“Nothing special here. This is the hall for deliveries and such. But it’ll take us clear through to backstage.”
One corridor led to another, one corner to the next, until they came upon a familiar gray world.
“It is a theater.”
“It’s not. A theater is a place of entertainment; this is a hall of worship. Sister Aimee’s an evangelist for a new age—it’s a new church.”
“But—” She held back her protest, recognizing that Roland had no interest in conversation and even less in debate. Instead, at his invitation, she followed him through a mass of wire and rope to a thick black curtain, which he pulled aside.
“Now, look out there.”
It took more than a few steps for her to emerge on the stage, and when she did, she wished he’d come out with her so she’d have something to steady her legs. The theater—for at this moment, no other word applied—was massive. Dimly lit by domes recessed in the ceiling, the deep-red seating stretched farther than her eye could see. Ornate wood carvings decorated the walls, and even though rolls of carpeting lay in the aisles, the grandeur of this place rose above anything she’d ever imagined.
“So what do you think?” He spoke from his familiar place—stage left, behind the curtain.
“Beautiful.” The word had never been so inadequate.
“Can’t you just see her out here?”
She could, in a long white dress, her signature flowing sleeves. In fact, after just these few minutes, Dorothy Lynn couldn’t picture her anyplace else.
“Try it out.”
“What?”
“Even without a microphone, you need to hear your voice. Sing something.”
She’d walked to the center of the stage, and he remained behind the curtain. Anyone out in the audience might think she was speaking to some unseen phantom. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly. You deserve to hear yourself on a stage like this.”
She turned to the strip of darkness emitting his voice. “I don’t have my guitar. I can’t sing without my guitar.”
“I heard you this morning, sounding quite good.”
“I hardly think this is the place for ‘Second Hand Rose,’” she said, hoping to quench the tiny, nagging desire within her to hear her voice in this place.
“Sing my favorite.”
“But there’s nobody here.”
He emerged from behind the curtain. “I’m here, and you’re here. And the Lord is here. What could possibly be wrong about singing a song to him in a place of worship?”
“Nothin’, of course.”
“Do you know what kind of show opened in Kansas City the night after you sang in the theater there?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. And it doesn’t matter. But it won’t be Aimee, and all those people who were touched by God? What happens to them? We’ll never know. All those people in all those cities. Thousands. Here, we’ll see five thousand in a single afternoon. And another five thousand the next day, the next week. Or the same ones—they can come back, again and again. Like I did when she changed my life. Now close your eyes.”
She did, and all the splendor disappeared. He was right behind her, humming a few notes in her ear, as if she could ever forget the song that was his favorite. It moved him to tears at nearly every service. She took a deep breath.
I can hear my Savior calling,
I can hear my Savior calling,
I can hear my Savior calling,
“Take thy cross and follow, follow me.”
Had she been singing only to fulfill Roland’s desire, she might have stopped there. But from the very first word, echoed in this magnificent place, she’d longed to hear more.
Where he leads me I will follow,
Where he leads me I will follow,
Where he leads me I will follow;
I’ll go with him, with him, all the way.
This was the first place she’d ever been that came close to the sumptuousness of her own forest back home, but while the canopy of trees there held her voice close within God’s creation, the vast auditorium seemed to lift it up to heaven.
By the end she realized Roland was singing softly with her in an uncertain, though not unpleasant, harmony.
“Do you feel like the Lord has led you here, Dorothy?”
His question precluded another verse, and she was almost relieved at the release from the intimacy. “No. I think you brought me here.”
“You don’t think God is capable of working through people?”
“Of course he is, but I see this more as an indulgence on his part. His plans for me are back at home.”
“How can you know that for sure?”
“Because my heart is there.”
“Ah, you’re a follower of the heart. A luxury reserved for the young.”
She wanted to banter back that he, too, was such a follower, but the hint of sadness in his voice kept her from doing so. Sometimes when they talked like this, she felt like their ages had been turned upside down, she the sage and he the dreamer. “How old are you, Mr. Lundi?”
“Old enough,” he said. “Thirty, if you must know.”
“That’s not old at all. Can I ask you another question?” At his blessing, she spoke quietly, knowing a mouse’s whisper would echo in this place. “Are you in love with her?”
His eyes widened. “With Aimee?”
“Who else?” A lifetime ago she would have said, “Your wife.”
“A little, I guess,” he said, surprising her with his candor. “But who isn’t?”
“It all seems so complicated, this life. And it scares me to think how much—”
“You’d love it?” he finished.
“I never would have sought it if it hadn’t been revealed. Maybe if I’d seen it first . . .” She didn’t dare go on.
“Which is why Lundi ought to get you home directly.”
The voice, unmistakable, came from the backstage shadows, and the purposeful steps of Sister Aimee brought her to join them on the stage.
“Aimee,” Roland greeted with a steady, casual air. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing, I suppose.”
“We had some time,” Roland said, “so I thought I would give our Dorothy a tour of the temple. Let her see how she likes the stage.”
“And how does she?”
The phrasing of the question left Dorothy Lynn unsure as to whether she should answer on her own behalf, bringing her back to that feeling of uncertainty she experienced at their first meeting.
“Ask her,” Roland said.
Sister Aimee did not repeat herself but turned to fully face Dorothy Lynn.
“It’s beautiful,” Dorothy Lynn said. “Really, the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Do you know who built this temple?”
“From donations, I suppose. All those offerin’s you took up at the services.”
“Is that really what you think?”
Roland appeared ready to jump to her aid, but Sister Aimee held up a hand to stop him.
“God built this temple. He gave me the vision when I was but a child, and I have invested my time and my flesh in his Kingdom. I have taken the gifts he has given me to bring the gospel to the length and breadth of this country. And with every soul I touched, he gave me a brick. With every man saved from damnation, a scrap of cloth. With every woman rescued from the squalor of sin, a beam, a light, a floor, a roof. And every day, when I hear of its progress, when our needs have been met as I meet the spiritual needs of others, I say, ‘Thank you, Jesus, for giving me a home.’”
She’d separated from them and strode across the stage, and Dorothy Lynn knew she envisioned the empty seats filled with the lost come seeking.
“The Gospel of Matthew,” she continued, hitting a stride, “in chapter 8, verse 20, says, ‘The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.’ And yet�
��” she stood at the edge of the stage, the toes of her shoes peeping out over the orchestra pit—“he has given me this. Me, his humble, lowly servant. How much less do I deserve?”
She spread her arms wide, and Dorothy Lynn held her breath, not with enthusiasm for this temple, but fear that Sister Aimee was about to dive off the stage and die within it.
“It’s a miracle,” Roland said. “Nothing less.”
Sister Aimee dropped her pose and stepped back but did not turn around. “It is no miracle, Lundi. It is the result of many years of praying, thousands of hours of labor, and a singular vision. Mine.”
“Of course.”
For the first time Dorothy Lynn saw Roland truly flustered, and her heart ached.
“So I apologize,” she said, addressing Dorothy Lynn, “if Lundi has given you the impression that you will share this with me.”
“He hasn’t.”
“Then why are you here?”
“An oversight on my part,” Roland said, regaining a shadow of his familiar swagger. “I didn’t think to book her passage separately from the rest of the company. Something I intend to rectify at once. I simply thought, given her contribution, she might want to see what it is we’re building.”
“And where is she staying during this time of oversight? At the Alexandria?”
“In our second room.”
“It is not our room. They are my rooms. To be used at my discretion and leisure. And given that this will now be a permanent home, I expect to have more visitors—investors, I should say—who will be better served as my guests there. Am I clear?”
“Rarely are you anything but.”
He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, blowing a narrow ribbon of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, daring Sister Aimee to demand its extinction.
Instead, she flashed an indulgent smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m glad. And seeing as my travels will be far less frequent, I’m sure I’ll find myself less in need of your services. We are in a time of great transition, after all. I’m sure you will be able to find another mode of employment.”
“I’ll leave a forwarding address at the front desk.”
It was like watching two butting rams with locked horns.
“Perfect,” Sister Aimee said with an air of decisive victory, though Roland showed no outward sign of defeat. She turned to Dorothy Lynn and shook her hand. “God bless you, my girl. You do have a lovely voice.”
“Thank you,” Dorothy Lynn said, though she’d never heard a compliment so empty.
“And be sure Lundi takes you to see the ocean before you leave. It’s magnificent.”
She had no parting words for Roland, nor did he say anything as she left. When she disappeared, he lifted his foot and stubbed the cigarette out with the bottom of his shoe.
“You heard the lady.” He tossed the butt into the orchestra pit. “Let’s go to the beach.”
“Seems a waste for one day,” Dorothy Lynn said, refusing Roland’s offer to buy her a new bathing costume. “There’s not much call for such things in Heron’s Nest.”
At Roland’s insistence, she’d left her shoes and stockings in the car, as had he. The sight of his pale, bare ankles and feet—both dotted with black hair—made him seem all the more vulnerable.
With one arm he carried a blanket pulled from the trunk; sheheld the other arm as they walked down the embankment, the sand beneath her toes feeling nothing short of wonderful. The sky was hazy—a perfect match to their mood.
“There it is,” Roland said, presenting her this gift. “The Pacific Ocean.”
“It looks like it could be the end of the world.”
“But it can’t. Because the world doesn’t end. It just circles on itself and starts all over. Nothing but opportunity.” Coming from any other man, those words might have sounded wistful, but Roland spoke them with reassuring certainty. “Let me get a picture. Just one, to finish up the roll.”
She knew better than to protest. His reason, always, was “to finish up the roll,” and he’d been snapping her picture with his Brownie box camera at every station and theater since she’d arrived breathless at the eight o’clock train in St. Louis. “Trust me,” he’d said, “you’ll be glad for the memories.”
He had intended to take a picture outside the Angelus Temple, but this would be a happier shot. He directed her to take the scarf off her head, to let the wind loosen that hair. To free herself up.
She did as she was told, standing with the eternity of opportunity behind her. It was just a trick of the ear, she supposed, that each wave sounded closer. Surely he would tell her if she was in danger of being swallowed up and swept away.
At his instruction, she smiled, and she and Roland remained motionless while the wind whirled all about, the sound of snapping silk joining the chorus of the surf. It was the first picture he’d taken in which her feet were bare.
After Roland returned the camera to the car—not wanting to risk the danger that a single grain of sand could do—they began to stroll along the water’s edge. The waves sometimes lapping over their toes, sometimes not. Dorothy Lynn listened for a rhythm in the waves, and just as one appeared, a disrupting rush came in.
“It’s jazz,” Roland said.
“What is?”
“The waves. Syncopated, you know? Unpredictable.”
“I was just thinkin’ about that,” she marveled. “How did you know?”
“Baby, I might not know a lot of things, but I know people.”
“So, what do you think you’ll do? For work, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lay low for a few months until Aimee cools off. Like I did the last time she fired me.”
“But do you know where we’re goin’ to go?”
“We aren’t going anywhere.”
“But Sister Aimee said—”
“Sister Aimee hasn’t been cultivating a friendship with the manager for the past five years. She’s never sent his kids a birthday present or given a five-dollar New Year’s bonus to every single bellman, maid, and porter in the place. We’ll leave when I say we leave.”
The finality in his voice ruled out further argument, making her feel at once reckless and wild, yet protected and safe. Just a month ago, if anyone had asked her what it meant to feel excited, she would have blushed, recalling the moments spent alone with Brent—in his car, on the front porch swing, off the side of the path that led from his church to her home. Sweet, powerful embraces, the two of them wrapped together. Always, with Brent, there’d been a sense of inevitable security. Nothing at risk, no doubt of reward. There’d been no question she could ask that wouldn’t have an answer waiting.
But here, with her bare feet perched on the edge of the world, her future stretched beyond the horizon. Cocooned by the sound of the crashing waves, she could easily imagine herself completely alone—alone with Roland, anyway. This was different from the solitude of the forest. From here, God’s plans seemed much, much bigger, crafted from people and places she never knew existed. Strange how, a world away from anything familiar, she could still feel utterly and completely safe—like curling up in her father’s lap, or resting in Brent’s embrace. Simply being in Roland’s presence brought back memories of both.
“It is magnificent,” she said after a time. “Makes you think you might be able to go on livin’ forever. Like lookin’ at eternity.”
“But it’s not.” He stopped and turned to look out to where the ocean touched the sky. “Even it has its limits. Its beginning and end.” He held up a hand. “‘Who shut up the sea with doors, when it brake forth, as if it had issued out of the womb? When I made the cloud the garment thereof, and thick darkness a swaddlingband for it, and brake up for it my decreed place, and set bars and doors, and said, Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further: and here shall thy proud waves be stayed?’”
She watched him, mesmerized. Never mind that the world encompassed the two of them. At that moment only Roland stood between her and the
horizon. He recited the words from the book of Job—no, he spoke the words of God, making her feel as if they had been recorded in ancient time for the sole purpose of resurrection in this moment. No pulpit had ever made Brent sound so powerful; never had the sound of Scripture ever stolen her breath.
When Roland finally broke free of his soliloquy, he turned to her and winked. “See? She’s not the only one who knows her Scriptures.”
“You could be an actor.”
He cocked a brow. “Not a minister?”
“You’re too handsome.” The words were out before she could stop them, and she couldn’t hide her embarrassment.
“Isn’t your minister handsome?”
“He is.” Dorothy Lynn wasn’t quite ready, yet, to bring Brent into the conversation. She took the initiative and set them strolling again. “In a more quiet, understated way.”
“And you’re crazy about him.”
“I am.”
“Crazy enough to forget about all of this?”
A burst of laughter came from a distance as a group of people—all young and vibrant in the sun—tumbled across each other, running toward the water. The men looked so healthy, lean, and strong. The women, too, the hems of their dark suits cut to reveal the entire length of their legs. Some without stockings. All bare-armed and bare-shouldered. Dorothy Lynn wore more fabric under her clothes.
For just a moment, they stole her answer. Imagine life here—one carefree day after another, just like this. Sea and sand and salt. Waking up and deciding where to go, what to do, how to fill a day. The sound of the waves took on the cadence of a cheering crowd that both tempted and taunted, and she forced a reply. “Yes.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“You don’t need to be.”
They moved away from the shoreline up onto the beach, where Roland spread the blanket out in a flourish and gestured for her to sit. It seemed such an intimate invitation, and her discomfort must have shown, because he took pains to stretch the blanket even wider before perching on the outmost corner. “Trust me when I tell you, sweetheart, you’re not my type. I prefer my ladies legal.”
“I’m goin’ to be nineteen in two weeks.”
All for a Song Page 19
