All for a Song

by Allison Pittman

  She thanked him a final time and had taken only a few steps when there he was again, right beside her.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be out alone in the city.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, but even as she did, she hoped he wouldn’t agree. Although the newness of him rumbled with the noodles in her stomach, his presence also brought an unexpected comfort. Her protest proved unconvincing as he simply dropped his hands into his pockets and fell into a slow step beside her.

  They didn’t speak at all as they walked, making an oddly comforting pocket of silence in the midst of the city’s noise. When they came upon the Strawn Brothers Music Store, Dorothy Lynn said, “I’m goin’ in here,” at which point Roland—after a quick, curious, twisting smile—opened the door for her and followed her in.

  Mr. Strawn emerged from the back room before the front door had closed behind them, carrying her guitar stiffly like it was a treasure to be presented.

  “I would say good as new,” he said proudly, “but good guitar is like good wine: better and better with age.”

  Dorothy Lynn took the instrument, gingerly by the neck at first, then instinctively brought it against her body, her fingers hovering over the strings.

  “You play?” Roland asked, sounding truly impressed.

  “A little,” Dorothy Lynn said.

  “You should play now,” Strawn said. “See how it feels.” He gestured toward a chair, and Dorothy Lynn sat down and curled herself around the guitar. She began strumming a few chords—nothing like a song—and cocked her head at the new sound.

  “Is in tune,” Strawn said. “Play.”

  Her mind drifted back, stopping and sifting through every song she knew, but none would make the journey to the strings. Only the tune born in this city, the one she’d been humming since the night before, seemed ready for this moment, playing itself through her as she hummed along.

  “Is nice, right?” Strawn said.

  Dorothy Lynn glanced up both to acknowledge and agree, flashing a quick smile at Roland, who seemed equally impressed.

  “I don’t recognize the song,” Roland said.

  “It’s mine.”

  “You wrote it?”

  “Not yet. It’s still just in my head.”

  “The lyrics?”

  “They’re waitin’ too.”

  “I’d like to hear them.”

  No stranger had ever requested to hear one of her songs. While Brent had expressed interest in them, she could never separate his appreciation from his affection. For the most part, her songs came to life in isolation, never offered to anybody until the words were safely in her journal and the notes perfectly settled in the strings. To sing this one felt like pushing a baby bird from its nest before the mama had a chance to teach it to fly. Before the feathers, even. “It’s not ready.”

  “Please,” Roland insisted. “I’ve never heard a half-written song.”

  She looked back down, concentrating her gaze on where the hem of her borrowed dress spilled out beneath the curve of the wood, and started again. The song remained wordless through what would become the first verse, but when the chorus found its way, her voice filled the shop.

  Jesus is coming!

  Are you ready

  to meet your Savior in the sky?

  He, on his white horse,

  will come a-riding

  to gather the faithful to his side.

  When Dorothy Lynn looked up, Roland was smiling again—a smile unlike any she’d ever seen before on anyone. Not affection, but admiration, and she wished she had a dozen songs to sing.

  “Is nice, right?” Strawn said again, though he was clearly more impressed with the sound of the guitar than anything.

  “Very nice,” Roland said, never taking his eyes off Dorothy Lynn.

  “Is seventy-five cents for the strings. And I have case for you too.”

  Roland was once again reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clip of folded bills.

  Dorothy Lynn jumped up from her chair to stop him, saying, “You can’t.”

  “You’ve never heard of the expression ‘Sing for your supper’?”

  “You already bought me lunch.”

  Mr. Strawn unceremoniously held his hand out to Roland. “Let a gentleman be a gentleman. You modern girls will spoil everything.” He took the dollar bill and headed to the back room.

  “Perhaps,” Roland said once they were alone, “I could take you to supper sometime.”

  “I told you,” Dorothy Lynn said, grateful for the guitar that anchored her in place, “I have a fiancé back home.”

  “In Pigeonville, I know. I just meant—the song. I’d like to hear it when it’s done. More than that, I’d like Aimee to hear it.”

  Immediately the palms of her hands went slick with sweat. “Sister Aimee? Why?”

  “Come back tonight.”

  “I can’t.”

  “We’ll be here all week. Just promise me you’ll come back.”

  Her fingers tightened around the neck and she repeated, “Why?”

  “Because I think you may be exactly what we need.”

  There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after.

  ECCLESIASTES 1:11

  BREATH OF ANGELS

  9:05 A.M.

  Three raps on the door, and it opens.

  Charlotte has been sitting quietly beside her, contentedly watching the last part of the Today show. It’s a cooking segment with that terrible Martha Stewart. Darlene would have loved her, had she lived long enough.

  At the sound of the knock, Charlotte jumps off the edge of the bed like a shot and immediately brings her thumb to her mouth for a new round of chewing.

  Stop that. It makes you look like an idiot.

  As if she hears, Charlotte obeys.

  Kaleena Patrice, a nursing aide at Breath of Angels, walks in, pushing an empty wheelchair.

  “You the CSV?”

  Kaleena may only be an aide, but she speaks with an undeniable authority, due mostly to her accent. Jamaican, Lynnie would guess. It makes every word she says sound like it has been born after much consideration. When she asks if Charlotte is the CSV, she’s not really asking at all. It’s a confirmation, just in case Charlotte herself has forgotten why she’s here.

  Wide-eyed, Charlotte nods and forcibly keeps her thumb at her side.

  “They told me to send you downstairs to check in at the front desk.”

  “Can I come back later?”

  “Oh, I think we’ll be able to find you plenty to do.”

  “I mean in here. With her.”

  Kaleena plants her hand on her waist and looks Charlotte up and down. Lynnie studies Kaleena’s face, knowing this will be the moment she herself will decide just how she feels about Charlotte Hill. A curt nod, and Kaleena approves. If only Charlotte knew what an honor that is.

  “Give us about thirty minutes. I’m going to help Miss Dorothy take a shower. That work?”

  Again, not an option.

  Charlotte nods, but she doesn’t move.

  “Shoo, now.” Kaleena gives a dismissive waggle of her fingers, and after a final, backward glance, Charlotte’s high-top tennis shoes float her silently out the door, escorted by Kaleena’s warm smile.

  “Now,” she says, “good morning, Miss Dorothy.” Only Kaleena calls her by that name, and she pronounces it with the accent on the wrong syllable—Dor-thee.

  Kaleena’s skin is the color of dark-brewed tea, with large cinnamon freckles scattered across her broad nose and cheeks. Lynnie had freckles herself when she was a girl; Ma used to say that the sun brought them out to play. But they’d worn away with her childhood—something that had been a great relief at the time, though she wonders if they wouldn’t have made her more interesting. Kaleena wears her hair in a thousand tiny braids that are sometimes swirled and sculpted into an intricate design. Today, though, she wears
them the way Lynnie likes best—long and loose, in singular, thick strands. She abandons the wheelchair to come to the side of the bed, where the bouquet of balloons floats, and reaches out to pluck at one of the strings.

  “And happy birthday.”

  There’s none of the false cheer like she’ll hear from the rest of the staff today. Some of the staff can wish a happy birthday with the same air of celebration used for a long-awaited bowel movement. With Kaleena, it’s a statement of fact.

  Lynnie’s hands are listless in her lap, and as she does at every visit, Kaleena settles on the side of the bed, takes them in her warm, strong ones, and asks if they can pray together.

  Yes.

  “Father in heaven,” Kaleena begins, “we praise you today for Miss Dorothy’s life.”

  Birthday or not, she opens every prayer with the same praise. Right after the last stroke, the one that finally took her speech, Lynnie would sit in silent spiritual disagreement. Who would be thankful for this life? Had there been any mode of travel between her mind and her mouth, she would have burst right in and said so. Instead, when Kaleena prattled on about the blessings of a new day, Lynnie had prayed, Lord Jesus, take me home.

  Always yearning for more, just not here.

  But every time she opened her eyes—still here, her prayer overshadowed by the honeyed words of Kaleena Patrice.

  Now she listens, letting those words wash over her.

  “We praise you, Father, on this day that marks the day she came into this world, for the life she has lived, and we commit to you all that remains of her journey. May today be full of good things, as you are good. May today be free of pain, as you are the great healer. We give you this day, and all those to come, until we are swept up to your holy presence.”

  Amen.

  “Now,” Kaleena says, standing, “let’s get you prettied up. Word has it we’ll have quite a few visitors today. Do you want to walk? Or take a ride?”

  Kaleena’s the only aide who ever asks. Most just come in and automatically lend a strong arm and shoulder to assist her into the chair. The bathroom door is just across the room, no more than ten steps on the smooth floor, but they are slow, creeping steps these days, and the workers always have so much to do. Kaleena, however, never seems to be in a hurry. Lynnie darts her eyes away from the chair.

  “Walk it is, then. One, two, three,” and the women are arm in arm. The floor is cool and smooth beneath her bare feet, and Kaleena’s body is strong beside her. They walk like sisters, one chatting on with the gossip of the day, the other absorbing every word.

  “Can you imagine it? After this year, no more Oprah. What’s the world going to do at four o’clock every day?”

  Never watched her.

  “Oh, I know she’s not your favorite, Miss Dorothy, but there’s a whole world of women who live by what she says. I think God Almighty will have something to say about that, all those silly women who turn to her. Me, I only watch sometimes.”

  Lynnie summons a huff, and Kaleena laughs. “Oh, I know you got to have some words of wisdom all locked up in there, miss. Live on this earth a hundred and seven years, I can only imagine what you have to tell the rest of us.”

  Nobody’d listen.

  “That’s the joy of being here, working with all you wise old souls. And it is the soul, what is deep inside, that keeps you here from day to day. The Bible says to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. But you know all about that, don’t you, miss? God must still have great plans for you, great lady, or he would have kept you that day.”

  Kaleena talks on, a series of questions and replies as if another voice answers her. Lynnie walks beside her, feeding the conversation if not contributing. When they get to the bathroom, Kaleena opens the small door to the step-in shower and stills her words. She eases the thin cotton gown over Lynnie’s shoulders, lets it drop to the ground, and holds the older woman’s arm steady as she steps over the threshold.

  There is no room for modesty at Breath of Angels, especially for those residents on the third floor, where even these excursions become more and more rare. Lynnie sits on the wide, textured bench. Kaleena reaches above her for the detachable shower head, aiming the soft spray toward the wall until she has found the perfect temperature. All the while, she hums a familiar tune. Soon the warm water is running down Lynnie’s skin, the sound and the feel of it intertwining with the song. Both touch her. Instinctively, she closes her eyes and leans her head back.

  “You want to wash your hair today?”

  She doesn’t move.

  “Okay, then.”

  There’s a soap dispenser attached to the wall, and she hears the familiar sound of the lever. It’s filled with amber-colored shampoo, the kind used for washing babies’ hair. As Kaleena’s strong hand coaxes the lather, Lynnie’s heart fills with the scent. She knows Breath of Angels uses the baby shampoo because old hair is delicate hair—thin and sparse. But the smell of it conjures up memories of a clean, slick baby, splashing in sinks and tubs and buckets. It’s a gift better than a picture.

  Now it’s running in spent bubbles down her spine, and a new scent emerges. Lavender—a favorite. She opens her eyes and extends her hands to hold the soft, round sponge while Kaleena covers it with the liquid soap.

  “Got something new for you today. This has soap and lotion all in one—keeps your skin soft.”

  Lynnie washes her own body, as much as she can, though there’s nothing to wash away. No dirt from the forest floor or sticky perspiration from a day’s hard work. Just clean skin getting cleaner.

  Kaleena’s singing. “Face to face with Christ, my Savior. Face to face—what will it be?”

  She doesn’t sing it the way Lynnie learned it. There’s a richness to Kaleena’s voice, and she sneaks up on every note, filling the spaces between with runs, chasing around corners from one to the next.

  “When with rapture I behold him, Jesus Christ, who died for me.”

  Tears flow freely down Lynnie’s face, and she hands the soapy sponge up to Kaleena to let her rub it softly across her back.

  Face to face—what will it be? She knows what it will be. She knows it will be bright and glorious. She knows that old men are restored to youthful vigor; she saw her father in a form she’d never known in life. She knows bodies are whole, as she’d seen her precious young soldier full of vitality and strength. She knows it’s an electric rush of the souls of people who knew and loved the Savior she knows and loves.

  And the babies.

  Try as she might, she cannot recall the babies. They carry the names she never spoke aloud, and an undeniable belonging to her. But despite letting her remember the others, God has chosen to hide their forms from her. It is a mercy, really, for if she truly remembered, she’d never be able to bear another moment on this earth. She’d lived far too many years apart from them already.

  The sound was that of the ocean waves, endless praise, and above it a familiar, smoky voice telling her, “Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.” Then the tide of light took her, brought her back to the shore of living. She knew she’d be a messenger. All is well, but all are waiting.

  “You ready, aren’t you, Miss Dorothy?”

  God, help me. I am.

  “You just keep your eyes lookin’ for him, don’t you?”

  Kaleena has rinsed away all traces of the lotiony soap, and with a decisive push the water is off, and a thick, warm towel is placed over Lynnie’s shoulders.

  “That’s why God took your voice, or you’d be tellin’ us all you seen when it’s not our time yet to know.”

  The half door opens and Kaleena is inside, helping her stand, slowly patting her dry and wrapping her hair in another, smaller towel. “No walking back to the bed. Floor’s too slick.”

  With Kaleena’s help, Lynnie steps out of the shower, uses the toilet, and stands while a fresh, clean housedress is snapped down the front. Once she’s settled in the wheelchair, thick socks are stretched over her feet.

/>   “All right, Miss Dorothy.” And the time is nearly at an end. Humming again, Kaleena unwraps the towel from the top of Lynnie’s head and gently tufts the damp hair with her fingers. Thin as it is, it will soon be a cap of soft curls, the deep chestnut color faded, but miraculously not gone to gray.

  Then, working briskly as if to make up for the time lost in gentle bathing, Kaleena is a whirlwind of activity, not only opening the blinds that let in the midmorning sunshine, but also drawing back the curtain of the window that looks out into the hallway where Charlotte Hill is waiting, leaning against the opposite wall.

  “Well, lookee there. I believe you have yourself quite a fan.” Kaleena opens the door and beckons the girl inside. “So, you gonna spend today with my Miss Dorothy?”

  “Yeah—I mean, yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, let me tell you how it’s gonna be. She has people coming to visit in the Family Celebrations Room just off the dining hall downstairs. You know where that is?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “She don’t have time for much of a rest before lunch, but maybe a nice walk around the grounds.” A hand on her shoulder. “Would you like that, Miss Dorothy? It’s a lovely day.”

  Yes, ma’am.

  “But bring her back in half an hour so she can rest up before lunch. You got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, I have a phone.”

  Kaleena sighs. “All right, then. You realize Miss Dorothy is a precious, precious woman, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I do.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a hand—tattered nails bearing scraps of dark, chipped polish—coming to a tentative rest on her other shoulder.