“I don’t want to go anywhere.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice, as if that would shut Darlene out of the room. “Would you rather go back to your circle of Sunday school children under the tree?”
“Are their souls any less worthy?”
“Of course not,” he said, and she felt dangerously soothed. “But they’ll have you forever. We’ve only got a short period of time. A moment, and it’s gone.”
“Couldn’t you just find some other girl in Kansas City?”
He laughed—no, chuckled. Deep and warm and with absolute affection. “We could, I suppose. But what are the chances of finding one as magical as you?”
“Magical?”
“Oh, no.” Darlene worked to get out of her chair. “She might have a soft spot for such talk, but I can spot a line. I’m married to a car salesman; I know flattery when I hear it.”
“With all due respect, ma’am,” Roland said, relegating her to matronly status with a single word, “Dorothy is a grown woman. She can speak her own mind.”
A familiar sound came from the kitchen—the clattering of four active feet punctuated by the slamming of a door and the inevitable call of “Mama!” Mrs. Mevreck must have reached the limits of her patience.
“I’ll go see to them,” Darlene said, looking at Roland side-eyed with renewed suspicion. “It’s almost time for lunch.”
After she left the room, Roland said, “I take it I won’t be invited to stay?”
“She’s very protective,” Dorothy Lynn said.
Emboldened by Darlene’s absence, he reached out, lightly running the backs of his fingers along the sleeve of the dress. “Do you know what it means to be the bride of Christ?”
“Of course I do.” She tensed her arm, drawing herself away from his touch.
“Scriptures tell us that we will be clothed in our acts of righteousness. Think about it: living this life, continuously adding to our eternal garment. Fifty souls were saved last night, largely because of your unselfish act. How many more could come to know Jesus if you would just obey your calling?”
She stepped away. “Your desire is not my calling.”
“No, but can you deny the music God has put in your heart? Could you not feel his pleasure surging through you as you sang last night?”
How could she tell him that whatever pleasure she’d felt was tainted by her own pride? “It was a lark, Mr. Lundi. Nothing more.”
He looked to be on the bridge of acceptance, his hat halfway to his head. “So, no Kansas City?”
“No.”
He used his hat to gesture toward the photograph on the mantel. “So that’s going to be you in a few weeks?”
“Yes,” she said, only there would be no father, no brother, and she would be wearing this very dress turned right-side out.
He must have picked up on her thought before it was fully formed, because his hat was mere inches away from his head when he brought it back down. “Didn’t you say your brother was in California?”
Her mind raced back to their lunch at the Golden Bowl Chinese Restaurant where she’d told him so much—too much—about her wandering brother. Perhaps he’d picked up on the thread of envy she’d kept so closely stitched to her heart. He seemed poised to pull on it, unravel the truth, or worse, wrap it around her yearning to bring her brother home.
“He’s in Culver City.”
“I’m sure you’re looking forward to seeing him again.” Once more, his hat was up, hovering mere inches above his head. “I take it he’ll be at the wedding?”
How could he know? Not about Donny, but about the hold he could have by using her brother as the rope to rescue them both? “Is it far?”
“From here?”
“Culver City. Is it far from Los Angeles?”
“The two are practically in each other’s backyard.”
“Would you have any way to find him, do you think? Donny Dunbar—it’s an unusual name. And I know he’s workin’ as a carpenter on movie sets. How many could there be?”
“I’m a busy man, Miss Dunbar.” The hat was firmly on his head. “As your sister might say, souls to save; money to raise.”
“I’ve never been anywhere, Mr. Lundi. You can understand how terrifyin’ this very idea is for me.” Now she knew exactly what it felt like to close a deal. Carefully crafted sincerity, tinged with early triumph.
“You won’t be alone,” he said, picking up the thread of their unspoken agreement. “We’re like a family, all of us. Your travel, your meals—maybe even a few new dresses. The kind that don’t come with pins. All for God’s glory. And then home by—how long until the wedding?”
“Six weeks.”
He snapped his fingers. “Plenty of time. You have my word.”
“And you’ll help me find Donny?”
“You have my word on that, too.”
“I need to think,” she mused aloud. “And to telephone Brent and my mother. And talk to Darlene.”
“Let them bury themselves,” he said, heading to the front door. “Our train leaves at eight.”
Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us.
ECCLESIASTES 1:10
BREATH OF ANGELS
10:20 A.M.
Breath of Angels has three distinct worlds. There’s the world filled with card games and dominoes and concerts performed by local high school choirs. The residents there move slowly but surely from room to room through quiet, carpeted halls. They congregate with each other in the lobby, bring family members to lunch in the dining hall, and sometimes even step away for a trip to a local museum or shopping mall. Lynnie had been one of them, her calendar full of penciled events, twenty-minute conversations at the mailbox, swim aerobics three times a week. Even after the first stroke, when she’d been forced to use the walker and keep a battery-operated call button around her neck at all times.
Even then, she knew she’d move on. They all did—either move on or die. The day you couldn’t get yourself out of bed, out of the shower, onto the toilet. Every night, late at night, a soundless Angel in soft-soled shoes patrolled the halls of the Breath of Angels apartments, placing a yellow Post-it note on each door. The residents knew to be out of bed and to remove that little square before 10 a.m. That was the sign that all was well. That’s how they knew you were alive and ready to function for the day. Otherwise, you moved on.
Moments before the third, and so far final, stroke, Lynnie had just put a bowl of instant oatmeal in the microwave and was making slow progress to open her door and remove the note. Clearly, she remembers thanking God for another day. In fact, she’d write as much on the note and stick it on her refrigerator, which had become a sea of yellow.
August 12, 2001. Thank you, Lord, for another day.
August 13, 2001. Thank you, Lord, for another day.
One piled atop another, curling at the corners.
When she woke up in her new room after moving on, she wondered what had become of the notes. Everything else she owned had been neatly boxed away.
Now she is at the mercy of Charlotte Hill, piloting the wheelchair.
They lurch around a corner, so close Lynnie can clearly see the dimples in the paint as her footrest scrapes along the wall.
“Sorry about that,” Charlotte says.
Had she the power of speech, Lynnie might say something soothing, intended to assuage the girl’s anxiety, despite her own terror. Instead, she’s locked in her silence, clenching her jaw, fingers curled on the armrest of the chair, as if she has the strength to hold herself in.
One more corner, and they’re in an unfamiliar lobby. The furniture is pristine—a rose-colored sofa flanked by an end table and lamp. A low coffee table in front of it boasts a color-coordinated bouquet of obviously silk flowers and a perfect fan of magazines. Clearly, nobody sits here. Nobody waits here. Perhaps they will be the first, she and Charlotte, and Lynnie tries to picture the girl settling on th
e sofa, the stiff, cheap cushions scraping beneath her jeans. The awkward space seems custom-made for conversation with an invalid.
But Charlotte’s not stopping at the couch. She’s headed straight for the massive glass doors at the front of the room. At least, Lynnie hopes Charlotte recognizes the barrier of glass between them and the picturesque autumnal vision on the other side. Their momentum hasn’t decreased in the least.
Then, with a force worthy of a carnival ride, she is spinning, the world a serene, pastel blur, and she’s looking at a long, low, unmanned reception desk.
“Your family sent doughnuts in honor of your birthday,” Charlotte says. “I figure the staff’ll be in the break room for a good twenty minutes unless somebody rings the bell.”
She says it with a mix of triumph and conspiracy, and then Lynnie knows. Charlotte Hill is taking her out. As in, outside. The girl pokes into her line of vision long enough to press the oversize silver button that activates the automatic door. Seconds later, she’s backing across the threshold.
And Lynnie breathes fresh air—something she’s rarely afforded the pleasure to do since she’s “moved on.”
Birthday or not, she would have known it was mid-October. The humidity of summer has released its grip, and the air holds a burning crispness like a candle has just been snuffed.
Lynnie holds her face up to the sun, its warmth touching her like a welcome caress. Her mother used to say that the sunshine brought her freckles out to play. She brings her hand up to her own face and touches the thin, cool skin, too fragile to bear the weight of such spots.
Charlotte maneuvers the chair with a confident stroll over the winding concrete slabs that snake along the grounds.
“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?” she says, and then launches into a song she’s far too young to know. “‘Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy. . . .’”
Lynnie was already an old woman when she first put that album on the turntable in the den. Still, this girl sings with a low, throaty voice, perfectly suited to the turning leaves, and soon tears gather in the corners of her eyes and spill down one by one, feeling cool in the slow-strolling breeze.
“I wanted to have a chance to be alone with you,” Charlotte says in place of the second verse, which is a shame because it’s always been Lynnie’s favorite. “Before everybody else comes because, you know, they don’t exactly know me.”
Lynnie does her best to crane her neck—Who is this girl?—hoping a piercing glare might ask the question for her, but she manages only a glimpse to the left, where a bright-eyed squirrel stares at the nonthreatening parade of two passing before it.
Leaves crunch as they walk and wheel. Charlotte hums the John Denver tune, and Lynnie knows it will cycle endlessly through her head for the rest of the day. In fact, she calls up a few notes herself and almost moves them past the corner of her throat where all sounds seem to stop. Suddenly, Charlotte’s face is right next to hers, so close she can smell the scent of the girl’s neck. She’s never known anybody who smelled like pears before. “Do you like that song?”
Lynnie nods.
“I do too. Music today is useless. Dad says nobody’s written a decent song since 1976. Except for Dolly Parton. I watched a Behind the Music special about her. She kept the rights to all of her songs. She’ll be making millions even after she dies. Isn’t that smart of her?”
It’s one of the rare times when Lynnie is glad to be free from the burden of speech.
“But you know something about that, don’t you?”
They’ve come to a place where the walkway blossomed out to a wide, round slab with a trio of benches gathered in ever-present shade. Charlotte wheels her in, sets the brakes, and comes to the front, shrugging a well-stuffed backpack off her shoulders and plopping it on the bench before sitting down beside it.
She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, and takes Lynnie’s hands in hers. “Do you even know? About your song? What’s happening?”
Lynnie shakes her head with all the vigor she can muster.
“Typical.” Charlotte hauls her backpack onto her lap and holds it there, bouncing her knees. “I really was arrested once, you know.”
Lynnie has no doubt.
“But that’s not why I’m here.”
No doubt there, either.
“Do you know what I was arrested for?”
Perhaps Charlotte has forgotten she’s already told this story to Kaleena back in the room. Or more likely, she assumes Lynnie has forgotten, not realizing there’s hardly a day from the previous century that Lynnie cannot recall with almost-certain detail. It feels wonderful to have a new voice talking to her—not yelling overly cheerful platitudes, but simply talking, as if Lynnie could somehow equally engage.
Unless, of course, Charlotte hadn’t told Kaleena the truth. Maybe she was arrested for shooting helpless old ladies. A knot of panic suppresses a silent scream when Charlotte digs into her bag and begins rummaging around, though it unravels with a band of silent chastisement when the girl produces not a gun or a knife, but some sort of flat-screened gadget.
“It’s an iPad,” she says, as if that explains anything. “The newest thing.”
She hums quietly as she taps her fingertip on the screen. First here, then there, then she swipes and swipes, bringing her finger and thumb together, then producing a sort of soft, flicking motion.
“Here.” She moves along the bench until she’s sitting on the edge, holding the screen under Lynnie’s nose. “Can you see?”
Lynnie looks at the image; it’s like a photograph in a frame. In the foreground is a hand-lettered cardboard sign that says Let Jesus Feed You. Charlotte sits next to it, dressed as she is now, in tattered jeans and a snug, short-sleeved shirt, but in the picture she’s wearing a knit cap like a bulb tugged over her dark hair, and she has a guitar nestled in her lap. It’s a beautiful instrument, deep red with what looks like birds etched to take flight from beneath the strings. Lynnie’s own fingers itch to strum it, and she unclenches her grip from the armrest of the wheelchair and brings it, trembling, toward the image. At her touch, the small Charlotte on the screen comes to life, looks straight out, and says, “Are you ready?” Her voice, though tiny, carries the weight of a private joke.
“My friend J. D. did the video for me,” the real Charlotte is saying, tilting the screen away from Lynnie’s startled fingers. She taps it, until gradually the volume is increased and the first few chords emerge.
“I can’t believe this,” Charlotte whispers, and Lynnie notices that the girl’s face has gone pale, and a tremble has taken possession of Charlotte’s hands.
Believe what?
“I can’t believe I’m sitting here with you. About to share this with you.” She takes a deep breath, and her hands steady.
Surprisingly clear and strong, music emerges from the screen. It’s immediately familiar, and Lynnie feels a chill at the base of her spine. It spreads up and up, flashing out across her shoulder. She wants to reach out her own trembling hand, to make it stop, at least long enough so she can catch the breath that seems to be knitting itself around the cold within her, but she remains immobile, unable to take her eyes off the small screen.
And then, the small Charlotte of the iPad sings.
Jesus is coming!
Are you ready
to meet your Savior in the sky?
The phrasing is slightly different, as Charlotte’s singing voice possesses a sandy quality that scoops each note from a place of warmth. But it is, undoubtedly, the same song Lynnie sang in the Strawn Brothers Music Store a lifetime ago.
Her head fills with questions. How? And who? She poses them with a simple turning of her head from the girl to the screen and back.
“I call it evangelizing. The city calls it busking. But whatever. I didn’t have a permit, so I got a citation. It was either pay a fine or do community service. I did my hours in a nursing home back home, and that gave me the idea to come here.”
She turns to
Lynnie with a huge smile—the first she’s seen from the girl all day. It beautifully complements the delicate silver loop pierced through her lower lip.
“Isn’t God amazing? Because I didn’t know—honestly didn’t know you were here. I didn’t know anything about you. I just loved that song from the minute I bought the CD, and then everything started fitting together and . . . wait.” Charlotte tilts her head, as if gathering up all of Lynnie’s questions. “You don’t know any of this, do you?”
Throughout, Lynnie’s song has been playing like a reanimated specter between them, but it comes to a sudden halt as Charlotte taps the screen one, two, three times. Now the image is of another young woman with long, dark-blonde braids.
“She was on American Idol a few seasons back. Didn’t win, but she released an album of gospel bluegrass, a bunch of old—” she sent an apologetic glance—“sorry, classic songs. And this one . . .” Charlotte taps the screen again, and for the second time in more than half a century, Lynnie’s song fills the air, this time sung with a fresh-from-the-farm twang wrapped in guitar, fiddle, and the trill of a mandolin.
It is pure and sweet and perfect, and its creator’s lips open and close in silent mismatched timing with the lyrics. Charlotte’s voice joins in, creating dulcet harmony, and Lynnie imagines the three women are a trio, not unlike the Andrews Sisters, who had been such a favorite of Ma’s before she died.
“It won a Country Music Award last spring,” Charlotte says quietly during an instrumental bridge in which the fiddle’s bow weaves the melody through the strings of the guitar. “You probably don’t know that, either. I was watching the show, and I saw your name on the screen credited as the writer. And I thought, I know that name. . . .”
They are looking at each other again, the girl’s eyes full of trepidation and mischief. As the pretty blonde sings the final chorus in the background, Lynnie is determined to hold Charlotte’s gaze—her only means to answer for herself the question that’s been nagging her since the first hours of the morning. She knows this girl. Knows her and yet doesn’t. She’s a forgotten third verse, the la-la-la of momentarily lost lyrics. The hair, the clothes, the piercings—all bearing testimony to what the world has come to during Lynnie’s century of life.
All for a Song Page 14
