marie, is sweeping the steps and the sidewalk when we walk up. She does this every morning, that or shoveling. As we get closer, she stops sweeping and smiles.
You could let the wind do that, Sister, says Jim.
She laughs. I think she seems a lot happier out here, sweeping, with no children around.
I say good-bye to Jim and run up the stairs to Sister Eye’s room. She’s looking out the window with her hands on her hips. She smiles big whenever she sees me, showing the big gap between her two front teeth.
There’s my girl, she says, and hugs me hard. She smells like cigarettes and baby powder. How are you today?
Fine.
How’s Mama?
Good. She told me to tell you to stop by after school and have coffee with her.
I will, then.
And Rita. Rita’s coming, too, I tell her.
Oh, good.
Rita thinks I’m going to be pretty someday.
Sister puts her hands on my cheeks and puts her face right in front of mine. You are the most beautiful creature, she says. Right now. You are perfectly you.
Just then Sister Marie pokes her head in the door. Hold on a minute, will you? You might have one more joining you.
Of course, says Sister Eye.
I had thought it was just going to be us two and I don’t want to share Sister with another kid.
Sister is wearing brown pants and a brown sweater today. She looks like a skinny bear. Why don’t you wear a habit like the other sisters? I ask her.
Well, I’m not officially a sister any longer, she says. But I’ve kept my vows.
What are vows? I ask.
I think you already know this.
I forgot.
Promises to God, she says. About the sort of person I hope to be.
Then Sister Marie comes into the classroom holding hands with a girl my age but she is Negro, taller, and prettier. Bennett, Mother’s piano player, is Negro, too. All of his kids go to their own school on the South Side. There’s never been a Negro child here.
I would like you both to meet Elizabeth. She has just transferred from her school in Bronzeville to our school. Have a look around, Elizabeth, Sister Marie says. Elizabeth walks slowly over to the window and peers into the salamander cage.
Sister Marie tells Sister Eye, Her father teaches at the school of sociology and is among the group fighting the board of education. He was instrumental in all of the school boycotts. But Elizabeth’s school remains overburdened. She has attended only half days all year and her mother is at her wit’s end.
The girl and I look at each other. Her hair is gathered into two little poufs on the top of her head and tied with red ribbons. She is wearing red socks. They are cute but they are out of uniform. You can sit here, I tell her. This desk is empty.
She sits.
How come you’re not at your own school? I ask.
She considers my face. My mama thinks it’s not good enough.
Oh. This school’s pretty good. I’ve been here since first. I lean in so I can whisper to her. We have drills. For if a bomb gets dropped on us.
Civil defense drills, says Elizabeth. Every school does those.
She doesn’t seem to care about this.
Sister Marie is still talking to Sister Eye. She might have some catching up to do.
Elizabeth looks around the room, studies all the stuff on the walls.
Her mother assures me she’s been supplementing at home but I thought it best she come early. To start to adjust, says Sister Marie.
It’s going to be fine, says Sister Eye.
Elizabeth sits very straight.
Sister Eye hands us both a multiplication quiz. A row of numbers in no particular order runs down the left-hand side of the page and another row of numbers runs across the top. We are to fill in the grid that takes up the rest of the sheet.
I have filled in four squares and am counting on my fingers when Elizabeth puts down her pencil. She looks at me and at my page. When I look back at her she quickly turns her head.
After a few minutes, Sister approaches our desks. How are we doing? She turns Elizabeth’s page so it’s facing her and runs her finger over the grid.
Well, you’ve got your numbers down, don’t you, dear? she says to Elizabeth.
Ma’am? says Elizabeth.
Yes, dear.
How come you let Negro children come here?
Sister takes a deep breath. Well, Elizabeth, we haven’t always.
When did it change?
Sister looks at Elizabeth very seriously. Today.
Sister bends over me and my paper. Take your time.
I start putting numbers in the squares because I don’t know the answers, and don’t care what they are. Elizabeth turns in her seat to face me. Hey, don’t do that. It won’t help. You just don’t know them yet.
Sister looks at her, smiling. Elizabeth is very wise. Like you. I think you are going to be friends.
Some of the pain the numbers cause goes away when Sister calls me wise, even more so when Elizabeth grins at the prospect of us being friends.
I just don’t know them yet, I tell Elizabeth.
The other kids start filing in. Everyone stares at Elizabeth and whispers. Paul sits down behind me. He leans forward. Who’s your friend?
Shut up, I say.
Does Howdy Doody have a friend?
They call me Howdy Doody because of my hair and freckles—and my teeth. Cut it out.
Your mama make a wrong turn this morning? Girl? says the boy behind Elizabeth.
She sits with her hands folded on her desk, her back straight.
I lean across the aisle. Don’t listen to them, I whisper.
As she opens a book on her desk she says, You’re the one listening to them, not me.
The whole room seems to be looking at us while Sister Marie and Sister Eye talk privately in the front of the room. Sister Eye waves at us both as she leaves.
Hey, Sophia, says Paul. Is your dad coming to parent–teacher conferences? Oh, wait. I forgot you don’t have a dad.
Elizabeth glances at me and then back at her book.
Opening my Big Chief tablet to a blank page, I bend over it so no one can see and write: Would you like to be my friend? I would like to be your friend. Then I write down my phone number, tear out the page, and fold it into a very small triangle. The boys will see if I hand it to her, so I tuck it in the sleeve of my sweater.
Sister Marie raps her desk with a ruler in order to get our attention. She smiles as she introduces Elizabeth. I am certain that in welcoming her you will be as kind and courteous as always. Elizabeth glances up at Sister with one eyebrow raised. I can’t conceal my laughter and it comes out in a quiet snort.
Ladies, says Sister.
Mother is waiting when E
lizabeth and I walk out of the school. She is dressed up with hat and gloves and the fox stole. Mother is like the center of the world when she is anyplace. Everyone sort of turns to face her, watch her, even the mean boys.
There’s my kitten, she says, waving. I’m anxious to introduce Elizabeth. I hope that Mother will make me seem more interesting.
Where’s Jim? I ask.
She puts her hand on her hip like an actress. Can’t I pick up my own daughter?
Mother, this is Elizabeth. She’s new here, I say.
Mother bends over and offers her hand. Well, hello, Miss Elizabeth, she says.
Elizabeth slowly reaches out her hand. She stares at Mother like she’s trying to figure something out. Wait a minute. Is your name Naomi Hill?
Well, now how on earth would you know my name? says Mother, touching her chest.
My dad has your record.
Well, he might be the only one.
He listens to it all the time. He sings along, too. It’s horrible.
Mother laughs. A woman approaches us. Mom, says Elizabeth, come here! Naomi Hill!
Elizabeth’s mother is tall and slim and wears a fitted green dress. She doesn’t seem as excited about Mother as Elizabeth is.
Miss Hill, she says, extending her hand.
Pleasure to meet you, Mother says. You’re new to Chicago?
No, we are new to this school.
Well, I welcome you officially, says Mother.
Thank you, Elizabeth’s mother says without a smile. We must get going. As they walk away Elizabeth turns around and waves. I run to her and motion her to me, indicating I have a secret. She puts her ear close to my face.
We can only wear white socks, I whisper. Elizabeth looks down at her feet and then at mine.
Thank you, she says.
I pull the note out of my sleeve, give it to her, and run back to where Mother is waiting.
On the way home I tell Mother, I think we are going to be friends. She’s very smart. She does her times tables in a couple of minutes and her father is a teacher at the university. Something about boycotts? And when the boys say stuff about her being a Negro, she just sits there like she can’t even hear them. Like she doesn’t get her feelings hurt. I want to be like Elizabeth.
Last Night at the Blue Angel: A Novel Page 5
