All for a Song Page 12

“Yes, Sister.” Louder this time.

  “To a world that is dying, that is turning its back on you. Men and women desperate for healing. To lives drowning in sin we offer salvation in your name.”

  The words of the prayer were nearly lost in the ocean of agreement, and what had been fear turned to fire. Dorothy Lynn felt a burning within her, spreading to the tips of her fingers, itching to touch the strings of her guitar. And while part of her could have stayed and basked in the glory of this moment, her feet begged to carry her to the stage, her throat to the song.

  Sister Aimee continued to pray, her words rushing together and together until they transcended language. Dorothy Lynn’s ears awoke to the spiritual tongue, and to the realization that they’d been hearing it for some time. Exactly when the transition happened, she couldn’t say; her spirit had been understanding long before her mind became aware.

  And it wasn’t just Sister Aimee.

  All around her, men and women burst forth in syllables, illogical and unfamiliar combinations of consonants, spinning a cocoon of prayer.

  She opened her eyes, thinking somehow that to do so would aid her understanding. Perhaps the true message would appear in thin air, like the thought bubble of a cartoon, or flash before her eyes like the dialogue cards in the movies. Her confusion must have been evident, because Roland came up beside her and leaned close to her ear.

  “Heavenly Father, we praise you.”

  Instantly, she trusted his interpretation.

  “Heavenly Father, we do battle for you.”

  She moved her lips in silent participation.

  “Savior Jesus, we glorify your name. We gather souls in your name. We heal in your name.”

  In your name, in your name, in your name.

  “Amen.”

  Amen. And sweet release.

  She spun around, straight into Roland, who, given the close confines of the room, seemed predestined to take her in his arms. The smell of smoke lingering on his starched white shirt mingled with the slow-burning ember within her. She looked up into his smoldering brown eyes.

  “I’m ready.”

  She felt three heartbeats with every step, certain the combined pounding of her pulse and her feet would cut through the noise of the crowd. But they were turned in conversation with each other, leaving her essentially alone.

  “Just us,” she said, speaking to the guitar cradled in her arms. Initially it had been slung over her back, but Roland had declared that “unwomanly,” and there had followed an argument about whether she should hold it at all, or whether it should be perched on a stand, waiting for her. In the end, Dorothy Lynn prevailed, knowing she’d never make it out on stage without it. God would be with her, yes, but she needed an old friend, too.

  Two microphones waited. One was positioned in front of her mouth to capture her singing; the other, shorter, to pick up the guitar. Earlier, she and Roland and a technician had adjusted everything perfectly. She’d even played a few chords and heard the amplification of her music echo through the empty theater. Glad, at least, to have had that first shock behind her.

  She took her seat, as Roland had instructed, and nestled the guitar on her lap. If anybody in the audience knew or cared, they gave no notice. She looked across to where Roland waited in the wings, his smile a lifeline.

  Play, he mouthed, strumming an invisible guitar.

  Her song rang in her head, her fingers curled in memory around the neck. Nobody heard the first chord, or the second, or the third, so she played through them again. She couldn’t sing, not yet. Not without knowing that someone was listening. Something, though, prompted her to speak. She leaned forward, her lips as close to the microphone as the technician had allowed.

  “Are you ready?”

  To hear her voice, spread thin across the audience, brought on a sense of both shock and power, even though nobody turned an ear. And why should they? Who was she? Tears gathered in her throat, threatening to wash away both her voice and every bit of confidence that brought her to this place. She closed her eyes.

  In your name.

  This one phrase she prayed over and over, until she was nearly knocked off the stool when his holy name exploded around her.

  “Jesus.”

  His name. Her voice. And when she opened her eyes, more than a dozen were looking back at her.

  “Jesus,” she repeated, not louder, but with purpose. More eyes. They were watching her the way they’d been watching Sister Aimee the other night—some were, anyway. And what did she have to say? Everything she knew was in her song. Once again, she strummed the opening chords and said, “Jesus.”

  More turned around, and they answered back.

  “Jesus.”

  She stole words from Sister Aimee. “Jesus is coming. Are you ready?”

  A response—scattered amens from those she’d captured, along with a whooping “Yes!”

  So she repeated those three chords, those six words, until as far as she could see, faces were turned in her direction. She closed her eyes one last time, picturing a circle of Sunday school children under a tree, and sang.

  Jesus is coming!

  Are you ready

  to meet your Savior in the sky?

  He, on his white horse, gath’rin’ unto him.

  We are his church. We are his bride.

  Her hands created music on their own; words poured from her mouth. Her mind returned to the place it was before she began singing—a constant, simple stream of prayer. Each syllable an answer. When she came to the end of the song, there seemed to be nothing to do but to begin again, and this time when she reached the chorus, five hundred voices joined in.

  She glanced over at Roland, who stood with his arms folded, looking like the cat who licked the cream. With the slightest lift of his finger, she knew to play it one more time. In truth, she could have played all night, because her own strength had been taken over from the very first note. Finally, though, it was time to bring the song to a close, and the swell of applause that followed felt nothing like the praise in their singing. She imagined a rush of wind generated from the clapping of their hands, and it could have swept her away like the wings of a million angels.

  Immediately her fingers poised to play a new song, one she knew she and the audience shared in a collective consciousness.

  Jesus is coming to earth again;

  What if it were today?

  To her joy, most of the audience joined her by the second line, and by the time she brought them to the chorus, “Glory, glory!” they joined in with such thundering accord she lost her own voice within theirs. She felt ten feet tall yet invisible as she led them through the third verse.

  Somehow she knew this congregation would follow her into yet another song, and another. They might have come to hear Sister Aimee preach, but in this moment, they were hers. It was a power she’d never dreamed of, and as she furiously strummed the strings behind the final note, she understood why her father had sheltered her from it, why he’d relegated her to the children’s Sunday school beneath the trees. There was danger here, the darkness of pride.

  Holding her hands still, she dropped her head and found silence in the midst of praise. “Thank you, Jesus,” she said. In your name.

  Her voice, amplified by the microphone, shot through the theater. She said it again, and the audience responded with a rallying cry.

  She had to leave. If she didn’t, she knew she never would. She stood and prepared to exit the stage, hoping her legs would withstand the journey. But Roland was at her side, his arm around her shoulder, leaning into the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” He had to repeat the address before any kind of silence could be found. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to St. Louis’s own Dorothy Lynn Dunbar.”

  She tugged at his sleeve and whispered, “Heron’s Nest.”

  He made a hush sound out of the corner of his mouth and continued. “In these times, how refreshing it is to see a young woman unspoiled by the t
rappings of this world. Modest, pure, a shining example of the womanhood of a simpler time. Singing from her heart to yours.”

  He gave her the smallest of squeezes, and the audience erupted into new applause.

  “Can you tell us, Miss Dunbar, how you came to be here this evening?”

  They’d rehearsed this, too, while her hair was being coaxed into these cascading curls.

  She leaned toward the microphone. “I heard Sister Aimee speak the other night.” Her voice sounded faint again, like a child’s. “And the Lord spoke to me. And he gave me a song to sing.”

  All true, but she couldn’t shake the deceitfulness of the way she was telling it.

  “And sing you did, darling.” He pulled her close and planted a fatherly kiss on her forehead, making her feel as insignificant as her voice. “Now, say good night.”

  This they had not rehearsed, but she complied, saying nothing but offering a wave with the same hand that, just moments before, had strummed the audience under her power.

  She walked off feeling stupid, accompanied by Roland’s glowing introduction of Aimee Semple McPherson. “The evangelistic voice of our day. A woman anointed by God. The prophet with a message to all who would follow Jesus.”

  By the time Dorothy Lynn was back in the shadows of the wings, her own skin was wrapped around her, and it was as if she’d never taken the stage at all. She found her guitar case where she’d left it, open and waiting. Kneeling, she placed the guitar within the velvet, closed the lid, and fastened the latches. She laid her hands flat on the lid. If only she, too, could be so easily locked away. Certainly, somewhere there was some space she could crawl into and hide. But here again was Roland, taking her hand and hauling her to her feet.

  This time the kiss he gave was not so fatherly, but tight-lipped and lingering, straight on her surprised mouth, and over before she could think to pull away.

  “You were wonderful,” he said, holding her. “Do you know how wonderful you are? Of course you don’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so wonderful. How did I know?” He took her face in his hands and leaned in close. “What did I see in that face?”

  “Stop,” she said, though his touch and his words fanned the embers of what she’d felt on stage. “All I did was sing a song.”

  “Oh no, my angel.” Roland took her hands. “You held them. Right here.” He kissed her fingers. “And you delivered them straight to Aimee. I knew all we needed was the perfect sweet, young girl.”

  She curled her fingers and tried to pull away. “I thought you cared about my song.”

  “Of course I did. And, darling, they loved it. They loved you.”

  “I’m not your darling.” She wrenched her hands away, picked up her case, and began to weave her way through the dark backstage maze, begging the pardon of the dozen or so people she bumped into. Sister Aimee’s voice became nothing more than distant, droning noise.

  What had she been thinking? What business did Dorothy Lynn Dunbar from Heron’s Nest have taking to the stage? Made such a fool—

  “Dorothy!”

  He’d followed her, and he grabbed her arm, twisting her to him as the guitar became entangled in a mass of ropes, much to the chagrin of the stagehand set to the task of straightening the mess out.

  “Dames back here,” the stagehand muttered, keeping a stub of cigar firmly gripped in the corner of his mouth. “Save the drama for the stage.”

  By the time he scuttled off, Dorothy Lynn felt calmer, if not more secure. She faced Roland, holding her guitar case between them like a shield. “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Forgive me. I get carried away.”

  She gripped the case tighter, unconvinced.

  “Why are you so upset? You sang so beautifully. You captured their hearts.”

  “It’s silly.”

  “I doubt that. You don’t seem like a silly girl.”

  “You don’t know what kind of girl I am. You don’t know me at all.”

  “Don’t I?” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and produced a cigarette. The same stagehand who had untangled Dorothy Lynn from the ropes appeared with a match, then ambled away again. “Let me take a crack at it. You’re a sweet girl from the sticks. Sat in the little church every Sunday watching your daddy preach nice, sweet sermons. One thou-shalt-not after another.”

  “I told you all of that,” she said. But not about the sermons.

  “But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You’ve got your own voice, don’t you?”

  “I don’t—”

  “You aren’t satisfied with that life.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You could be more. Have more.”

  “I don’t want more.”

  “Of course you do. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Her mind reached back to that long-ago scrap of paper where she’d written that very thing. The actual paper was still tucked away in her Bible back home. Somehow she’d never been able to bring herself to throw it away. It was like that with all her verses, no matter how complete or worthy. She kept them all, never knowing which one would grow into its own truth.

  “Your father never let you sing, did he?” Roland said. “And neither does this fiancé.” He picked a fleck of tobacco from his tongue. “And how ridiculous is it, to have a fiancé? Nobody gets engaged anymore.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you’re a fool.”

  Surrounded by the heavy blackness of everything that hides behind a stage, he looked like temptation itself. The tip of his cigarette glowed red, then went dark. His lips twisted in an enticing grin, and his eyes sparkled in onyx triumph.

  And yet it was not fear that held her feet to the floor. “I like to be truthful.”

  “You haven’t been deceitful.”

  “Not to you, maybe, or even to them, but to myself. That—” she gestured out toward the stage—“isn’t me.”

  “But you like how it felt.” It wasn’t a question, because he knew. So she didn’t answer. “Stay or go as you like, but don’t be angry because a stranger knows you better than people who’ve loved you all your life.”

  “I have to get out of here,” she said. Perhaps she didn’t like to be truthful after all.

  “Let’s go back to the dressing room. Maybe a cup of tea?”

  “No, home. I’ve been gone all day. I’m sure they’ll be worried.”

  “You can’t go home. We want you back out there for the altar call.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “We weren’t sure how well you would be received.” He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “But the audience loved you. And—” he pointed directly at her, cigarette clamped between his fingers—“as you like to be so truthful, you loved it too.”

  “We all have to go home sometime, Mr. Lundi,” she said. “And if I don’t go now, I’m afraid I’ll never want to again.”

  He said nothing, but dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it with a twist of an expensive-looking leather shoe. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a bundle of folded bills.

  “Sister Aimee said I wasn’t to get paid.”

  “I’m not paying you,” he said. “What’s your sister’s address?”

  Reluctantly, she mumbled the house number and street, after which Roland peeled two bills off the top. “It’s cab fare. Go to the ticket office and ask the gentleman there to hail one down for you. You shouldn’t be out alone on the streetcars at night.”

  He pressed the money into her hand, and she looked at it. Two dollars. She might not be a city girl, but even she knew that amount far exceeded the cost of a ride home. “It’s too much.”

  “Very well,” he said, and to her surprise, he took a dollar back and stuffed it in his pocket. “Good luck to you, Miss Dunbar. Tell the driver to keep the change.”

  As instructed, Dorothy Lynn handed the dollar bill over the seat to the eager hand of the cabbie.

  “You sure, lady?
” he said when it was clear that his tip exceeded the fare. “Gee, thanks.”

  “It’s not my money,” she said, and was out of the car before he could open the door for her.

  It was close to nine o’clock. She stood in the glow of the streetlight long after the black smoke of the cab’s exhaust had dissipated into the night air. The windows shone with welcoming lamplight, and no shouts or thumps could be heard through the open windows. The boys must be in bed.

  Her head had remained perfectly empty throughout the ride home. No echo of song or hint of new poetry had invaded her thoughts. In fact, no thoughts had invaded her thoughts. She had no plan of what she would say at the inevitable confrontation, and her final words with Roland remained trapped in the stale backstage air. From the theater to here, the cabbie had carried on a one-sided conversation about how Rogers Hornsby was destined to lead the Cardinals to the World Series.

  She might have stood out on that sidewalk forever if the front door itself hadn’t opened, bringing Roy out onto the porch.

  “That you, Dorothy Lynn?” He held a thick slice of white bread in one hand and brought the other up to his eyes, as if looking out across a great distance. “Has our prodigal returned?”

  She smiled, something she didn’t envision happening upon her return, and began the slow approach to the house. “She has.”

  “In a cab?”

  “Isn’t that what we prodigals do? Squander our money?”

  “As long as it wasn’t mine,” he said, holding the door open wider in welcome.

  Upon closer inspection, Dorothy Lynn could see that his hair, usually pomaded to perfection, was mussed, his shirt equally disheveled with its tail hanging out the back of his pants. He looked tired but happy, and the bread reminded her that she was starving. “I suppose I missed dinner.”

  He took a bite. “It was an artichoke nightmare. Might want to fry yourself an egg.”

  She nodded and went past him through the door. She was certain that Darlene had spent the evening filling his head with fears and accusations—premonitions and pleadings to go rescue her sister from the sinister goings-on at the theater. Yet he’d welcomed her home; she needed only make it up the steps to her borrowed room, shut the door, and let this entire day pass into the stuff of dreams and memories.