by Lisa Samson
So Clarke and I sat there together, that gentry musty smell clouding around us. But I didn’t mind. He set his hands on his knees and turned toward me. “What about doing a couple of the more modern tunes?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Like ‘Feelings’ or something? Or ‘The Shadow of Your Smile.’”
“Okay. And how about ‘Sing’?”
“I don’t know that one.”
“It’s by the Carpenters. I love the Carpenters.”
Clarke stood up. “Let’s get on over to the record store at the Plaza.”
So we went and bought a Carpenters album.
“Can we go by Billy Joe’s for ice cream?” I asked.
But he shook his head and drove the other way.
When we pulled up to the house he hurried into the music room, opened up the lid to the hi-fi player, and put on the music. We listened to “Sing.”
“What do you think, Mr. Ferris?”
“Don’t like it. Doesn’t have that classic feel.”
And “Feelings” did?
Well, you just never know. I could give him “Shadow of Your Smile,” picturing a movie starlet singing that while dressed in unimaginable finery. But “Feelings”? Still, maybe there was something to what he said. Maybe there was something to hanging on to the old standards.
After we practiced, the seamstress arrived to measure me. She didn’t smile much, but then again, her mouth was pinched down on a bunch of pins.
When she finished, she took out a pad and wrote down the numbers. “Mrs. Ferris says you like yellow. And with that red hair, I’d say it’s not a bad choice.”
“It’s cheerful.”
“Never mind that, it’s what looks good that matters. Black would really be the best, now that I think about it.”
I thought about number six on my list of Mama’s possibilities and refused.
“All right. I’ll get started. I’ll consult with Mrs. Ferris from here on out.”
And so began my professional career.
Trudging up the stairs, the strains of “It’s Very Clear, Our Love Is Here to Stay” piggybacked my steps. And I considered the words, thinking it the most ridiculous song ever written.
3
Two weeks later I was a hit. The hairdresser dolled me up. I wore a little makeup for the first time, other than the school plays. My yellow dress, a pale shade in brushed silk with antique ecru lace “befit my tender years,” as Mrs. Ferris said, yet displayed an elegance. But not a stuffy elegance. I looked like a very proper singer. I looked at least twenty years old.
I shook a lot of hands that night, my own hands enveloped in full-length evening gloves.
“You’ll go far.”
“That’s a set of pipes you’ve got there, little missy!”
“My goodness, isn’t Cecile quite the lucky one to have you here to sing for her?”
I waved to a little old man who patted my hand as he held it, tears in eyes. He’d just said, ‘”Fly Me to the Moon’ was my late wife’s favorite song.”
But one comment stood out among the rest. “You’re quite a woman, Myrtle.”
I turned to the source of the new voice. And there he stood, a rugged young man with saucy, impertinent eyes, the kind of eyes I’d read about in those little romances Grandma Sara used to read. But his weren’t dark and brooding. They were blue, as bright a blue as you can imagine. A blue like a pansy, a blue just like Mrs. Evans’s blue.
Now, I’m short. I’ll tell you that straight away. And this fellow wasn’t all that tall, maybe 5’ 10”, but next to my bitty old 5’2”, he towered.
My heart raced. I was thankful for the gloves that drank in the sweat from my palms. Beautiful, he exhibited a freedom such as I’d never seen, with his overly long hair, his casual dress and, could that be an empty earring hole in the left lobe? Yes, wild and free and beautiful. And that night, so was I, the pretty singer with golden tones, fluid arms, and talent. I wasn’t like the rest of them.
We had that in common.
“Thank you.”
“When will you be singing again?”
I shook my head. “I’m the Ferrises’ foster daughter. It’s not like I have paying gigs.”
He raised his brows, highlighted by hours in the sun, I supposed. His tanned face seemed to point in that direction as well. Wild and free.
Free.
My very first rush of power hit me. I felt like I finally had set my feet upon the earth. I was free, wasn’t I? No parents to tell me what to do. No real guidance of any sort. I was free.
4
On Sunday afternoon, he came to call. His voice filled the entry hall like a valentine in Charlie Brown’s mailbox.
“Yes, it’s me again, Aunt Cecile. I didn’t get a good chance to visit with you at the parry. You don’t mind my stopping in do you?”
“Of course not, Richard.”
Richard.
Come to think of it, he did look like a Richard. I’d call him Rich, though. I really would.
She strolled arm in arm with him into the living room. So I snuck down to the bottom of the wide, curving staircase, tucked my knees under my chin and listened.
His father was doing fine after the death of his mother. Yes, ma’am, UVA was going splendidly, he was going to get to room in the Jeffersonian part next year, a real honor even if the rooms were only heated by a fireplace and you had to drag your own wood over from the woodpile. “And don’t get me started on the bathrooms.” Yep, still planning on going overseas during the summer to work on a well-digging project in Africa.
Hmm. That seemed interesting, very noble and all.
“No, Aunt Cecile, let’s not get started on politics! Come now, you know better, you yellow dog Democrat. Yes, I’m a Democrat, too, but for different reasons, important reasons.”
Politics? Oh, who cares? Get on with more interesting discussion.
“Oh, yes! I didn’t tell you about that? Are you sure? Not even during our visit to UVA? Clarke and I decided with this big old house and no ability to have children of our own, we’d try helping out a needy young person.”
A needy young person. Yes, that would be me.
And then I heard words that sent shivers through me. “She’s extraordinary!”
“Yes, she is, isn’t she?”
“Has such presence. A very natural thing.”
“Oh, yes. Utterly herself, I believe. I mean, she’s been taking voice lessons for years, but no one can teach that sparkle. What is it they call it out in Hollywood? You know that expression, don’t you? Help me out, please?”
“The ‘it factor’?”
“Heavens, yes. That’s it exactly.”
“Can I meet her today?”
Oh, just those voices and nothing more, and I didn’t give a hoot! It was all I needed. Someone wanted to talk to me. Myrtle Charmaine Whitehead.
“Of course! Will you stay for supper? You like pork, don’t you? Can I get you a drink?”
“Be delighted. Do you think she’ll sing for me?”
“I don’t see why not. Now tell me more about this trip of yours,” Mrs. Ferris began, and I beat it on up to my room. I had to get ready! I had to shower, shave my legs and underarms — even though I’d be wearing a long-sleeved dress, but let’s face it, you feel better with your underarms shaved—pick out something to wear. Something simple, not school-girlish, but not as though I’m trying to look mature. It’s one thing to look mature. But to look like you’re trying to look mature is, well, immature. Kinda pathetic, too. I got enough sympathy without going looking for it.
The whole time I readied myself I heard his words, “Do you think she’ll sing for me?”
For me.
Oh, my lands! Sing for him.
And then it occurred to me that never once had I really had a crush on a boy in school. But here this young man comes along, well, a bonafide man, actually, and I turn into a big bowl of whipped cream, nothing but air and sugar.
; Sing for me.
The blue eyes, that windy hair. I wanted to look at his hands, get a good, long look at them, and I wanted to wonder what they’d feel like caressing my face.
Yes, I’ll sing for you, Richard. I’ll sing like you’ve never heard before. I’ll shine under your chin like a spring buttercup.
5
That seamstress seemed to think of black as my “quintessential” color. But when I walked into the dining room for dinner, wearing the emerald dress Grandma Sara had made for me the year before, I banished black forever!
His eyes descended on me, first to my hair, which I’d gathered up with a few hairpins to lie on top of my head, then they examined my face — I just smiled with a relaxed little grin, acting, acting, acting like I did in the school plays—and then they stared at my chest.
No one ever stared at my chest before. But at fourteen, I wasn’t what even a compulsive liar would call voluptuous, because even a compulsive liar would get no thrill in the lie. It would be like pointing to a blade of grass and saying, “That there’s a pot roast.” Or plunging a hand into ice water and saying, “Reminds me of that hot tub Aunt Evaline bought last year.”
But I was sweet enough looking, I guess. Enough for Richard the Adventurous, anyway, to see me as more than a little kid.
They stood by the table, almost ready to be seated, drinks in hand with musical ice that accompanied each lift to their mouths.
“Myrtle, this is my nephew, Richard.”
He came forward and took my hand in his left hand, covered it with his right. “It’s good to see you again. Aunt Cecile has been telling me a lot about you.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“You’ve had quite a life, I hear.”
“I guess so.”
And then the housekeeper came in with a big tureen of soup. She set it at Clarke’s place, put a stack of bowls next to it, and quietly left the room.
“Shall we?” Clarke asked.
“Of course, darling.” Cecile sat down at the other end of the table and Richard and I sat across from each other.
I’d like to say, all these years later, that I remember the conversation, but I don’t. They talked about family members I felt no connection to. See, even then, I viewed that house as just a layover in my life, a little stop in a purposeful journey. I didn’t know the reason then, but I know now. Richard was why. And I count it a good thing that I hadn’t heard about Lolita by then because I would never have left with him. I would have been wise about men obsessed with young girls.
6
That evening after Richard left I snuck out and walked up to the nursing home. Good old grandma sat right there in the TV lounge.
“I was just praying for you, Myrtle.”
“I guess I can use all the prayers you’ve got.”
I sat down on the aqua-blue vinyl chair across from her. The TV blared The Gong Show.
“I’m sorry, Peach. I’m sorry you’re over there without family around every day.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “Nothing’s ever going to feel like home again, anyway.”
And Grandma turned toward me and she laid her gnarled old hands atop the flames of my hair. She closed her eyes. “A hedge of protection, Jesus. I’m praying for that now with all the faith you’ve ever given me. Amen. A hedge of protection, Lord. That’s what I’m asking for.”
I realized all of a sudden, I’d gotten what I came for. So we sat and watched Gene Gene the Dancin’ Machine and the more alert folks in the room just blew out their wheezy laughs or squealed their cackles.
After the show, Grandma said to this fellow in denim overalls and a kelly-green cardigan sweater buttoned up beneath the bib, “Get out your accordion, Gerald.”
So he shuffled down the hallway to his room, brought back one of those little European kind of accordions, not the Lawrence Welk kind. “What’ll it be, Sara?”
“Let my granddaughter here sing, ‘Redeemed How I Love to Proclaim It.’”
So he started off with a bellowy blow of the instrument, playing the last line of the chorus. And I jumped right in finishing up with “His child and forever I am!”
Just like the song says.
We sang some more and nurses wheeled patients in. We sang “Glory to His Name.” “Blessed Assurance.” “Calvary Covers It All.” “In Times Like These.” Old women smiled to “Trust and Obey.” Old men wiped their eyes during “I’d Rather Have Jesus.” The real crazies danced some wonderful little jigs but I didn’t mind. People worship like they worship. I learned that there at the home.
When I left, one of the orderlies, a black man the size of a chess piece, said, “You got the gift, child. Yes, you do.”
And I remembered the woman who had told me that years and years before. And I thought about that little gift-wrapped package in my throat, the one in blue paper with gold stars. And for the first time since Mrs. Evans died, I wept. I ran out of the home, down Langhorne Road and I cried and I cried and I cried and I didn’t care who saw. The sun had died long since. The stars fused their light behind my eyes and I wondered what in heaven God thought He was doing.
“You tell her, Lord! You tell her I loved her!” I cried into the blackness as I cut through Cecile and Clarke’s backyard and laid myself down on the frigid grass.
Blood flowed warm from my left nostril, running down the side of my face to burrow deep into the soil.
7
I think about Richard Lewellyn now and a wolf comes to mind. But not a bad wolf, like a fairytale wolf or a big bad wolf. Just a wild, canine creature without, the majesty of a lion, but with more gusto than, say, a fox or a bobcat. Nothing feline outlined Rich, but a doglike cast hallmarked his overall description as a free running winter wolf with a great mane of feathery hair blowing in the breeze.
We left together three days after he came to dinner. During those days we walked the grounds, the avenue, and when Cecile and Clarke declared they had a dinner date with a couple from the club, Rich ushered me down to the Cavalier. He never took my hand. He only ventured but one small kiss, and that on my cheekbone.
I prayed the entire time I wouldn’t see Mr. Evans. Not only did I not want to explain that I’d given my heart to a twenty-one-year-old world traveler, I didn’t think I could.
But he never even walked by the dingy plateglass window of the restaurant. I use the term “restaurant” quite loosely. Pretty much a beer-and-hot-dog joint, but that night, it might have been some swanky place in Paris for all the magic it conjured.
My heart kept pounding in my chest, never letting up, filling my head with the wine of new emotion.
“You seem older than fourteen,” he said. And I really must credit him with gentlemanly conduct up until this time.
“Well, I’m almost fifteen and I’ve been through a lot, I guess.”
His large blue eyes, drooping down a bit at the corners, were like vacuums, sucking my soul from between my lips as I told him my life story.
I don’t know much about much, but I say, when you have an incredible life story at the age of fourteen, something’s just not right.
I had more in common with a juicy peach than was good for me. A lot of people don’t understand this. Well, how could this be? Didn’t she find God there in the Evanses’ kitchen that day? Did she turn down the voice of the Holy Spirit?
I’m no theologian, but I know that God never lets anything go to waste. I still believe that Jesus became my Lord and Savior in the Evanses’ kitchen that day. But I knew nothing about God as my Father. Nothing. Mr. Evans, the only father I ever knew, stayed away most of the time. So fathers became people who carted you off for ice cream and if their schedule allowed, sat in hard metal chairs at the school plays. And then, when times got rough, they sloughed you off onto somebody else because they had a job to do. Mr. Evans wouldn’t have done that to Stacy or Francie.
I don’t blame him. It’s just the way life works. Mr. Evans never loved me like a real daughter. He only did what
he did for his wife. And I guess that makes all the sense in the world, but it left a mark under my skin. Nothing anybody would see as they walked by, but I knew it was there.
As the words flowed out to Richard, I knew I’d been dealt a raw hand. I’d tried to play the cards right, as Mama always said, and I believe I succeeded. But now, what did it all matter, anyway? Here I sat in a beer-and-dog joint with a stranger, telling a tale of woe that would inspire even a country singer.
Yes, I could have been abused.
Yes, I could have been foraging on the street.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
I could have also been in a home with a mother who loved me, my own father who worked all day and came home at night with a sucker in his pocket for me and my brother and maybe even a baby sister.
Real brothers. Real sisters.
I knew, biologically speaking, someone sired me, but here I sat in the traffic of life waiting for someone to pick me up in his car and spirit me away from the boring mayhem.
So, if the rest of my story offends, all I can say is, you had to have been there to understand.
8
I ran away with Richard, suddenly enveloped in the world of Sandinistas and NPR, and the aftermath of Watergate. On and on he’d blabber there in his big Mercedes, obviously a cast-off family car, about that blankety-blank Richard Nixon and his cronies. Oh, my lands! I just heard “Blah, blah, blah—curse, curse —blah, blah, blah, blah,” and watched the passion in his profile as he spoke, negotiating the roads out of Virginia and up to Vermont. We slept in the car that night, lucky for me, I guess. No room for fooling around, and we still did no more than kiss a little bit. He kept asking me to sing for him. But only for so long. “Shh, for a minute, sweetie pie. Morning Edition’s coming back on.”
I didn’t mind that show one bit. It bored me, of course, but I didn’t mind. The little musical interludes, the self-important Eastern accents, the stories about the environment. So different from anything I’d ever heard before. An entire world opened up before me like a beautiful scallop. Pretty on its face, but the real meat a bit mysterious.
That was it exactly. Lynchburg was fine and all, but I never really knew much else existed before that time with Richard. Places became more than just black moles on the veiny skin of a map. Sights worthy of picture postcards or magazine photos belonged to me. People lived and died in these places, raised families, ate popcorn on Friday nights, snuck cigarettes out back, and shopped for necessities like toilet paper, deodorant, mousetraps, shoelaces, or even yards of yellow rickrack and notions like that.
