But the eyes.
Strip away the liner, ignore what is clearly a smattering of tiny purple stars bursting from the brow, and look at the eyes. Those are the eyes of Lynnie’s earliest memories.
“So I asked Grandpa.”
Grandpa. Her breath comes faster and faster as she calculates. Donny’s son? Or grandson, even.
“And he gave me a box with some things. Mostly pictures and newspaper clippings. Stuff like that. So I scanned it.” She takes the screen away again and begins tapping, muttering something about its being a modern-day scrapbook. “There you are.”
There she is, indeed. The one they’d put in the corner of the posters outside the theater. Her hair is styled in long, lush curls rivaling those of Mary Pickford. And like the actress, she’s dressed to look more like a child than the nearly-nineteen-year-old woman she’d been at the time, with a knee-length pleated skirt and square-collared blouse. That was Roland’s idea, of course.
Charlotte swipes her finger, and a new image appears, this one less precise, with the unmistakable tint of aged newspaper. The caption reads, Sister Aimee prays with a select group of followers just minutes before taking the stage.
Though the image is little more than a dark blur of bowed heads, Lynnie feels like she could name each of them. These were not “followers,” as the caption would have the reader believe, but staff, workmen, and even what the world would one day call “groupies.” Hangers-on who followed the evangelist from city to city, creating their own means of worship.
Lynnie is in that crowd too, though no photographer would have known to include her name in the caption, even if the picture was snapped just moments before she herself took the stage. She is there, right at Sister Aimee’s side, the woman’s long, white sleeve raised in a tower of prayer above her head. And next to her is Roland Lundi. Her shoulder grows warm, recalling the weight of his touch.
Charlotte interrupts Lynnie’s thoughts with a touch of her own. “Now this,” she says, “is something very special. The film was in terrible shape when we found it, but my friend J. D. is a film student, and he found some guys to restore it. I don’t think the rest of the family even knows this exists.”
Another swipe and the screen goes dark for just a moment before a pale, silvery, uncertain image appears at its center. The cameraman must have been stationed in the middle of the audience, though on some sort of raised platform, because the very bottom of the frame ripples with dark waves of audience. A black curtain—though in its color-life it was certainly a deep blood-red—stretches across a stage, empty save for a single microphone and a wooden chair. Then, from stage left, Roland Lundi with those swift, confident strides.
To see him again after so many years—Lynnie’s heart seems poised to take its well-deserved final beat. She leans forward in her chair, as if doing so could bring her closer. Heat rises to her cheeks, and with it the blush of youth, she supposes. Oh, how he’d make her blush, and how quickly she’d bring her young, unmottled hands to her cheeks to hide his effects.
But she’s an old woman now, and she knows for a fact he’s dead. She’d heard his voice that day, welcome and familiar, telling her to go back. This far, and no more.
Charlotte’s giggle only illuminates the sadness Lynnie feels at the thought.
“Quite a charmer, wasn’t he?”
If you only knew.
“There’s no sound, of course.”
No sound is needed. Lynnie can hear his voice like it’s coming from the trees. Soft and deep, roughened by smoke. Introducing the last vestige of pure American womanhood, untouched by vice, unsullied by scandal. Ready to lift her voice in song and lead them in an anthem of utmost urgency.
The tiny Roland raises his arm in the direction from which he’d entered, and the real, live “Dorothy Lynn Dunbar!” wants to leap from her seat at the sight of herself.
“I think this is in Kansas City?”
She confirms with a brief nod.
A sudden gust of wind skitters leaves across the walkway, but in its stead Lynnie hears the roar of a welcoming audience, for by then she’d advanced far beyond mere polite applause. Though there is no recording to confirm her memories, she knows the exact moment the crowd disciplined itself into hushed silence—within seconds of her cradling her guitar on her knee. Tiny white hands form the first chords; the same, gnarled and cold, do likewise.
“You’ve never seen this before?” Charlotte whispers.
Never.
“But you lived it.”
It consumed me.
How could she not have known she was so very, very small? The enormous curtain loomed above her; the orchestra pit gaped at her feet. What twisted fable made her believe she wielded any sort of power? She’d been a girl with a guitar. Nothing more. “Beautiful in its simplicity,” Roland had said. “Mesmerizing,” he’d called her. “A real-life siren.”
Lynnie doesn’t need to close her eyes to transport her mind back to that very moment. In fact, she dare not, lest she open them to find herself back on the stage, forced to live through it all again.
“The quality isn’t perfect,” Charlotte says, and as she does, the image on the screen flickers. Little Dorothy Lynn Dunbar’s hands move at a pace far too slow to carry the rhythm of the song, then accelerate into a rough, jerking motion. Such was the product of unskilled camerawork. That’s why only the best got to film Sister Aimee, while the opening act was given over to anybody who could turn a crank.
And then, before giving Lynnie the chance to relive the satisfaction of taking a humble bow, the image snaps to black.
“That’s it,” Charlotte says. “As far as I know, that’s the only film that exists. So, what do you think?”
She looks into Lynnie’s eyes as if doing so hard enough will ferret out an answer, even though the woman herself cannot bring it into a singular thought, let alone gesture, let alone word. She lifts her eyes, thanking God for his mercy in rendering her speechless. She could never explain the twisted cord of excitement and shame that knotted within these memories.
An angry shout from what seems like miles away breaks their concentration.
“Hey there!” Even though Lynnie has never heard it at this volume, she knows it’s Kaleena’s voice. “What are you two still doing out here?”
“Just wanted to take in some fresh air!” Charlotte shouts back. “Is that a problem?”
“Well, get her back in soon.” Kaleena’s voice has softened somewhat. “She’s got family coming in.”
“We will,” Charlotte says, and that seems to end the conversation. She leans in close to whisper, “Family,” with a conspiratorial wink.
Nearly a century’s worth of stories—marriages and births and deaths—rest in that word, and Lynnie longs to stay under this tree until she’s heard every last one, or at least as many as Charlotte Hill is prepared to share with this magical gizmo that holds a wealth of lifetimes within its corners.
“Okay,” Charlotte says, “time for one more picture.”
She taps the screen again, but then, to Lynnie’s disappointment, folds it up in a slim black case. Instead, she goes back into her satchel and brings out a small, framed photograph.
“I looked at this picture every day of my life.” She can hear tears in Charlotte’s voice. “When I lived at home, anyway. It’s been in our family forever, but nobody ever talked about who it was. Who you were. . . .”
But Lynnie isn’t listening anymore. She’s grateful the picture is in a sturdy, permanent, familiar frame. No touch will make it go away. It won’t be swiped into nothingness.
A storm gathers at the back of her throat, a churning mass of tears and shouts and a lifetime of words unspoken long before she’d lost the ability to speak.
Lynnie and Donny—their youth awash in the bright California sun.
She’d grown accustomed to sleeping on a train. The first night she’d tossed and turned—as much as one could, given the narrow confines of a sleeping berth. Truth be told, it
wasn’t the rocking motion of the car or the rhythmic click-clack of the miles disappearing beneath the wheels that had kept her awake as she stared into the darkness. She hadn’t slept because she hadn’t been able to escape the final conversation she’d had with Brent from the safety of Darlene’s alcove.
“It’s a chance for me to find my brother,” she’d shouted into the phone, hoping the volume of her voice would convey the urgency she felt.
“Come home,” he’d said, his voice no less powerful for its softness. “When we’ve married, I’ll take you to California myself. A honeymoon, if you like. Next summer.”
“I want him at my wedding.”
“Fine, then. Stay put. I’ll join you in a few days and we can go out together. Postpone the wedding, if we have to, until we find him.”
His words felt like a snare, waiting to catch her in the truth she kept just below the surface.
“It’s not just Donny.”
“I know.” His voice was thick with understanding, and what she thought to be a trap was, in fact, a soft, safe place.
She felt a tiny grain of confession at the back of her throat, planted there by the gentleness of his invitation, nurtured by his love. In less than a minute she’d told him everything—Sister Aimee, the Chinese restaurant, the song, the stage. The grain sprouted and grew, twisting in its rendering of Roland Lundi—older, squatter, and more rumpled than he was in life. All of it leading to a question. Her request for his permission.
“So, our girl is running off to join the circus?”
She could hear his fight for control and tried to match his wit. “Some might say so.”
“And this seems right to you? Have you prayed about it?”
She had, of course, during the brief hours between Roland’s visit and this phone call, but none of her prayers felt as pure and powerful as what she’d experienced in Sister Aimee’s dressing room.
“I’m going to spend the rest of my life obeying you, Brent. I promise you that.”
“But not until after the wedding?”
Dorothy Lynn closed her eyes and tucked herself closer to the wall. “Please understand. I’ve never—not once—made a single decision in my life completely on my own.”
“Not even when you agreed to marry me?”
“I don’t know.”
It was she who broke the long, crackling silence that followed. “It was Ma that brought you home, and I think I knew that very first dinner what she wanted to happen. And I love you, Brent. I do. But I want a few weeks of my life to myself.”
“A regular modern girl.” The bitterness in his voice was uncharacteristic and frightening.
“Please don’t.”
“What happens if, after living this bit for yourself, you decide you don’t want to spend the rest of your life obeying this man your mother thrust upon you?”
“That won’t happen.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I love you. And I don’t want to live the rest of my life resentful of what I could have had. One month, darling. One month and I’ll be back home. With you, if you’ll have me.”
“Make it six weeks.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you calling to tell me you need more time. Here is your time. My gift to you.”
“Six weeks from tonight is our wedding date.”
He chuckled. “Actually, it’s two days before. Have you forgotten already?”
“No, I’m—just silly. That’s all.” Her face burned with shame. “And please, don’t say anything to Ma. I’ll write to her and explain everything.”
“One more thing,” he said, his voice dropped so low she pressed the phone closer to her ear. “I’m asking you not to call me again.”
“Brent—”
“The next time I hear your voice, I want to see your face. To have you wholly and completely mine.”
“Always and forever, my darling,” she said. “I promise.”
That was a month ago. Two cities, and endless miles of track.
Tonight it was not the final conversation with Brent that kept her awake, but the final cup of coffee after a very late dinner following the night’s service. She could feel it jangling her very nerves, not to mention making her uncomfortable in other ways, too. As quietly as she could, she rolled up the canvas curtain meant to give her both protection and privacy and dangled her legs over the side. Below, Agnes, the woman responsible for her and Sister Aimee’s wardrobes, snoozed behind her own canvas, emitting the light, squeaking snore that had become almost as familiar as the train itself.
Dorothy Lynn dropped to her feet, quiet as a cat, and made her way down the aisle. The women’s lavatory was two cars down, through the dining car, all of which she maneuvered expertly, even in the darkness.
It was a strange feeling to be up and around alone. In fact, it was a strange feeling to be alone at all. The hectic schedule of Sister Aimee’s appearances afforded no time for solitude, except for Sister Aimee, of course. She traveled in the most luxurious accommodations the Pullman company provided, where she spent their traveling time preparing for the next stop, the next sermon. Dorothy Lynn longed for such enforced privacy. While the schedule of performances had allowed her to perfect not only her signature song but countless other hymns, she hadn’t written a single new lyric or note since leaving St. Louis. There was simply no place to go. Nights spent in town meant sharing a room with Agnes, who, when she was not snoring, talked like a woman starved of conversation.
In fact, that was why Dorothy Lynn had been forced from her berth in the middle of the night. Agnes had kept her enthralled with stories of Sister Aimee, speaking in hushed tones while the two finished the carafe of coffee left by the polite, dark-skinned porter.
“She’s divorced, you know,” Agnes had said, her whisper dropping to an almost-imperceptible volume at the word divorced. “And heartbroken about it, I can tell you. She went down three dress sizes at least while it was being finalized. All I could do to keep her from looking like a bag of bones.”
“That’s awful,” Dorothy Lynn had said, and would have gladly stayed up half the night to hear more awful things, but Sister Aimee herself had come into the car, breezing through in her familiar white gown, sweeping them all off to bed like a company of overtired children. Nothing could have been more inappropriate at the time than requesting a trip to the lavatory.
Now, though, her business done, she braced herself for a final, nervous passing from one car to the next and was shuffling barefoot through the dining car when a sudden blaze of light stopped her in her steps.
She clutched her wrapper to her throat in lieu of a scream. “Goodness, Mr. Lundi! You scared me half to death.”
“My apologies,” he said, touching the tip of the newly lit match to his cigarette. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you walking straight past me again.” He gestured with his empty hand. “Join me?”
“It’s late,” she said, resting her hand on the back of a seat to balance herself.
“And you’re obviously no more sleepy than I am. Please.”
No other place or time on earth would have made his invitation appropriate, but she’d learned during her weeks with Sister Aimee that traveling excused an abundance of behaviors. She slid into the seat opposite Roland, perching on the edge in readiness for a quick escape.
“Relax,” Roland said, settling back. “If I was going to bite you, I would’ve done it by now.”
“I’m not worried about your bite. In fact, I’m not even scared of your bark anymore.”
He chuckled before taking a draw on the cigarette, lighting the space between them with its red glow. “Look who’s getting cheeky.”
“Jittery. Too much coffee.”
For the first time she noticed the glass on the table, filled nearly to the top with milk. Roland picked it up and took a sip, leaving a rim on his lip, which he wiped away with the cuff of his pajama sleeve. Despite the clacks of the train, she could hear the brush of the
cotton against the growth of whiskers.
“Warm,” he said, indicating the milk. “Stomach troubles. Doctor’s orders. Says I should drink a quart of the stuff a day.”
“I’d think he’d tell you to stop breathin’ in all that fire. Can’t be good for you.”
“We’re all entitled to one vice, aren’t we?”
“That’s not what I was ever taught.”
“I’d wager there’s a host of things in this world you were never taught.”
She smiled and relaxed her posture. “And I’m a better person for it, don’t you think? Otherwise, how would you have the sweet, unspoiled girl you parade out on stage every night?”
Roland took a long drag, squinting across the table as if distance separated them as much as darkness. “What are we going to do with you in California?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re getting out of the heartland. People out there, they don’t care about girls like you. They want the movie stars and flappers. Webring you out onstage, they’ll chew you up like a stack of crackers.”
“I’m not going onstage in California. That wasn’t part of our deal.”
“I know, I know. The brother. I was just thinking out loud.”
“Well, stop,” she said, feeling bolder, “before you get me into any more trouble.”
“Troubles, sweetheart?” He reached out and took her chin in his hand, his touch warm from the glass. “Tell your uncle Roly.”
It took only a slight movement to dislodge his touch, which she did with more humor than offense.
“I should have called before we left Denver. My sister, that is. To let her know we were finally on our way. What time should we arrive?”
“Bedtime tomorrow.”
“And so, the next day? We can go look for Donny?”
“Soon and soon, sweetheart.”
“I don’t have time for ‘soon and soon,’ Mr. Lundi.”
All for a Song Page 15
