The Sweetest Sound

by Sherri Winston

  The Blueberry continued to zoom beneath a canopy of leaf colors in the early October morning. Aunt Fannie mashed the gas pedal and the car sped on.

  The Lodge was a huge restaurant tucked high in the hills. Twice a month, we held our Sunday services there. People could enjoy their brunches while the choirs performed onstage. Gospel Brunch drew folks from all over the state—sometimes even from out of state. Mostly, though, it was the same faces. Even the out-of-towners were familiar. Everybody was related to somebody and all the bodies were ready for music and a good breakfast.

  No matter how scared I got about singing, I was always happy at the Lodge. Auntie said people who could sit there while the choirs performed “that good gospel music” and not feel it deep in their bones, well, their souls were truly dead.

  I had to agree.

  Speaking of death, I was so happy we’d made it onto the gravel parking lot alive that I practically stopped, dropped, and rolled across the ground.

  Aunt Fannie completely ignored me as I said, “Thank you, sweet Lord Almighty!” She swooshed the banana pudding away from me and strutted toward the building.

  I traded glances with Junior. It was natural for the church ladies to bring extra dishes for sale at Gospel Brunch, but we knew that wasn’t why she was fanning that banana pudding around like some sort of red cape at a bullfight.

  One quick glance around the parking lot told the story. Other women—single women—climbed from their cars holding heavy platters and plates. Offerings. Not for the public, but for the new choir director. That poor man was in for a lot of casseroles. And desserts.

  When my mother left, Daddy used to get a lot of casseroles. Gradually, however, word spread that his heart was too beat-up for love. Every now and then, a woman would still approach him with a dish, but mostly just Old Lady Moses. And that was all right, because she knew Daddy was crazy for her peach cobbler and her jerk chicken.

  I wondered if Miss Clayton knew how to make peach cobbler. I’d have to ask her without saying why.

  Before I even made it all the way up the front steps, still trying to figure out how to trick Miss Clayton into baking a cobbler, Faith and Zara came bursting through the double doors.

  “Today is going to be awesome!” Zara said, hugging me tight. Faith, as usual, was doing some sort of complicated hand-clap, foot-stomp combination. The kind that cheerleaders do. Faith wanted to do anything that would make her stand out, almost as much as I wanted to do EVERYTHING not to stand out.

  She grinned. “Hey, girl. The Husband Pageant has already begun!” Then she hand-clapped it out and topped it off with a “woo-hoo!”

  Every time a new single man joined the church, all the single women broke out their best recipes, their best faux furs, and their absolute most expensive perfumes. We called it the Husband Pageant.

  Who would be crowned the new Miss Missus?

  Faith took a step forward and did a spin. It was all very elaborate and graceful. Perhaps on its way to becoming a flourish, even. Then she clutched her arms across her chest and thrust her head toward the heavens, her gazillion tiny black braids waterfalling over her shoulders. Her chocolate-brown complexion stood out nicely from the bright reds, pinks, and yellows of her scarf. After a long pause, she looked at Zara and me.

  I tugged one of her braids and said, quietly, “Your hair looks nice.”

  She shook her head dramatically, making the long, thin braids dance.

  “Girls! I can feel it,” she said. “Something wonderful and amazing is going to happen today. You know how I feel about my girl Miss Grace Pendergast. I want to be discovered and become a singing sensation like her. And for some reason, I’ve got this crazy feeling like something is going to happen today!”

  Then she collapsed into a curtsy and flung an arm across her eyes—to shield out the glare of all her potential, I guess. Zara and I were used to such displays from Faith. We were trying to help her get back on her feet when a blur of plaid whipped around us like a tornado.

  “JONES!” we all yelled.

  Abraham Jebediah Jones.

  Faith wrinkled her nose. “Jones? What is that nasty smell on you?”

  Everybody in the whole wide world called that boy Jones. Teachers included.

  He was the size of a third grader. He wore plaid bow ties all the time. And thick glasses. AND he was about the most annoying creature on God’s green Earth.

  But you know what?

  Here was the crazy thing—he sang like an ANGEL!

  “Aw, baby girl,” he said, pushing his face up close to Faith’s, “you know you like my man smell!” Then he hit her with that dumb laugh of his.

  Honk-honk-honk!

  Really it was more like Honk! Snort! Honk! Snort! Honk! Snort! Honk! Snort!

  Faith was still swinging at him when he vanished down the steps and out of sight. A blur of plaid and boy smell. A well-behaved Jones was a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence.

  We headed inside. Unlike Faith, I was hoping there wouldn’t be any surprises.

  4

  Someday

  The next hour was a flurry of nervous activity—grown-ups rushing about, kids doing vocal exercises. The interlude between morning prayer service at seven AM and the later service featured the curly high notes of the classic church organ twiddling through gospel standards such as “Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” and “Peace in the Valley.”

  When the ladies started making breakfast, the three of us bought pancakes and sausage with apple juice and found a table near the windows so we could see who was coming. “Oh, my,” said Faith, in her best Church Lady voice. Zara and I were already giggling. We loved to sit and watch people and make comments the same way some of the older women at the church did. Faith wrinkled her nose like one of the ladies we loved to imitate, and said, “Sister Loretta over there better be careful in those high heels.”

  Zara nodded, joining in. Making her voice as dry and nasal as she could, she said, “Heels so high, Sister Loretta must be trying to get closer to the Lord.”

  We tried holding it in, but laughter burst out around mouthfuls of pancake.

  Right at that exact moment, the Trinity Sisters walked up. Not really sisters, but everyone called them that. I sharply inhaled. Held my breath. These women had become part of church legend.

  The three of them paused in front of us. Miss Lily. Miss Wanda. Sister Dahlia. That was what they wanted to be called, and that was how they were addressed.

  “Hello, ladies,” said Faith, her tone wary. Zara and I jumped to our feet, clutching each other’s hands. Fearful, but alert.

  Miss Lily was the tallest. Like the other two, she wore a colorful suit and hat large enough to launch into space. Her suit was yellow, to match the autumn leaves. She walked right up to me and placed her hands on either side of my face.

  I blinked. Swallowed hard. Felt Zara take a step back.

  Miss Lily said, “God has blessed you, child. You’re an angel!” Her words started out soft, then grew more intense.

  Miss Wanda fluttered her hands, saying, “Hallelujah!” then stepped over to us. She stuck her hand out and pressed her palm to my forehead, as if she were healing me. This seemed to please Sister Dahlia, who then joined her friends and placed both hands on my shoulders.

  I shut my eyes, unable to even try to begin to understand what they were doing. Wait, what were they doing? I opened my eyes again and realized they were swaying ever so gently and singing words at such a low pitch it was impossible to understand beneath all of the noise in the hall.

  When Miss Lily’s eyes popped open, I jumped. Hadn’t realized they were closed until now. She knelt so that I could look straight at her.

  “We pray for you, sugar,” she said.

  “Amen,” cried the other Trinity Sisters.

  “No child should have to suffer what you have suffered,” Miss Lily said.

  “Suffered like a lamb!” said Miss Wanda.

  “A mother leaving like that is a sin!” declared Miss
Lily.

  At that point I was a trembling mess. Zara and Faith had both taken two giant steps back, while several others passed by and threw glances in our direction like we were doing the hula with Eskimos.

  Miss Lily shut her eyes tight and began, “God won’t abandon you—you are a child of God, created by God, secured, accepted, and valued by God. You have direct access to God’s throne of grace. Nothing can separate us from God’s love. God will never abandon you.”

  The words of her prayer danced around my brain. Abandon. Secured. Valued. Separate. Words that conflicted with one another and made my heart squeeze. Daddy never spoke of my mother’s absence as abandonment. He made it more about her needs. The Trinity Sisters had a different idea. The knot in my chest told me I might agree with them more than Daddy, a truth I did not want to think about.

  Miss Wanda spoke in a dry, crinkly whisper. She said, “In the Bible, it says, ‘I will fulfill my vows to the Lord in the presence of all His people.’ Don’t let your mama’s absence make you lose sight of your responsibility to the good Lord.”

  “Amen!” cried the other two women. Then all three straightened. For the first time I realized their suits were exactly alike and each woman wore one color from head to toe. Miss Lily, as I’d noticed, in autumn yellow. Miss Wanda in deep cranberry. Sister Dahlia in frosty blue. Hat, scarves, suits, shoes.

  They walked off, and Zara and Faith rushed back to my side. “Are you okay?” they asked.

  Faith shook her head at me. “Girl, you just got Trinitied!”

  I tried to laugh it off like everybody else, but Miss Wanda’s whispery voice crackled in my ear like static from a radio far in the distance.

  Will I fulfill my vows to the Lord in the presence of all His people?

  It was as if I’d just gotten an e-mail from Heaven reminding me of my answered prayers. I had made a promise. Now the time had come to keep my end of it. I wondered if Miss Wanda was on God’s e-mail list, too, and if she knew my secret.

  Before long, we were getting ready to perform. The Lodge was filling up, and by the time we headed backstage, the parking lot beyond the tall windows was mostly full. Food smells swirled around, and the adult choir was already rocking and rolling while the deacons did their thing.

  My knees were beginning to get jittery. The air backstage felt heavy. Despite having gotten Trinitied for no good reason, what was really getting to me was seeing all the people. Feeling like they were looking at me. That trapped underwater feeling pressed against me, and I had to take deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths.

  Just before time to go onstage, Faith whispered, “Oh, my goodness, Mouse! I can’t wait to meet the new choir director. I just have this feeling—like everything is about to change.” She held my hand and squeezed my fingers. We were inching along to our places in the shadowy area behind the stage. I struggled to catch my breath as my throat got tighter and tighter. I wished I felt as good about change as she did. To me, change always felt a little like an unexpected note on a coffeepot.

  Besides, what if the new choir director was stricter than the others? Miss Betty, who’d worked with the Children’s and Youth choirs since forever, knew me. She never pushed me to get off the back row and really sing.

  Okay, so I knew I’d promised God I’d finally come out of my shell and sing like a bird and all, but what if I couldn’t? Would the new choir director kick me out?

  I will fulfill my vows to the Lord in the presence of all His people.

  Zara took one glance at me and knew why I looked so nervous. She reached back and took hold of my hand. Her fingers were warm and strong. I could feel the comfort in the pulse of her veins and crook of her bones.

  Sometimes when the two of us were out shopping or at the mall thirty miles away, people would see us, me and Zara, and ask if we were sisters. We both had skin that was somewhere between weak tea and apple-pie crust. Light, light brown. And we both had gray eyes. Although Zara had lots of green in hers; mine were mostly just gray.

  Of course, the hair was totally different. While I wore my pixie cut, Zara had springy ringlets that reached all the way to her butt. More than once, I overheard women in Faith’s mother’s salon whispering about how Zara had so much hair because her father was white. Like that had anything to do with anything.

  Anyway, I always felt like Zara and I didn’t just look like sisters, we understood each other like sisters. Faith and I were close, but Zara was my best friend.

  Before I could give it any more thought, one of the grown-ups backstage was pushing us forward and we were filing out onto the risers. Miss Betty directed us to our places. But when I got to my spot, she waved me over.

  “Would you be so kind as to play for us this morning so that I may direct the children fully on my last day?”

  Oh, good grief! I did not like surprises. I wanted to say, No, thank you very much! But Miss Betty, with her old-lady glasses, smelled like peppermints and powdery perfume. She was one of the nicest people on the whole green planet. I simply nodded. At least I wouldn’t have to suffer the brutality of singing background for our choir’s resident diva, six-year-old Precious Henry.

  I took a seat at the piano, adjusted the bench, and was about to begin when Miss Betty announced, “Because today is my final day directing the children, I will be accompanied on piano by the very talented Cadence Mariah Jolly.”

  For a second, I was certain I was going to pass out. Now, why’d she have to go and do that? Hot fiery needles of fear poked at my cheeks, and my hands began to shake. I reached for the music on the stand above me, but all I managed was to knock it to the floor.

  When I bent over to pick it up, I almost fell. Light sounds of laughter floated from the risers.

  Miss Betty came over and knelt gingerly to help. “You’ll be fine, dear. You’ve played this music over and over since you were six. I have faith in you.” My hands shook just a bit. Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. I didn’t dare look out past the bright lights of the stage. Instead, I imagined I was inside a story. I saw myself dressed in ankle-length skirts and running around a large house as one of the girls in Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. Only, instead of being the headstrong, outspoken Jo, I could only picture myself as poor Beth. Helpless and pitied due to scarlet fever.

  A little shiver ran through me, and I hoped I wasn’t coming down with a real fever. I sat up straight, my gaze on Miss Betty. Don’t be Beth. Don’t be Beth, I repeated to myself. Then, following Miss Betty’s lead, I began the opening notes to “This Little Light of Mine.”

  Precious Henry didn’t so much sing as attack the lyrics, like she was belting some kind of fight song for a football team. Even so, people ate it up, right along with their bacon and waffles. She got tons of “go, girl” and “that’s right, baby” and that sort of thing. Which seemed to make her sing even louder, though I wouldn’t have thought it was possible.

  And you know, by the end of it, I couldn’t help thinking:

  The idea of singing a solo audition is less terrifying than the thought of an eternity of singing behind the screaming antics of Little Miss Precious!

  Mercifully, we had to witness only one screaming performance in the key of YIKES! courtesy of Little Precious. The Youth Choir was performing next. And Joya Booker and Terrance Walker had a duet.

  “I love it when Joya and Terrance sing together,” whispered Faith. We sat in chairs offstage as the Youth Choir took its place on the risers. Their purple robes and peaked white collars made them look like exotic birds. Joya wore her long hair pulled back into a grown-up-looking bun. People at church were always telling us girls we should look up to her. And we did.

  As Joya took her place in front of the risers, she didn’t seem particularly hurried or worried. Terrance came to stand beside her. His dark brown skin shone like buffed leather; his snow-white teeth blazed beneath the bright lights.

  Miss Betty introduced them, but she didn’t sit down to play. The Youth Gospel Band had taken the stage. Junior was u
p there looking all big-boy proud. His gray suit fit him perfectly. His mother, Miss Jackie, had the suit made special for him when he went to visit her in Philadelphia over summer break. Miss Jackie called Junior all the time. Thinking about that tightened the knot in my stomach. Miss Jackie hadn’t just left Junior with Daddy because she had something better to do. She’d pursued a career in the navy and thought her son would be better off living full-time with his father.

  Maybe my mother figured I’d be better off full-time with Daddy, too.

  Maybe.

  The opening chords of the song began, and instinctively we all shifted forward in our seats.

  “Take me to the king,” sang Joya. Lyrics blossomed on her lips like springtime, growing brighter and more beautiful with each note.

  Each breath seemed to define her name: Joya. Joyful. Joy.

  Only after Faith reached over and touched my fingers did I realize I’d been playing my invisible piano. We smiled at each other, then continued to watch Joya. Faith leaned into me, whispering, “One day that’s going to be me. Well, us. All of us. Right up there wearing those purple robes!”

  The knot in my belly did a twist.

  Terrance’s rich tenor joined the light, sweet soprano of Joya’s voice. The blend was pure melody. His voice, melding with hers, held a buttery quality. Their tones were rich, confident. My heart hammered in my chest.

  What if God wanted me to sing? Oh, boy! Bad enough I’d made a promise to the Lord; was He making a request from me? I tried to imagine God’s voice, what it would sound like. Asking me to use the gift He’d given me to sing. All I kept hearing in my head, though, was the pastor’s voice.

  Words to their song soaked into my skin, washed all through me. And when they were finished, I had tears in my eyes. Tears for the beauty of what they’d shared and how it had affected everyone in the building. Tears for the fear that even though Mrs. Reddit said I’d been blessed to sing, I may never find the nerve to show it.