Sing for Me Read online

  “Hurry!” Sophie says.

  Blinking, I look up at her. She frowns, impatient with the way I’m dawdling, whisk in hand.

  “He’ll be here soon.” Mother cracks the oven door and checks the temperature.

  Nils. He is Nils. Nils will be here with me tonight.

  I grip the whisk tightly and with a few sharp flicks of my wrist finish mixing the topping. Now I help Mother pour the batter into the large baking pan and press it flat to the edges. Then I spread the topping across the top of the batter with a spatula.

  “My turn,” Sophy says, and it is. It’s one of those rare, special times when Sophy can feel helpful in the kitchen, when she can feel helpful anywhere at all.

  I set the pan before her on the table, then kneel beside her. She kisses the air—I’m ready—and I lift her arm, gently straighten her curled fingers, and ease her forward so that her hand hovers just above the pan. “Now?” I ask. Sophy kisses the air again. I lower her hand until the tip of her index finger pokes a hole in the topping. Sophy laughs, a throaty chortle of pure joy. I help her give the unbaked cake another poke. Again and again she pokes at it, until the raw brunsviger is dotted with impressions of her fingertip. Into these, the rich topping will melt, spreading through the batter as the cake bakes. This is what makes brunsviger so delicious. Even now Sophy’s hand is a delicious, gooey mess, ready to be savored. I lift her hand to her mouth, and hold it there while she licks the batter from her fingers. Mother puts the pan into the oven. Soon the scent of baking brunsviger will waft through the air. I can barely wait. And in a few hours, I’ll be sneaking out to Calliope’s again. I can barely wait for this, either. I am tense with waiting.

  We hear it then, the knock at the door. I jump, jarring Sophy’s hand against her teeth.

  “Ouch!” She narrows her eyes at me.

  “Sorry!”

  “He’s early.” Mother smiles. “Don’t worry so, Rose. You’ll be fine.”

  “Will I?”

  Fumbling, as I never do, I grab a damp tea towel and wipe Sophy clean. Then I take a deep breath, fling the towel on the counter, and go to open the door.

  We sit on the love seat in the front room, Nils and I, balancing our plates on our laps. It is just as I knew it would be with him. It is easy, enjoyable, a confirmation of who we’ve been raised to be. Nibbling at the last crumbs of our brunsviger slices, we talk on and on about the Danish food we love—the desserts, of course, but other dishes as well. He builds an open-faced sandwich this way; I build it that way. Tomato, tomahto. At the next church sociable, we agree to build sandwiches for each other and test which method is truly better, which results are more delicious. Now we are on to American food. I tell Nils about Dad, just off Ellis Island, making a beeline for a drugstore to taste his first ice cream soda. It’s still Dad’s favorite treat, and I’ve inherited his passion for cold, creamy, sweet drinks, along with his love of pretzels and caramel apples. Nils prefers Cracker Jack and hot dogs. These taste best at Wrigley Field, he says. When he asks what sports I like, I have to admit: none in particular. Sophy’s the baseball fan. Like Nils, she has a head for sports and numbers and sports’ numbers. I don’t have a head for any of these things, I admit. I prefer words. I took Latin in high school and loved it for the way the words sounded. If I could learn Italian, I would. It’s like music. No wonder why the Italians love opera so much. And pictures—I like pictures, too. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the Art Institute. I’d like to go again. Nils says he’d like to go, too. We could go together. We agree we’ll do that soon.

  “But music, that’s what I love best,” I say.

  Nils nods, and his hair falls into his eyes, and I find myself leaning toward him. “There’s nothing like a rousing chorus of ‘A Mighty Fortress,’ ” he says, pushing back his hair even as I’m raising my hand to do the same. I quickly sit back, though I don’t think he realizes what I was about to do. He crosses one long leg over the other, getting more comfortable. “I love those great old hymns,” he says. “Though some of them have questionable origins, you know. ‘A Mighty Fortress’ was originally a German drinking song—the tune, that is.”

  “Oh?”

  “In fact, Mr. Block was telling me the other day that his church doesn’t allow music during the services for just that reason,” Nils continues. “Mr. Block says the focus is wholly on Scripture, teaching, and prayer. It’s a purer form of worship, he says. Which makes me think. What is the purpose of all the hymns we sing, Rose? Prayer? I don’t think so, at least not for me. By verse two, my mind is wandering—unless you’re the one singing, of course. But if you’re not singing, well, then, I’m a goner. It only takes a word from Pastor Riis to bring me back again, but I’m concerned that I wander at all. ‘If your hand offends your brother, cut it off.’ Isn’t that what it says in the Bible?”

  “Something like that.” If our church banned music from its Sunday mornings, I would ban our church from my Sunday mornings. I would join another congregation. Not Mr. Block’s. Not for all the bricks of butter in the world.

  Nils looks at me intently. “I’m thinking of asking Pastor Riis about it all.”

  “You should.”

  “I will.”

  The ticking of the clock on the mantel fills the room. The gas fireplace flares and fades, glittering black glass coals reddening and darkening.

  Second helpings. That’s what we want.

  Saying just that, I take Nils’s plate and go to the kitchen.

  “Well?” Mother says as I cut us each another big piece of cake. “How is it?”

  Sophy scrutinizes me from her wheelchair.

  “Delicious,” I say.

  Mother laughs. “Nils is delicious?”

  “Mother!”

  The back door swings open and Dad bursts into the kitchen, bringing with him a blast of cold air and the scent of smoke. He’s been smoking on the back porch again. Or maybe he was sitting on the narrow stairs that lead up to it from the back alley. Those are his two options if he wants a cigarette close to home. Mother hath ordained it. Can’t say I blame her. Still, Mother frowns even though Dad has followed this, her singular rule.

  Dad ignores her frown. “Nils is still here?”

  I gesture, plate of brunsviger in hand, down the hallway. “I’m about to bring him seconds.”

  “Good,” Dad says.

  Nils and I dig into round two, and our conversation shifts to our shared longing for spring flowers and summer warmth. If he can take the time away from work without leaving Mr. Block in a lurch, he plans on visiting his grandparents in Iowa over the Fourth of July. They are growing frail, and he wants to help them with some big tasks. “Batten down the hatches, so to speak, so they don’t have to worry about paying someone to do what they used to do without batting an eye,” he says. “And they have some things they brought over from Odense that they want to tell me about. I’m their only grandchild, so I have to carry on the old stories. I plan on writing them down before I forget.”

  He asks about my long-term plans, and I tell him about Sophy’s baptism on Easter, Julia’s wedding in August. “She wants me to help her find a dress,” I’m saying, when Nils softly says, “Rose. Hold still.” He reaches out and gently plucks a crumb of cake from my lower lip. Then, as if I’m a small child, he pops the crumb into my mouth. “Now, then,” he says, and he leans close, leans closer—

  “Watch out, young man. You’ll be peeling grapes and fanning her with palm leaves next.”

  Nils’s eyes widen, as do mine, and he leans away from me. Just behind us stands Dad, a plate of brunsviger in his hand. Nils swallows so hard that I hear him gulp. “Mr. Sorensen,” he says, “you know I’d never—”

  Dad waves Nils’s words away, and sits down in the chair opposite us. Dad’s talking the economy now, and soon Nils is, too. And then they’re talking FDR in the White House and Hitler in Europe and Stalin in Russia. They’re talking the future in general, and Nils’s future specifically, and, with
out saying so, a possible future for me. Dad, in his own way, is watching over me, I realize, playing the sentinel again. Dad is making sure things don’t go in a certain direction. He is making sure things go exactly where they should, the way they should. I should be grateful. I guess I am.

  When Nils looks over and gives me a shy, apologetic smile—Sorry about this. Please forgive me. I’m just trying to be respectful to your dad—I am indeed grateful. What a good man. Any parent would want him for their daughter.

  It is just after nine when Nils says he must go. “I have to be up early. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day,” he explains. “Mr. Block offered me overtime if I’ll help him finish last year’s taxes once my other work is done.”

  Dad, still with us, though reading the newspaper now, nods his approval.

  I walk Nils downstairs to the foyer. There, hat in hand, he leans close enough to kiss me on the cheek; then, like the kids we once were, he gives my ear a gentle tug instead. We laugh, relieved to be ourselves again, alone.

  “Dad talked your head off,” I say.

  Nils claps his hat on his head as if to prove that this isn’t the case at all. “I’d probably do the same. Wouldn’t want any daughter of mine getting in too deep too fast. Not that we would have,” he adds quickly.

  He reminds me about our dinner at Old Prague this Saturday night, but I didn’t need reminding.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I say, meaning every word.

  And then he’s gone, and, with only two more hours until eleven and Calliope’s and Theo, I wonder what I really meant, what I really mean at all.

  The dim glow of the streetlight illuminates the front seat of Rob’s DeSoto. I jump inside, shut the door, take off my sleet-drenched hat, kick off my already sodden shoes, and nestle my feet beneath the car’s blasting heater.

  Rob smiles an I-knew-it-all-along smile. “Right on time.”

  I nearly fell descending the slick fire escape—the city is icing over—and almost turned back. But then I remembered Rob’s threat. Theo’s “please.” My choice. And I kept going.

  Rob gives a Tarzan yell.

  What does it mean that this time I join in? What does it mean that it feels so good not to be singing or talking or silent, but just to be plain old loud?

  Whooping it up, we drive past Garfield Park, dark and forbidding at this late hour on a Tuesday night.

  “Watch out!”

  My Tarzan call shifts to a warning as a shape lunges from the thick trees that border the park’s fence. The shape lurches across the sidewalk and staggers in front of the DeSoto. A ragged young man. No, a gang of ragged young men. Rob brakes just in time, and the ragged young men make it safely across the street.

  “Nogoodniks.” The relief in Rob’s voice doesn’t hide the fact that even he is unsettled. “You’ve got to watch out for punks like that, Rose. They’re giving thugs like Frank Nitti a run for his money, at least in this neighborhood. Vandalism, looting, mugging, you name it. That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “Doesn’t help when they’re drunk as skunks, of course.”

  I’m remembering Calliope’s two-drink minimum and, last time, the liquor hot in my mouth, throat, belly.

  “You bring me water tonight, Rob. That’s all. And if you can’t keep control of yourself, I promise you I’m walking home.”

  Rob grimaces, his plump face souring to a scowl. “I’ll be good.”

  I run my hands over my plain-Jane gray skirt, nervously smoothing the wrinkles there. Again my coat smells like wet dog. It would be a terrible thing to walk through the wee hours of the morning in this grim, late February weather. I hope I don’t have to. I wouldn’t make it home if I tried. I’d have to find some safe place to hole up until I had the company of early-morning commuters on the El. I’d get home after Mother, Dad, Sophy, and Andreas were awake. What would happen then?

  Rob jerks his thumb at the backseat. He must have noticed my shabbiness, too, or caught a whiff of my coat. “Why don’t you climb on back and change into your dress now? That way we won’t waste time later.”

  I do as he suggests. It’s easier tonight, even though the car is moving. Shows what a little practice can do. You’d think I’d transformed myself in close quarters many times, not just once before. I know the way the beautiful blue dress works now. I slip into it like it’s a second skin. Back in the front seat, I apply the makeup as we wait for traffic at well-lit intersections. This time I recognize the young woman looking back at me in the rearview mirror. She smiles.

  We enter Bronzeville, but Rob doesn’t turn off onto a side street to park. He pulls right up in front of Calliope’s.

  “Aren’t you going to find a better place to leave the car? I don’t think this is legal.”

  “On a night like this, I’ll take advantage of valet service,” Rob says.

  “You and whose wallet?”

  Rob laughs. “Guess I haven’t told you my good news, huh? I got a real job, Rose, the job I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Rob!” I give him a swift hug. “What is it?”

  “Legal assistant.”

  A red-jacketed valet dashes from Calliope’s toward us. Rob leaps from the car, takes a ticket from the valet, and runs around the front of the car to open my door. This time he doesn’t say a word when I wrap my ratty old coat around my shoulders. He must know that I really do need some protection against the cold. He holds out a hand, helps me out onto the street, and escorts me up to the door of the club.

  “I’m really going to do it,” he’s saying. “I’m going to start night school this summer. I’m going to be a lawyer.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “I’m happy for you, too. You’re here.”

  And we’re inside.

  I can’t see the Chess Men for the crowd. But I can hear them. Not as well as I’d like to because of the noise, but well enough to know that they are playing a song I don’t recognize. I’m on my tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of the stage, when Rob flings his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. He’s trembling with happiness and enthusiasm for this night, for his future. I haven’t seen him this way since his father died. And as for me, well, Rob’s right: I’m here. I’m almost as happy as he is.

  Until the crowd shifts and I see a lovely woman in a long crimson gown lean against the piano and tip a microphone toward her lips. Theo nods at the woman. It’s a nod that says sing. Notes cascade from Theo’s fingers, and the woman parts her lips and her voice rises and drifts intoxicatingly through the crowd and around me:

  I’ve got you under my skin.

  The woman has a smoky voice that’s as beautiful as she is, with her coils of golden hair, her glossy, sparkling lips, painted just the color of her dress, and her dark, pencil-thin eyebrows that arch expressively on the word you, making me believe she’s got Theo and the other musicians, she’s got Rob, and she’s got me, too. She’s got each and every one of us here at Calliope’s. We’re hanging on her every word, her every note:

  I’ve got you deep in the heart of me.

  The Chess Men have found their singer. And she’s gotten under our skin.

  EIGHT

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Theo joins the singer and speaks into the microphone. “Miss Lilah Buckley. The newest addition to the Chess Men. It’s been suggested that we call her the Queen, the strongest player on the board. Let’s give her a big—”

  Theo doesn’t need to tell the crowd what to do. The applause in Calliope’s is more explosive than I’ve ever heard it. Lilah Buckley presses her palm to her lips and flashes the perfect crimson shape of her mouth at us all. When the applause finally subsides, she sashays with long-limbed grace from the stage.

  Theo has loosened his bow tie and his tuxedo shirt collar. He leans into the microphone again. “We’ll be taking a short break now. But don’t go too far. We’ll be right back.”

  The other members of the Chess Men start to leave the stage,
but Theo lingers at the microphone. He shields his eyes with his hands and scans the crowd. I’m glad Rob and I worked our way over to a free table at the edge of the audience during the last number. It’s dark where we are. Theo glances my way, then past me. With the spotlight in his eyes, he doesn’t see me sitting in the shadows. He turns away and leaves the stage.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and notice that Rob has vanished, too. I’m alone at a table for four. I’d feel uncomfortable, I suppose, if I were able to feel anything but numb confusion.

  What did I want? What did I expect? More important, why does it seem that not just this little corner of the club but the whole world is in shadow?

  A chair scrapes against the floor. I look up as Zane sits down across the table from me. From somewhere inside my numb, confused self, I draw a smile. I give it to Zane.

  He doesn’t smile back. “I’m sorry, Rose. I didn’t know they’d found a singer already, or I would have told Rob, who would have warned you.”

  “Warned me? Why?” I muster a shrug. “The Chess Men needed a singer. I’m glad they found such a good one.”

  My words sound wooden, even to me. Little wooden blocks, falling clunk, clunk, clunk on the table between us. Nothing musical about them at all.

  Zane reaches down and hitches his bum leg under the table, away from the people surging past. “Buckley’s a good singer, all right. An amazing one. But from what I’ve heard, she’s also . . . complicated.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  As if in answer, Rob, precariously balancing three drinks, approaches us. I pull out the chair beside me, and Rob sits down.

  “Water for you.”

  Rob sets a glass in front of me. I stare at it for a moment, the ice melting like dreams there. I pick it up. Take a sip. Water, indeed. It loosens the knot in my throat.