“You’re young. Your world is full of time. Now, me, on the other hand . . .”
His thought disappeared in a cloud of smoke, and he took a long drink of milk. When he set it down again, he seemed poised for a change in subject. “Do you know how I met Sister Aimee?”
“No,” Dorothy Lynn said, though she had the distinct feeling Roland would speak into the void if she weren’t there to listen.
“I was working as a night clerk at a hotel in Baltimore. Ten o’clock at night and she comes in, saying she needs ten rooms for herself and her people. I ask her for how long, and she says she doesn’t know. For as long as the Lord says to stay. She’s preaching a revival and won’t go until the souls of the city are safe from Satan.”
“How long did she stay?”
“Nearly a month. And what a mess, never knowing from night to night if she was leaving the next day or staying for another week. I thought to myself, That’s no way to run an act.”
“But it isn’t an ‘act,’ is it? She has to listen for the voice of the Lord.”
“Soon as I had a night off, I went out to see her. Like nothing I’d ever seen before. Sometimes she’d go on for hours—until one o’clock in the morning. People might fall asleep in their seats, but they wouldn’t leave.”
Dorothy Lynn watched him fall under her spell even as he spoke.
“Up to then, the only thing I knew about Jesus Christ was that my old man used to yell it before telling me to get out of his way. Would have thought it was my own name the way he’d holler. Never knew he was anybody real.”
Roland rarely spoke about his faith. In fact, this was the first deliberate conversation she’d had with him since the afternoon in Darlene’s parlor. Maybe it was the topic, or the lateness of the hour, or the combination of milk and cigarettes—something for a child and a man—that brought about the roughness of his edges. His normally slick, careful speech became clipped at the syllables, and when he paused, he looked out the window to the blackness beyond.
“So I got baptized. Me and about a hundred other people. One after the other, all of us in these white robes. I felt this change. I’d heard her saying, night after night, ‘Mr. Lundi, you need Jesus in your life.’ And that’s just how I felt, like he was in my life. Like a whole new person was looking out my eyes.”
“Then thank God she came to Baltimore,” Dorothy Lynn said. “And that she stayed. Where would you be if she hadn’t listened to the Lord’s calling?”
“I’ve learned a lot about God since hitching up with this crew. Didn’t know anything about him before, but this I learned: God makes plans, right? Logic and order—not just always off the cuff, you know?”
He’d reached the end of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor. Apparently, he’d had the foresight to wear slippers.
“I told her she needed someone to smooth all that out. Making plans, I mean. Someone to manage her traveling. Most of all, I wanted out of that town. If I stayed there, I was gonna turn into the same old man that my father was.”
“Certainly not—not after your salvation?”
“I got scared, thinking it was all wrapped up in her. She said no at first, but I wore her down.”
“So not even the great Aimee Semple McPherson can resist your charms?”
“I would have tagged along anyway. But I made a place for myself, I think.”
“You do a wonderful job. It’s obvious how much she relies on you. We all do.”
“We’ve been through a lot together, Sister Aimee and I. Seen a lot of lives change, most of all our own. Her husband couldn’t take life on the road, and my wife—she never even gave it a shot.”
He said it with such banality that she might have missed the impact, but his final guzzling of the milk—most likely merely tepid now—gave Dorothy Lynn the opportunity to sort out the idea.
“You’re married?”
“Not anymore. This isn’t the life for a marriage to survive. You did a good thing, leaving the preacher to fend for himself in the woods.”
He must have known his upper lip was tipped with milk, though he made no move to wipe it off. It gave him the appearance of smirking. Moments before, she might have had to fight an impulse to wipe it away. It was all she could do not to reach across the table and smack him.
“I haven’t left him. We’re goin’ to be married in—” she calculated—“less than a month.”
“Plans change.”
“Mine don’t.”
“Don’t they? Do you remember the last time you saw him?”
“Of course I do.” He’d sat with her outside of Jessup’s, waiting for the bus. The mysterious package he carried turned out to be two Clark Bars, a Coca-Cola, and the latest McCall’s magazine. The moment the bus was visible in the distance, he’d taken her around the corner and kissed her until her strength was reduced to that of a newborn calf.
“Would you have ever thought, in that moment, that you’d be here?”
“I didn’t know that here existed.”
“But once you did . . . ?” He sat back, hands open, point made.
“I only agreed so you would help me find my brother.”
“Ah, yes. The brother. We’ll get to him. I’m nothing if not a man of my word. Until then, you be truthful with me. You love this.”
He said it as a statement, not a question, and she could only hope her denial rang more true to his ears than it did to her own.
“What do you not enjoy?” he insisted, leaning forward to insinuate himself into a tiny sliver of moonlight that had recently appeared. “Traveling? You’ve seen more of this country than every other person back in your hometown combined. Or evangelizing? How many people have you witnessed coming to Jesus Christ? Or maybe the singing?” He left no chance for her to answer, making each question as pointless as the one before. “I’ve seen your face when you’re onstage. It’s beautiful. Not just that you’re a beautiful girl, but something happens. There’s a calling to your music. Everybody sees that but you.”
“No,” she said, though here in the dark confines of this empty railroad car she felt the same pull on both her body and her spirit that she felt every time she took the stage. “If it were truly a calling, I’d have more. More music, more songs. I haven’t written a single one since . . . since the last one. I need to go home. I need to be home.”
“Don’t worry,” Roland said, slipping another cigarette from his thin, silver case. “That’ll happen soon enough. All you know is what you’ve seen on the road. Movie theaters and community centers. You just wait until we get to Los Angeles. Wait until you see the temple. Then you’ll know what home is.”
If every building looked like La Grande Station, Dorothy Lynn might have thought she’d arrived in some exotic country rather than Los Angeles, California. As the train took on its familiar slow, chugging cadence, she stared out the window at a wide, round dome that looked to be shining gold in the fierce sunset. And then, to see massive palm trees—like she’d only ever seen in her Children’s Illustrated Stories of the Bible—rising above the turrets, she caught her breath, thankful they’d arrived before dark.
“Home at last,” Agnes said. She’d been fidgeting in the seat across from Dorothy Lynn for the past hour, smoothing her dress and taking her hat on and off, mussing her hair each time. “I hope my Kenny recognizes me. I feel like I’ve gained ten pounds since the last time I was home.”
“You look fine,” Dorothy Lynn said. It hadn’t occurred to her that, upon their arrival in Los Angeles, most of her traveling companions would get off the train and go to their actual homes. In the back of her mind they were a permanently nomadic group, traveling from one town to the next, staying at the nicest of cheap hotels and sleeping on trains in between. She clutched her purse, painfully aware of the exact amount of eleven dollars and eighty-two cents within it, what was left of the two dollars she’d been paid for each of her appearances on Sister Aimee’s stage.
“Do you have someplace to go?” Ag
nes asked, craning in her seat to look beyond Dorothy Lynn. “I mean, is someone meeting you?”
“I’m going to see my brother,” Dorothy Lynn said. It was what she’d been telling everyone. See sounded so much more hopeful than find.
“Oh, that’s good. That you have someplace to go, I mean. I’d invite you to come home with me, but Kenny and I only have one bedroom . . .”
“I’m fine,” Dorothy Lynn said, giving the older woman a reassuring pat. Come to think of it, Agnes might not be quite thirty, but she carried herself with a matronly air that made her seem much older. “I’m sure Mr. Lundi will help me find a room, at least for tonight.”
Agnes sniffed. “I’ll just bet he will, and you be careful there. Now that we’re home, he’ll be able to get out of Sister Aimee’s sight. He has a bit of a reputation, you know.”
“So do I. The wholesome, good girl, remember? Plus, I’ll be meeting up with my big brother who fought in Europe. I think I’ll be in safe hands.”
“Still—” Agnes reached into her bag and pulled out a scrap of pattern paper and a thin, blue pencil—“here’s my address. You need anything, you just show up.”
“Thank you.” Dorothy Lynn felt tears welling. She looked at the numbers, wondering how she’d ever find such a street.
All around them people stood as the train came to its final, shuddering stop. Dorothy Lynn had never been one to hurry off the train, not wanting to get caught in the mash of bodies heading for one exit, only to stand around on the platform waiting for the porter to deliver the bags. Normally Agnes waited with her, making them nearly the last to leave, but tonight the prospect of the waiting Kenny must have been too much for her, and she jumped up to join the fray, disappearing down the aisle, swept away by the excited chatter of their fellow passengers.
Dorothy Lynn leaned her head against the window. From this close, the view looked like that of any other station—bricks and crowds and magazine racks—but she knew outside of it she’d face a city like she’d never seen before. Donny was out there, close somewhere, and the thought of seeing him knotted her stomach in a way she hadn’t anticipated. A long line of phone booths beckoned, and she wondered whether she should call home. Or, since Jessup disliked chasing down phone call recipients after dark, she could contact Darlene, let her know she’d arrived safely. After all, she’d mailed her sister a postcard from nearly every stop. Surely a telephone call wouldn’t be unwelcome?
Just as she pondered this, a scene unlike any she’d seen at any other station took to the stage on the platform below. Sister Aimee, looking elegant as usual, glided across the platform on the arm of Roland Lundi, who looked much more dapper than the unshaven, milk-swigging man Dorothy Lynn had spoken to the night before. He wore an immaculate blue wool suit—a sharp contrast to Sister Aimee’s signature white. A more focused inspection, however, revealed Sister Aimee’s garment to be nothing less than a pristine white fur. Dorothy Lynn stood and lowered her window to see if the temperature this evening warranted such a covering, and while her outstretched hand felt cool, it was nothing to justify that magnificent coat.
Then Roland lifted his arm in a summoning fashion, and with a flick of his wrist, a gaggle of men came forward wielding notepads and cameras, shouting and snapping photos in the murky light.
“Sister Aimee! Welcome home!”
“Sister Aimee! Is this the end of your travels?”
“Sister Aimee! Is the church on schedule to open?”
The woman stood in the midst of the light, a close, knowing smile on her face as she slowly turned her head from one reporter to the next before taking one step away from Roland, who managed to quiet everyone with a single lifted hand.
“Thank you for the warm reception.” He spoke loudly enough to capture the attention of those standing beyond the assembled press. “Sister Aimee is tired, as you can well imagine after several months’ travel. We will be issuing a press release shortly.”
He took her arm again and marched her straight through the crowd to where an older woman—distinctive in her fur and jewels—waited with arms outstretched. Sister Aimee bent to embrace her.
“Must be her mother,” Dorothy Lynn muttered, her lips pressed nearly to the glass. Until this moment, Sister Aimee had seemed, in her presence and her power, to be a woman untouched by others. Roland, too, kissed the old woman’s cheek, doffed his hat to both, and symbolically handed them over to a much larger man in a chauffeur’s cap.
By now Dorothy Lynn was the only person left in the car, so she gathered her purse and made her way down the aisle to where a short flight of steps waited to help her descend safely to the platform, where her suitcase and guitar waited alongside the trunk she’d acquired for all the additions to her wardrobe.
Roland appeared at her side. “I’ll get those for you.”
Before she could say anything in reply or argument, his hands were full of her belongings as he strode in the direction of the exiting crowd.
“Wait!” she said, holding her hat to her head as she practically ran to catch up. “What about my trunk? Where are you goin’?”
“I assumed you didn’t want to sleep in the station,” he said, not breaking his stride in the least, “though there are those who might attest to the comfort of the benches. I’ve made arrangements for your trunk. Now, come on.”
People pressed on every side, preventing further conversation. Fearful she might lose him to the crowd, Dorothy Lynn clamped her mouth shut and focused all her attention on the narrow shoulder of his well-cut suit poking out from behind her beloved guitar.
It wasn’t until they emerged on the street that she took in her first full breath of California. She’d never had any sort of an interest in science, but the very idea that the air in this place was made up of the same components as the air back home seemed utterly ridiculous. Never before had she smelled salt, though as she lifted her head, closed her eyes, and inhaled, she instinctively identified the essence of ocean. For a moment, Roland Lundi and her guitar were forgotten as her lungs filled with cool, pleasantly tart air.
“Nothing like it.” Roland’s voice came through her darkness, narrating her thoughts. “Open your eyes.”
She did, and was rewarded with the sight of a broad boulevard lined with fashionable automobiles and people dressed like they were on their way to some event of great importance.
“This is the future,” he said, and Dorothy Lynn could hear hints of the rough Baltimore boy he’d introduced last night. “Anybody who doesn’t think so is a sucker. The whole world is coming to California.”
“Then I shouldn’t feel so alone?” She hoped she sounded more playful than she felt.
“Sweetheart, you have me and you have Jesus. You’re never alone.”
He led her to a snazzy-looking red car parked at the curb. Already, his luggage—a stately looking set of green—waited in the open trunk. He tossed her bag on top of it, treating the guitar with more particular care, and opened the front door with the formality of a footman.
“What is this?”
“This,” he said, “is a Marmon.”
“How did it get here?” she asked, feeling inexplicably giddy.
“We have people,” he replied, as if that should answer all remaining questions. “Get in.”
What choice did she have?
The car was unlike any she’d ever seen before. The white leather upholstery embraced her at every contour; the inside panels were inlaid with polished wood and brass. The engine had been left running, though it sounded more like the purr of a large, powerful cat. The smells of strong varnish, leather, and sea air mingled into an exciting scent, igniting a gnawing hunger that had earlier been hidden behind queasy anticipation.
“Dinner first,” Roland said, landing in the driver’s seat beside her. “Then we’ll get you settled in.”
He maneuvered the car into a sea of traffic, an exhilarating experience for Dorothy Lynn. Men and women alike cast appreciative glances from both the sidewal
k and their own automobiles, some even leaning out the windows of the electric streetcars that shared the street.
She must have looked like quite the bumpkin, twisting her head left and right, gawking at her surroundings. The buildings weren’t any grander than those in St. Louis or Kansas City, but they seemed newer, somehow. Like they’d been built specifically for this century. They rose as many as ten stories high—some probably more, but she could only crane her neck so far. To the left as they drove, a wide gate made way to a world of green behind it.
“That’s Pershing Square,” Roland said at her inquiry. “One square block of nature. Being in there, all of this disappears.”
“I can’t imagine wantin’ this to disappear.”
“That’s my girl. Welcome to the future.”
A few minutes later, he pulled the car over in front of a series of glass doors covered by a deep-red awning. The Alexandria Hotel.
Roland hopped out of the car and said, “Evening, Jackson,” to the aging bellhop who’d met them at the curb. “You can take my bags up to my room. Leave the others at the desk.”
“Very good, sir,” Jackson said. He opened the car door for Dorothy Lynn and offered a white-gloved hand to assist her.
A glance straight up into the sky showed that the hour had moved from dusk to dark. She stood on the sidewalk, held in place by the flashing shower of lights coming from all directions until she felt Roland’s arm slip through hers.
“Dinner? They serve a fabulous steak here. Then we’ll get you to your room.”
“A room? I can’t stay here—not with you. . . .”
He took a step away from the hotel, bringing her along, and with the tip of his finger touched to her chin, forced her gaze upward again.
“Do you see? Hundreds and hundreds of windows. Each window a room, and that’s just on this side. Don’t worry, sweetheart; it’s in the best interest of both of us to keep you far away. I just happen to have the connections here to set you up for cheap. And by cheap, I mean free. So don’t knock it.”
All for a Song Page 16
