Song of My Heart

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Just that morning, he’d come around the building to find Sadie sweeping the front porch. Before he could catch her attention, though, the sheriff had clomped up and greeted her. Sid had expected her to send the man on, since she was working, but instead she’d leaned on the broom and beamed a welcome. McKane had slipped one hand in his pocket, the picture of relaxation, and they’d chatted for several minutes.

  The image of the two of them—smiling and at ease with each other—would be burned in Sid’s memory forever. What all had gone on between them while he’d collected Asa’s lumber? Sadie obviously had time for the sheriff, but not for him. Couldn’t she see she was breaking his heart?

  But he had a plan to capture her attention tonight. By the end of the day, she’d be looking at him with that moony expression she’d aimed at the sheriff.

  He grabbed an empty crate from the shed and began cleaning up the leftover shingles, tools, and paint brushes, weary but smiling. The one time he’d visited an opera house, the singer had been given a bouquet of roses at the end of the performance. He might not be able to find roses in Goldtree, but there were wild flowers sprouting in the field beside Asa’s house. Just yesterday, he’d seen a good dozen clusters of foot-high stems bearing purple flowers with yellow centers.

  As soon as he finished up here, he intended to ride out and pick a big bundle of those purple flowers, tie their stems together with a length of yellow ribbon he’d purchased a month ago because the color had reminded him of Sadie’s shining hair, and he’d hand ’em right over in front of everybody tonight when she finished her final song. His heart set up a double beat just thinking about how she’d blush pink and give him her special smile.

  Then, while she was smiling and feeling appreciative, he’d take her aside and set her straight on how he felt about her and how much her paying attention to the sheriff hurt him. He and Sadie had a relationship years in the making. She’d only known the sheriff a few weeks. She’d pick him over McKane. He just knew it.

  The yard clean, Sid plopped the crate back in the shed. He paused for a moment to massage his aching back. Another yawn stretched his jaw so wide it popped. Mercy, he was tired. He peeked out the shed door at the sun, which had drifted toward the western horizon but still hung fairly high. Would he have time for a nap? He’d sure earned one after his long hours of finishing that fancy porch.

  Then he got a whiff of his own body. No time for napping. He had flowers to pick, and then he needed to clean himself up good before heading to the opera house tonight. He aimed his feet toward his little rental house, whistling. He might not’ve gotten time with Sadie earlier in the week, but he’d make up for it tonight. How could Sadie refuse a clean-smelling man in his best suit bearing an armload of flowers? She couldn’t. She was as good as his already.

  Miss Melva poked Miss Shelva on the shoulder and pointed as Sadie entered the kitchen for supper. “Well, now, lookit our Sadie in her Sunday go-to-meetin’ dress an’ her hair all hangin’ down her back.”

  Miss Shelva jumped up and rushed at Sadie, her hands outstretched. “Oh my,” she crooned at full volume. “You’re just as purty as a picture, Sadie. Never seen nobody look so purty before.”

  Sadie fingered the strand of hair that lay across the bodice of her newest dress. She hadn’t worn her hair down except for bed since she was a little girl, and leaving the locks unfettered made her feel half-dressed and exposed. “Are you sure I look . . . decent?” Surely no lady would be seen in public with her hair unbound, but Mr. Baxter had insisted she shouldn’t twist it into a knot.

  Yesterday evening, after she’d practiced with the pianist, Mr. Baxter had said, “Them lights’ll be shinin’ on your yellow hair, makin’ you look like you got a halo. You just do as I say, Miss Wagner. Earn your keep.” Recalling his comment brought a fresh rush of heat to Sadie’s face. She appreciated the generous wage she would receive for singing, but she wasn’t sure she liked the proprietary way he eyed her when she stood on the stage.

  Miss Melva bounced up from the table and joined her sister in circling Sadie, admiring her from every angle. “You remind me of a picture in a Bible storybook I had when I was a young’un. ’Member that storybook, Sister? Ma read to us from it afore we went to sleep at night.”

  Miss Shelva bobbed her head. “I ’member.”

  “Picture of a angel sittin’ on a rock outside the Lord’s tomb—”

  “—with yellow, wavy hair a-flowin’ over his shoulders. Yep.” Miss Shelva completed Miss Melva’s sentence. She stroked her hand down Sadie’s waist-length tresses, her thin face softened by a smile of wonder. “Your hair’s just as yellow an’ flowin’ as an angel’s hair.”

  “Downright beautiful,” Miss Melva confirmed.

  Sadie hunched her shoulders, embarrassed by their open admiration. She hustled to the table and sat, but she didn’t reach for the serving bowls. Her stomach was too nervous to hold food. The twins plunked back into their chairs and resumed eating.

  Sadie clasped her hands in her lap to control their shaking. “Are you coming tonight?”

  “Don’t got tickets,” Miss Shelva said around a bite of breaded tomatoes.

  Sadie blinked in surprise. Mr. Baxter had bragged about how many tickets he’d sold—seemed most of the town of Goldtree planned to be in attendance. She’d assumed, since the opera house was a part of the mercantile, Miss Melva and Miss Shelva would have no need to purchase tickets. “Mr. Baxter didn’t give you any?”

  “Didn’t ask for none,” Miss Melva replied. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sister an’ me never go in the cellar.”

  “Not even if a tornado was a-comin’ could you get me down there,” her twin said with a solemn bob of her head.

  “Y-you won’t be there, then?” Disappointment sat heavily in Sadie’s breast. Although the sisters were her employers, they were familiar faces. Not friends, perhaps, but not strangers, either, as were most of the townsfolk. She’d counted on being able to look at them when she got nervous.

  “Spiders. Rats. Who knows what all else is scurryin’ around down there.” Miss Melva shuddered.

  Miss Shelva patted Sadie’s hand. “When Asa gets the above-ground opera house built, like he’s plannin’, then we’ll get our tickets like ever’body else. But we ain’t goin’ in no cellar.”

  “But if you’d only come down, you’d see—”

  “Ain’t goin’ in no cellar,” Miss Shelva repeated, even louder than the first time.

  Sadie hung her head. “Very well.” She pushed away from the table. “I believe I’ll go on down and sing through a few scales—warm up my voice.”

  “You ain’t gonna eat?” Miss Melva gawked at her. “You gotta eat.”

  Sadie backed away. “I’m not hungry. I’ll find something later.” Both sisters raised a protest, but Sadie hurried to the stairway and clattered down the stairs, pretending not to hear. She didn’t know how to turn on the gaslights, so she grabbed the lantern from the shelf in the storeroom and lit it before taking the stairs to the singing room.

  Her feet echoed eerily as she made her way up the aisle to the stage. The coolness of the room touched her limbs and she shivered. Or maybe the emptiness of the space—all shadowed and silent as a tomb—made her shiver. “Spiders. Rats. Who knows what all else is scurryin’ around down there.” Miss Melva’s comment echoed in Sadie’s mind, and her gaze zipped around the dark room, expecting little creatures to skitter from the corners.

  “Stop being a ninny,” she told herself. How foolish to adopt the Baxter twins’ fears. To take her mind off the women’s wary suppositions, she stepped onto the stage, held the lantern high, and examined the rows of velvet-covered seats. Tonight they would all be filled with people who’d come to hear her sing. Another shiver climbed her spine, this one of nervous anticipation.

  “I’ve waited my whole life for this moment, Lord,” she whispered, lifting her face to the stamped tin ceiling. “Thank You for giving me the opportunity to sing. Let
me praise You in song, just as King David did so long ago.” A tiny bit of her nervousness melted away with the prayer.

  She moved to the piano, set the lantern on its glossy top, and opened the cover. She touched keys one at a time, singing a scale to match each pitch. She started softly, gently, exercising her vocal cords the way Papa used to swing a bat to limber up before playing a baseball game with his mining buddies. Only when she’d finished the scales did she remember she’d neglected to bring a glass of water down with her. She’d need to sip between songs if she didn’t want to strain her voice.

  She started for the hallway to go upstairs, but a sound captured her attention. A steady drip, drip, drip. Might Mr. Baxter have a spigoted water barrel down here for the attendees to satisfy their thirst during a break? If so, she wouldn’t have to go out to the pump.

  Holding the lantern to light the way, she headed toward the sound. Floor-to-ceiling curtains lined the south wall, and the dripping seemed to echo from somewhere beyond them. Sadie pawed at the thick velvet, searching for a seam. She finally located one, slightly off-center to the wall, and pushed the heavy drape aside. A solid wood door hid behind the shielding draperies. The dripping was louder, so she knew she was close to the source. She twisted the door’s handle, but it didn’t budge.

  Listening to the drip made her throat feel even drier. She set the lantern on the floor and wrapped both hands around the brass handle. She twisted with all her might. The handle refused to turn. Frustrated, she leaned her full weight into the door.

  “Miss Wagner!”

  Although very softly spoken, Mr. Baxter’s voice startled Sadie so badly she gasped. She jumped away from the door and whirled to face the opera house’s frowning owner.

  “What’re you tryin’ to do?”

  “I heard water dripping, and I was thirsty,” Sadie said.

  The man snatched up the lantern with one hand and grabbed Sadie’s elbow with the other. He escorted her back to the performance area, then released her with a rough shove that sent her scrambling to regain her balance. She rubbed her arm and stared at him, her pulse galloping in apprehension.

  “Miss Wagner, I’m gonna say this once an’ once only.” The man spoke so softly Sadie had to strain to hear him. “The only doors you’re to use are the ones that lead outside or into the mercantile storeroom. That door over there? It’s for me an’ me alone. You understand?”

  He didn’t raise his voice. She’d never heard him raise his voice. But the harsh tone he now used made the fine hairs on Sadie’s neck prickle. She offered a quick nod. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  A smile crept across his face, but his eyes remained slits of warning. “Good girl. Now, if you’re needin’ a drink, I’ll just go up an’ fetch you a glass of water. Maybe even bring a pitcher down. Would you like that?”

  Sadie’s tongue stuck to the roof of her parched mouth, but something more than a desire for water created the uncomfortable dryness. She tasted fear. “Y-yes, sir. Thank you.”

  He handed her the lantern, then turned to leave. But as he reached the doors, he paused and peered over his shoulder at her. “Oh . . . an’ Miss Wagner?”

  “Yes?”

  “About that door behind the curtains . . .” Another smile—a friendly, guileless smile—transformed his face. “You don’t need to be tellin’ nobody about that. You know how goosey my sisters are. It’d only upset ’em, wonderin’ what’s back there.”

  What is back there? The question quivered on Sadie’s lips, but she held it inside.

  Mr. Baxter continued in the same affable tone. “If you wanna keep singin’ here, earnin’ that three dollars a night, it’s best you keep it our little secret. All right?” Without waiting for a reply, he clomped around the corner and disappeared from view.

  14

  Sadie performed Friday and Saturday night. Both nights, every seat was filled and a few men—including Thad on Friday night—stood along the side wall. Every time she glanced in his direction, his smiling face, illuminated by the wall sconces, gave her a boost of encouragement. Both nights she received riotous applause, whistles, and calls for an encore. By all means of measurement, the evenings were a success. But as Sadie sat at the desk in her room on Sunday afternoon, pen in hand, she didn’t know what to tell her parents.

  The ivory sheet of paper stared at her, the salutation lonely at the top of the page. How she wanted to share everything about the evening—her initial nervousness, her joy as music overtook her soul and carried her from the watching crowd to planes of bliss, her desire to dissolve into tears in response to the exuberant ovation and the wilted bouquet of flowers Sid shyly thrust at her at the end of Friday’s performance. But if she were to share all, she’d have to tell them about the hidden door and Mr. Baxter’s warning.

  Slapping down the pen, she rose and paced the little room. “Perhaps ‘warning’ is too strong a word.” She consoled herself, a feeble attempt to escape the fingers of unease that crept up and down her spine. “After all, he didn’t threaten me.” Her feet came to a halt as she recalled his friendly smile, coupled with the casually voiced, “If you wanna keep singin’ . . .” She wrapped her arms around her middle and shivered. He had threatened her. He’d threatened her in the worst possible way, because he knew how much she needed that money to send home to Mama and Papa.

  No, she couldn’t tell anyone about the door.

  Too restless to sit and write, she headed out of her room. Perhaps a walk would help her clear her mind. She tiptoed down the hallway, aware that her employers dozed in their bedrooms. Miss Shelva had informed Sadie that she and her sister napped every Sunday afternoon and Sadie should only disturb them if the mercantile caught on fire. She eased down the stairs, mindful of the fourth and fifth risers, which always squeaked, and let herself out the back door.

  The bright sun hit her full in the face, and she lifted her hand to shield her eyes. In her haste, she’d left her bonnet behind. She considered returning for it, but unwilling to risk disturbing the sleeping sisters, she decided to remain bareheaded. She’d simply find a shady spot to sit. Immediately, the tree in the side yard of the community building came to mind, so she headed in that direction.

  The streets were empty, everyone closed in their own houses for a quiet Sunday afternoon. For a moment, loneliness attacked, but Sadie resolutely pushed the feeling aside. At church that morning, Reverend Wise had advised the congregants on the importance of being content regardless of one’s circumstances. Even the choir, which Sadie had joined last week, shared a song that encouraged a contented spirit. As she made her way across the street, she hummed “It Is Well With My Soul,” finding herself smiling as the words played through her mind.

  She might be far from her family, but she had much for which to be grateful. She seated herself beneath the tree, tucking her legs to the side and smoothing her skirts over her ankles. A soft breeze teased her skin, and she sighed, content. After the past weeks’ frenetic pace—learning everything about clerking in the mercantile, practicing for performances, and finally singing—it felt amazingly good to simply sit and do nothing. She’d enjoy a time of rest, then she’d finish her letter so she could send her parents the money Mr. Baxter had given her last night after everyone had left. Wouldn’t they be pleased to find such a substantial sum in the envelope?

  Sadie frowned, envisioning the rows of seats in the opera house. Two sections of six seats across by eight rows deep provided seats for ninety-six attendees. Both Friday and Saturday, at least a dozen people stood along the north wall, bringing the number to over a hundred. Mr. Baxter charged a half dollar per ticket, which meant each night he’d taken in at least fifty dollars.

  She gasped, her mind racing. If he collected a similar amount every week, four weeks a month, and twelve months a year, even after paying her and purchasing coal oil for the lights, he’d earn a tidy sum. The man would be rich in no time! Surely he’d have the funds to build his elaborate opera house—maybe like the one in Dalton that was
constructed of carved rock with a spindled balcony and a curved stage—in less than two years.

  “Just think . . .” Sadie hunched her shoulders, an excited giggle building in her throat. “In no time at all, I’ll be singing on a real opera house’s stage instead of in a basement singing room.”

  “What’s that you said?”

  Sadie yelped, slapping her hand over her racing heart. She whirled toward the intruding voice, and she nearly collapsed in relief when she spotted Sid at the edge of the shade cast by the tree’s waving limbs. “Oh my, Sid, you nearly scared me out of a year’s growth.”

  He grinned sheepishly and ambled close. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Was takin’ a walk—thinkin’ some—an’ saw you. Can . . .” He gulped, streaks of red decorating his tanned cheeks. “Can I join you?”

  She scooted over a bit and patted the ground beside her. “Of course.” She disliked the wariness that assaulted her in Sid’s presence. After their years of comfortable camaraderie, his recent churlishness had cast a pall on their friendship. Her heart had warmed, however, with his gift of flowers—sad-looking, droopy things tied with a bright yellow ribbon—Friday night. She’d tossed away the flowers, but she’d placed the rumpled ribbon next to her family photograph as a reminder of her once-close relationship with her cousin.

  Sid plopped down, knees bent and legs spread wide. He leaned against the tree and sent an uncertain glance in Sadie’s direction. “Nice out here. Not too hot yet. But now that June’s here, it’ll get a lot hotter in no time.”

  The weather was a topic for strangers. Sadie jumped to a more personal topic. “You weren’t in church this morning.” She watched his face for signs of irritation.