All for a Song Page 11

  “I’m looking for Mr. Lundi. Roland Lundi?” The fact that she had to shout made her sound bolder than she felt, and for that she was grateful.

  “Back office.” He ran the sweeper to the left, indicating the direction she should take, and she obeyed.

  The building only got darker the deeper she walked. Muffled voices guided her through the gray, and a strip of light beckoned. When she got to the door, she leaned her ear against it. Strange how, after a single conversation in a crowded restaurant, the sound of his voice could be so immediately recognizable. She knocked softly once, and again with three bold raps.

  “Who is it?” The question was tinged with clear impatience, but she fought the instinct to back away.

  “Dorothy Lynn Dunbar.”

  A pause, then, “Who?”

  She could leave. One quick turn and she’d be swallowed in the dark hallway. A few more and her steps would be muffled by the sweeper. Once outside, she’d be enveloped by the crowd, carried to the streetcar that would take her back to Darlene’s house in time for supper.

  She cleared her throat. “Dorothy Lynn Dunbar. We . . . You . . . Yesterday—”

  The door swung open, and there he was. Not nearly as slick as the other times she’d seen him. Strands of dark hair were strewn across his forehead, his shirt rumpled beneath his suspenders. Those Valentino-dark eyes, though, twinkled in recognition. In an instant he was transformed, like a starched sheet fresh from under the iron. His shirt might not be smooth, but the rest of him was.

  “I knew we’d see you again.” He opened the door wider. “Come in and meet Sister Aimee.”

  The moment felt royal. In a transformation opposite of Roland Lundi’s, Dorothy Lynn’s body turned to water from the rushing in her ears to the feeling of ice pooling in her spine.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she protested. “I just came to see you.”

  “Well, I am in here, so it seems we must come to an agreement.”

  During her visit, Dorothy Lynn had often heard Roy on the telephone working through a sales deal, and she’d spent her life in a church pew listening to first her father, and lately Brent, pleading and persuading people to follow Jesus. Roland Lundi’s speech was an enticing hybrid of the two. Persuasive, yes, but tempered with detachment, as if the listener would have no one to blame for the dire consequences of ignoring his instruction.

  “If you think it’s all right.” Part of her was already edging toward agreement.

  “I think it’s imperative.” He ushered her in.

  Even in this close, windowless room, Aimee Semple McPherson commanded every bit of the attention that she did on the stage. She was again dressed in white, though now it was a simple cotton jersey, and her hair looked darker than it had under the bright stage light. On stage she had loomed, unapproachable, above any who would dare to come near. Here, she could be any other woman in the world. Dorothy Lynn extended her hand, and Sister Aimee took it in a grip strong enough for any man’s approval. She held the firm grip so long that Dorothy Lynn began to wonder whether she’d ever be able to play the guitar again.

  “She’s cute.” Sister Aimee spoke above Dorothy Lynn’s head, directing her comment to Roland.

  “Cute’s just the beginning. Small-town, wholesome, married to a preacher.”

  “Seems young to be married.”

  “We’re not married yet,” Dorothy Lynn interjected, “and I’m almost nineteen.” Nobody seemed to be listening.

  “And?” Sister Aimee said.

  “Think about it. She’s what we’re fighting for. The remnant of the good girls. She’s your message, and she can be your messenger.”

  Sister Aimee scowled at that. “I don’t need a messenger, Mr. Lundi. I am a messenger. What do you think we’ve been working for all these years?”

  “She sings.”

  “Lots of people sing. You ever hear of a phonograph?”

  His smile was patient, indulgent. “She sings what you preach, Sister. Tell her.”

  It took a moment for Dorothy Lynn to realize he was talking to her, and she overcame her muteness long enough to say, “Tell her what, exactly?”

  Roland prompted. “Two nights ago, at the theater, you came in . . .”

  “Oh yes.” And she continued her tale from there, glossing over Rudy Valentino in favor of relating what she felt that night, in just a matter of moments, at the back of the auditorium during Sister Aimee’s service. “I’ve been in church all my life, ma’am, and I never saw anything like that before. Nor felt it. People so excited about hearing the Word of God. It was so exciting—and scary, too, I’d say.”

  “Scary how?” It was the first time the woman had addressed her directly.

  “The idea of Jesus comin’ back. And the call to be ready. So much passion, I guess. That’s not common in my church.”

  “It’s not common to preach the return of our Savior?”

  “Not like that.”

  “And your preacher husband. Does he not keep his parishioners in a state of readiness?”

  “He’s not my husband, and he’s only been preaching there for a while. Before him, it was my father.”

  Sister Aimee stared at her, unblinking at the apparent irrelevance of the facts.

  “We’re ready,” Dorothy Lynn said, “I guess.”

  “The soul can’t ‘guess’ at its readiness. Resurrected in the air at his return, or in the moment of our final breath, there can be no question. Imagine the young groom, waiting at the altar for his bride, and she, unsure of her walking. Will that decision not determine the fate of her life on earth? Either the joys of communal marriage, or the societal damnation of a life alone?”

  Sister Aimee spoke with all the passion and cadence of the woman on the stage, and the confines of the room might have made Dorothy Lynn shrink away from the volume. Instead, she felt herself caught up in the image, to the point of anticipating the next word. And though she was barraged with questions, there was neither the expectation nor the opportunity to reply. But inside, her mind swelled with unwritten songs, and she held them like a breath.

  “So tell me, young woman, if Jesus Christ came back to reclaim his church today, would he gather you?”

  “Yes,” Dorothy Lynn said, without hesitation. “And I’ve always known that. Well, since I was a little girl, anyway. I guess sometimes you can know somethin’ without really thinking about it? But when I saw you, I started thinking. And when I think, I write, and so . . .”

  “And so,” Roland picked up, “it’s your message in her song.”

  “It is God’s message,” Sister Aimee said. Her hands were clasped beneath her chin, her eyes upturned. “He has merely called me to be his mouthpiece. Called me to speak it to a world in such desperate need of repentance and salvation.”

  “Of course,” Roland said, and for the first time he seemed to be choosing his words with care. “And we’ve made great strides. You, Sister Aimee, are the voice for God’s message. But Dorothy Lynn, here—I think she could be the voice for all those women falling into sin. Look at her—old-fashioned but not dowdy. Innocent, pure. Women will see the girl they want to be; men will see the girl they want to marry.”

  Dorothy Lynn cleared her throat, if for no other reason than to remind him that she was still in the room.

  Sister Aimee cracked a knowing smile. “And I am neither of those?”

  He sidestepped the question like a dancer. “You said it yourself. You are the mouthpiece of the Lord Almighty. She is your audience. Imagine if we bring your audience on stage, let them see themselves already absorbed by God’s truth. What will that be?”

  On stage. Audience. Dorothy Lynn realized what they were discussing, and she shook her head in protest. She didn’t sing in front of audiences. Women didn’t lead congregations in song. That was for men like Deacon Keyes, with their booming voices and command of verse, not a girl like her with a borrowed guitar and songs nobody’d ever heard before.

  “You seem so insistent, L
undi.” Sister Aimee’s eyes narrowed and darted between him and Dorothy Lynn. “Are you sure there aren’t other issues involved?”

  No depth of innocence could obscure the meaning behind Sister Aimee’s question. Dorothy Lynn wanted to melt clean through the floor, but instead she looked to Mr. Lundi for rescue.

  “Aimee, she’s a kid.”

  His response offered salvation to her reputation but a sting to her pride. He hadn’t treated her like a kid yesterday. She wanted to say as much but worried her protest would only strengthen suspicion.

  Roland turned to her. “Play, won’t you? That song from the other day.”

  It hadn’t taken long to recognize the chain of command, so Dorothy Lynn looked to Sister Aimee before making a move. In response, she sat down. “Please,” she said expectantly. “Play.”

  “All right,” Dorothy Lynn said.

  There was a low-backed sofa behind her, and she laid the guitar case upon it. The click of the metal latches made this seem like a weighty task, but the welcome sight of her guitar nestled in blue velvet set her heart at ease. She lifted it out, and Roland whisked the case away so she could sit on the sofa. She was prepared for the usual lengthy ritual of adjusting the instrument, but new strings and a proper case had preserved its tuning. She closed her eyes.

  Lord, I really don’t know why I’m here in the presence of this woman, but I feel I’ve followed you. I thank you for this song and for whatever it might do for your Kingdom.

  And then she played. And sang.

  Jesus is coming!

  Are you ready

  to meet your Savior in the sky?

  The verses stepped up to take Dorothy Lynn’s part in the earlier conversation with Sister Aimee. Of course she was ready. Who could sing what the heart held in question? Hard to believe that, just yesterday, this song didn’t exist. It flowed through her now as complete as if people had been singing it for generations, like truth forged through the fire of time.

  When she opened her eyes after the final words, Roland’s arms were folded across his chest, and he looked at her with parental approval and pride. “What did I tell you?”

  “Not so much,” Sister Aimee said. “You ever sing in front of a crowd before?”

  Dorothy Lynn thought about the children gathered on the lawn outside the church. “Small ones, yes.”

  “Let me guess. Children’s Sunday school class?”

  It seemed like nothing, coming out of that powerful mouth.

  “Hence your sweet and unspoiled.” Roland stood beside her, and she felt his hands on her shoulders, as if he was trying to hold her in place.

  Sister Aimee turned back to the lighted mirror, picked up a silver hairbrush, and began brushing with a series of short, purposeful strokes. Nobody spoke for a full minute until she paused, holding the brush aloft. “Bring her on at six. I want the orchestra seated and ready in case she’s a flop.”

  “That’s my girl.” His grip tightened on Dorothy Lynn’s shoulders, but it was unclear just which of the two he considered his girl. He released her and, with a gentle pat, urged her to stand up. The next thing she knew, he was taking the guitar from her arms and laying it back in the case. As she maneuvered out of his way, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The three of them, actually—one glamorous woman of the stage, one simple, familiar girl, and the man who brought them together.

  “One more thing.” Sister Aimee spoke to both of them in the mirror. “There’s no money in it. Not even a dip from the plate. We’re on a mission here; got it?”

  “She’s got it.” Roland held the guitar case in one hand and hooked the other through Dorothy Lynn’s elbow. “Now we’ll go work out some of the details.”

  She was led out into the hallway like one being led from a dream. She’d been nothing more than an observer of other people’s conversation, and the entire scene blurred behind her, out of context. At least here, without Sister Aimee, she could assert herself. Being no more enlightened than when she walked in, she dug in her heels before taking another step. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Backstage. We’ve only got a couple of hours to show you the ropes.”

  Backstage? Ropes? Questions a kid would ask. “That’s not why I came here. You said you wanted to hear my song is all.”

  “And why did you think I wanted to hear it? Just to while away a few minutes of the afternoon?”

  “I didn’t think about why.”

  “Well then, you tell me. Why did you come all this way to play it?”

  “Not for her,” she said. “I wanted to play it for you.”

  “Aw, kid . . .” He looked on her with pity, like she was the stray puppy who had followed him home. “Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I’m sure you’re a sweet girl, but I’m old enough to be your—uncle, maybe.”

  “It’s not that.” If the hallway hadn’t been so dark, her blush might have made the protest less than convincing. “No one’s ever told me to finish a song before.”

  “Really?” He’d dropped her arm and was fishing in his pocket, finally producing a slim metal case. In a second, his face was awash in light as he struck a match and touched the flame to a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. “Not even that fiancé of yours?”

  “He listens.”

  “But does he seek?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does he understand? Does he keep an unfinished tune rattling around in his brain for days, going crazy, like when you’re trying to remember a name? Because that’s what I’ve been doing since yesterday.”

  Her nose twitched at the smoke, but that had nothing to do with the tears pricking her eyes. She’d never heard anyone speak with such understanding of what it meant to create music. To think, she and this stranger had been living with such like minds for the past day and night. The conversation had taken a dangerous turn.

  She offered up a weak defense. “He loves me, and he says my music will have a place in our lives.”

  “And what is that place?”

  “In my heart, and in our home. And maybe in our church, when it’s our church. But right now it’s his.”

  “The church belongs to the Lord, and we serve as we’re called.”

  “Well, I don’t know that I’ve been called to do this.”

  Roland drew on his cigarette and the tip glowed red. “Frankly, neither do I. But where’s the harm in finding out?”

  Her stomach churned, but whether it was with fear, excitement, or the smoke streaming from both the cigarette and his lips, she couldn’t say. She only knew that, with one small act, she’d stepped into a whole new set of boundaries.

  “Is there a telephone? I have to tell my sister I won’t be home for dinner.”

  It had taken three attempts to explain to Darlene exactly why her younger sister wouldn’t be home for dinner, and when the idea finally did register in all its shocking detail, the screech that came across the line could be heard throughout the room, as evidenced by the cringing reaction of the backstage crew.

  “I’m coming right down there,” Darlene had said once she was again capable of speech, “and bringing you home.”

  “Bringing the boys with you?” They’d gone on one quick foray taking RJ and Darren on a streetcar—an ordeal Dorothy Lynn never wished to experience again.

  “If I have to. But you can bet the minute Roy gets home I’ll be there. Better yet, I’ll send him. Better yet, we’ll take the boys to Mrs. Mevreck, and we’ll both show up. Take you kicking and screaming if we have to.”

  Odd, but Dorothy Lynn hadn’t cultivated any real desire to perform onstage until her loving sister threatened to take the opportunity away.

  “Please, Dar. I’ll never have a chance to do anything like this again.”

  “You never should have the chance. What would Brent say? Or Pa? Have you thought about that?”

  “I have.” And she’d ignored it.

  Now, with her stomach a mass of crawling caterpillars, D
orothy Lynn wondered if she should have listened to their invented counsel.

  A tall, four-legged stool stood alone on the stage with nothing but the rich red velvet curtain behind it. Dorothy Lynn wore a new dress brought to her from a shop around the corner. Nothing jazzy, as she’d initially feared, but a modest pumpkin-colored frock with a square neck and long sleeves. Her hair had been brushed and wrapped around a wide-barreled iron, the curls gathered into one ribbon and draped over her shoulder.

  From the wings she could see the crowd arriving, slowly filling the seats. Already, with only two rows filled, there were more people in the audience than in the entire First Christian Church in Heron’s Nest, and her throat constricted.

  “Look at them.” Roland’s voice tickled the back of her neck. “All souls gathered to worship the Lord. Some who’ve never before sought his face.”

  “It’s terrifying,” Dorothy Lynn said. More than the sea of faces, she feared the two that hadn’t arrived—yet.

  “Come,” Roland said, tugging her arm. “Sister Aimee is leading us in prayer.”

  He led her back through the maze of passageways to the same room where they’d been that afternoon. Now it was crammed with people, men and women alike, and at its center, Sister Aimee. She was no taller than anybody else, and Dorothy Lynn could barely make out the spot of blonde at the core of the crowd, but there was definitely a sense that all present were gathered around her. Roland pushed her forward, pressed her in, and shut the door.

  Then, at the center of the room, two long, white-sleeved arms rose up, and silence fell.

  “Holy Father, God—” the voice from the stage was back—“tonight, holy Father, we dedicate our words to you. We dedicate our lives to you. We dedicate the breath we take to you.”

  Sounds of agreement echoed each phrase; Dorothy Lynn whispered, “Yes, Father.”

  “We go into battle clothed in your righteousness. We carry your sword of truth. In your name we will speak.”

  “Yes, Sister.” She joined the crowd.

  “In your name we will heal.”