by Lisa Tucker
My sister Mary Beth was a song reader. Song reading was her term for it and she invented the art as far as I know. It was kind of like palm reading, she said, but instead of using hands, she used music to read people’s lives….
Her customers adored her. They took her advice—to marry, to break it off with the low-life jerk, to take the new job, to confront their supervisor with how unfair he was—and raved about how much better off they were. They said she was gifted. They swore she could see right into their hearts.
Sometimes I thought Mary Beth’s gift would bring us everything.
the song reader
“A novel of remarkable wisdom and tenderness….
Every splendid page inspires courage.”
—Kevin McIlvoy, author of Hyssop
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Downtown Press Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 2003 by Lisa Tucker
Excerpt from The Winters in Bloom copyright © 2011 by Lisa Tucker
Excerpt from The Promised World copyright © 2009 by Lisa Tucker
Excerpt from The Cure for Modern Life copyright © 2008 by Lisa Tucker
Excerpt from Once Upon a Day copyright © 2006 by Lisa Tucker
Excerpt from Shout Down the Moon copyright © 2004 by Lisa Tucker
Excerpt from The Song Reader copyright © 2003 by Lisa Tucker
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-8203-5
ISBN-10: 0-7434-8203-4
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Book design by Jaime Putorti
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For Laura Ward, beautiful sister,
best friend, and true believer.
chapter
one
My sister Mary Beth was a song reader. Song reading was her term for it and she invented the art as far as I know. It was kind of like palm reading, she said, but instead of using hands, she used music to read people’s lives. Their music. The songs that were important to them from as far back as they could remember. The ones they turned up loud on their car radios and found themselves driving a little faster to. The ones they sang in the shower and loved the sound of their own voice singing. And of course, the songs that always made them cry on that one line nobody else even thought was sad.
Her customers adored her. They took her advice—to marry, to break it off with the low-life jerk, to take the new job, to confront their supervisor with how unfair he was—and raved about how much better off they were. They said she was gifted. They swore she could see right into their hearts.
From the beginning, my sister took it so seriously. She’d been doing readings less than a month when she had those cards printed up. Each one said in bold black letters:
Mary Beth Norris
Song Reader/Life Healer
Let me help you make sense of the music in your head.
[Family problems a specialty.]
Leave a message at 372-1891. Payment negotiable.
She had to work double shifts at the restaurant to pay for the cards and the answering machine, but she said it was just part of her responsibilities now. “I have a calling in life,” she told me, “and I’ve got to act like it.”
I wish I’d saved one of those cards, but I wasn’t there the night she buried them at the bottom of the garbage can. It was after Ben left, and after I discovered she’d lied to me about my father. It was when the trouble with Holly Kramer was just beginning, and I still thought—like most of the town—that her talent was undeniable.
Some people even claimed she had to be psychic. After all, no one else knew that Rose was in trouble except Mary Beth; no one even suspected that Rose would take Clyde’s car on that sun-blind Saturday morning and drive it right over the sidewalk and through the glass wall of his News and Tobacco Mart except my sister, who told Rose two months before that she’d better stop seeing Clyde. From the song chart, Mary Beth knew Clyde had to be bad news. She shook her head when Rose got stuck on “Lucille” for five weeks and warned her a life can’t hold this much sadness for long. When Rose started humming “Hungry Heart,” Mary Beth knew the lid was about to blow off Rose and Clyde’s relationship. But she didn’t tell Rose I told you so when we went with Rose’s mother to bail her out of jail. She wasn’t that way with her advice, not at all.
My sister kept file cards on her customers, “song charts” neatly alphabetized in a large green Rubbermaid box in the corner of our kitchen. On Saturdays she would meet with new customers in the little room downstairs our landlady Agnes had donated to the cause—as long as Mary Beth kept the room clean and didn’t disturb Agnes’s husband’s sketches and charcoal pencils still sitting on the desk exactly as he left them when he died eighteen years before. Sometimes she gave advice at these first meetings, but usually she waited until she’d kept the chart for at least a few weeks before she gave them a reading.
They were instructed to call twice each week, on Sunday and Wednesday, and leave a short message telling her the songs and the particularly important lines they had hummed for the last few days. She had to rewind the cassette on the Phonemate back to the beginning to fit all the messages that would come in. I helped her update the charts. (It was a lot of work, especially when they reported country and western songs, which I hated.) I wrote down the titles and lines exactly as they said, even if they got it wrong, for what’s important, Mary Beth said, is how they hear the words. But if they were off on the lines, we would make a little star on their chart since Mary Beth said they might be hearing them wrong for a reason. We also made an “S” if they’d sung the lines on the machine, and a “C” if they’d sounded like they were crying or struggling not to.
Mary Beth was proud of this organized system. It allowed her to just glance at an entry and know quite a bit. For example, one of the entries on Dorothea Lanigan’s chart was the last two lines of “Yesterday.” Dorothea had changed only a word and a tense, but Mary Beth had nodded when she looked at the chart later that night and said, “Well, that’s that.”
Even I thought this one was obvious. After all, the song was about lost love, wasn’t it? “It’s too bad Dorothea and Wayne are splitting,” I said. “She must be miserable.”
Mary Beth looked up at me from the floor where she was sitting surrounded by charts and burst out in a laugh. “Leeann, they are going to be engaged by the end of the month. You mark my words.” And of course, it turned out to be true. They had their wedding the next summer. Mary Beth was the maid of honor, since Dorothea said it was all thanks to her.
It was a gift, everybody said so. Sometimes I wished I had the gift, too, but I knew I didn’t; I’d tried and failed too many times with my friends to believe otherwise. I asked them about their music and I gave them my theories, but I was always way off, and Mary Beth finally told me I was dangerous. “You can’t mess around with something like this. What if somebody believes you?”
I knew, though, there was little chance of that. Mary Beth was the kind of person you take seriously; I had never been. Only my sister saw me as the thoughtful, intense person I felt I really was; my friends and acquaintances looked at me as a sweet, happy-go-lucky, go-alo
ng-with-anything kind of person. And I knew that was a side of me, too, but I was more comfortable at home, always had been, even though I didn’t have parents.
Sure, we were a small family after Mom died, but it wasn’t lonely. We had the endless stream of my sister’s customers and of course the music. Every day, all day, our stereo would play and Mary Beth would talk about the lyrics, what they really meant. Even when we got Tommy, she kept it up, because she said babies could adjust to noise just fine, as long as you gave them the chance.
When Tommy first came to us, Mary Beth wasn’t even all that surprised. She was only twenty-three, but she’d wanted a child as long as she could remember, and she was a big believer in things working out, no matter how improbable the odds. “It was meant to be,” she concluded. “It’s a sign that I’ve waited long enough.”
At first, I didn’t see it that way. I was eleven then; I knew you couldn’t just hand over a living, breathing baby as payment for services rendered. Of course Mary Beth insisted Tommy wasn’t payment, but I didn’t see the distinction. After all, a customer had given him to my sister after the song reading was over, the same way they gave her cakes and stews and afghans and even cash occasionally.
Her name was Linda, but she called herself Chamomile, like the tea. She had a garden of red and purple flowers tattooed on her back, a string of boyfriends back in Los Angeles, and a fourteen-month-old son with big black eyes and curly black hair that she hadn’t even bothered to name.
She called him the blob, because she was so sure he was retarded. He couldn’t walk or crawl; he didn’t talk or coo or even cry much. Nobody wanted that baby: not Linda, not her parents, and not any of the families on Missouri’s waiting list for perfect, white infants. Mary Beth took this as another sign that she was supposed to have him. She didn’t care if his daddy was black or brown or from Mars, because the first time she picked him up, he held on to her hair with his fist like he was afraid she’d disappear. When she curled up next to him at night, he breathed a fluttering little sigh of what she swore was pure happiness.
Linda was back in Los Angeles and the adoption was already final when the doctor confirmed what Mary Beth had been saying all along: the only thing wrong with Tommy was the way Linda had been treating him. He turned into a chubby-legged toddler who giggled as he followed us all over the apartment. He called me “E-ann” in the sweetest little voice. He called Mary Beth, Mama.
Sometimes I thought Mary Beth’s gift would bring us everything.
My sister Mary Beth was a song reader. Nobody else in the whole world can say that, as far as I know. And even after everything that happened, I still find myself wishing I could go back to when the music was like a spirit moving through our town, giving words to what we felt, connecting us all.
chapter
two
It started when we tried to find our father, once, a long time ago. Mom had just died and we were reeling from the loss of our normal life.
Tracking him down was my idea, although I thought it was the obvious thing to do under the circumstances. My sister didn’t agree. At Mom’s funeral, when people asked if we were going to contact our father now, she stared right through them. Later she said she couldn’t believe such a rude question. How could it matter after this? How could anything matter after this?
Mom had been on her way home from the July sale at Venture department store when she pulled out in front of an eighteen wheeler on Highway 61. Her car was cut in two, but when the insurance adjuster pried open the trunk, the bag from the sale was still intact. A green and pink striped bath towel, two packages of girls’ size 10 underwear for me, and the album Plastic Letters for Mary Beth. Mom didn’t know anything about Debby Harry or punk, but she’d always called Mary Beth her “blondie.”
What I remember about that time is how tired I was. I would go to bed so sleepy that I felt like I’d be out for hours, only to startle awake and realize again what had happened. Mary Beth had the same problem, but when the doctor at the hospital had offered her sleeping pills, she’d said no. “Doctors try to cure everything with pills,” she told me, “even feelings.”
I would have gladly taken them but nobody offered. I was just a kid.
We waited weeks to clean out Mom’s bedroom. We bagged up the clothes first, to give to the needy. It was what Mom would have wanted. Mary Beth was almost six feet tall; Mom had been five-three at best, and I had no immediate plans to wear polyester pant suits and stiff-collared shirtdresses.
Dad had been gone five years by then, and the room seemed like it had always been only Mom’s. There was no aftershave stain on the dresser, no tie collecting dust in the bottom of the closet, no flattened, laceless wing tip under the bed. It was just luck that I found his ring under Mom’s cedar chest—luck in the form of an old vacuum cleaner that balked and spit the silver circle back at my ankle hard enough to make me bend down and take a look.
It took me a minute to realize that the ring must have been Dad’s. It was engraved with his initials, HN, Henry Norris, but it was so small it fit me. I found out later that he’d worn it as a little boy, a gift from his mother. Dad adored his mother. This was one of the few facts I had about him.
He grew up in Tennessee. His father died when he fell off a train, drunk, when Dad was seven. His mother had to support them with her sewing, “piecework” they called it, since she was paid only when she finished a piece of clothing, getting nothing if she was too sick or tired to turn in anything at the end of a day. But when Dad was seventeen, she, too, died suddenly. She had a stroke of some kind, quite rare for as young as she was, and I’d heard whispers between cousins I barely knew about Dad’s reaction: how he had a kind of nervous breakdown and great-aunt somebody had to take him to her house to recover, and how after that he, the brightest-smartest-could-have-made-something-of-himself boy you ever saw, never even finished high school.
Mary Beth told me once it takes guts to go nuts, and he must have had guts. “Most people,” she said, “ignore the wound, put a Band-Aid on it, and forget it. Only the gutsy ones can look right at the blood, stare into the pain, and risk losing their minds to know what’s what.”
I didn’t think she was talking about Dad, though. She almost never did. Even when the social worker assigned to my “case” asked about our father, Mary Beth just said he was “out of the picture.” (The social worker was supposed to figure out where to put me after my mom died, but her job didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Mary Beth was twenty-two and perfectly responsible; then too, my sister was the only person who wanted the job of caring for me. What was there to decide?)
I wore the ring for several weeks, thinking it would tell me something about him. I’d had a dream he was standing on a boat wearing a skipper’s cap, holding a compass, issuing directions to unseen sailors. Later I realized I’d seen a picture of him on a boat, taken when he and Mom were on their honeymoon at the Lake of the Ozarks, but this didn’t shake my feeling that he had crossed the sea and was thousands of miles from Tainer, Missouri.
When Mary Beth saw the ring on my finger, she said, “How cute,” as though I was a little kid playing dress-up, as though this ring was as meaningless to me as the ones that shot out in colorful plastic orbs from the gumball machine.
She knew I didn’t really remember Dad. I was five when he left us; she was seventeen. One of the only discussions we’d ever had about him was when she realized I was making up things, telling my friends whatever came to mind, from a secret government assignment that called him to Venezuela, to a job in Hollywood, behind the camera for Eight is Enough.
I think she felt sorry for me, because she gave me two true stories instead. When he worked for Hedley’s Auto Parts and Tires, she said, he made a jungle gym out of junk parts and old tires that had a ten-foot-tall hideout that was the favorite of all the kids in the neighborhood. And once, he won a contest at the civic club downtown. It was like Name That Tune and he could name them faster than anyone. He always loved music, especia
lly show tunes like “Oklahoma” and “Camelot” and classical stuff.
Neither of these things helped. The jungle gym had nothing to do with me; I’d never even seen it. (We’d moved into our apartment on the second floor of Agnes’s house when I was just a baby; Mary Beth said the gym would have been impossible to move even if we’d had the yard space.) And the contest business was just another connection between Dad and my sister that I didn’t share. She was the musical one, the one who’d had the largest record collection in the senior class.
Maybe I wanted to know something about him that she didn’t. Maybe that’s why I started writing to his relatives to locate him, without mentioning what I was doing to her or anyone.
Mom had kept some of their addresses in her blue phone book. I began with the N page, for Norris, and just kept going, writing one a day every afternoon, before Mary Beth came home from her waitress job. I knew it was a long shot, but Mom always said hard work would pay off in the long run.
And it turned out to be true. After a few months of writing, I got the information I was waiting for. Joseph Morgan, from Kansas City, a second cousin of Dad’s whom I’d met only once long ago at a family reunion in Boonville, had seen Dad. His letter went on for two pages, updating me about people and things I’d never heard of, but it ended with the news that Dad had given him an address. No phone, not even an unlisted one, but a street and an apartment number and even a zip code.
I folded the letter carefully and stuck it in my dresser, under my pajamas. I intended to keep it a secret from Mary Beth for at least a few days, but I barely lasted through dinner.
She didn’t speak for a full minute after reading the letter. I thought for sure she was upset, but then she smiled. “You did it, honey. Good for you.”
It crossed my mind that she’d known all along I’d been trying to find him, but I was too happy to care. When I told her I was going to write him that night, she nodded. “Of course you are.”
