All for a Song Page 6

  Women and weddings. Of course.

  This wedding was to be nothing like the last one. Darlene had worn their mother’s dress; Dorothy Lynn’s was only an idea—a sketch on newsprint, not meant for her at all. On Darlene’s big day, half of the Heron’s Nest church was bursting with the groom’s family, who’d made the trip from St. Louis, and they’d mingled with the natives for a festive afternoon of music and dancing and tables full of food. Brent’s parents were both dead. He’d have no relations coming to witness the joining of their lives. Their reception would be nothing more than a Saturday version of a run-of-the-mill after-church fellowship, giving more an excuse not to attend. Darlene had walked the aisle with their father, who had then stepped to the front of the church to perform the ceremony. Donny had been standing as a witness next to a nervous, fidgeting Roy. Neither would be there for Dorothy Lynn. Rusty Keyes would officiate, but there was no one to give her away.

  Not that she’d be taken anywhere.

  The tears started anew.

  “Oh, Lord . . .” She wiped her face with the back of her hand, swung herself out of bed, and began to pace the room. “Forgive this foolishness.”

  It would be easier if she didn’t love him, but it took only the thought of Brent, his strength and his warmth, to stop her in her steps. She wrapped herself in her own arms, feeling his embrace, and felt her breath once again become even and smooth.

  It was Ma who first suggested they ask Darlene—chic, fashionable Darlene—to make her wedding dress. It was Brent who recognized her longing to tuck her private life to herself and get away.

  “Go see your sister,” he’d said one oppressive Sunday afternoon as they lay head-to-head in the forest clearing. It had become a regular custom to walk there, to get away from the prying eyes of the town and the prattling plans of her mother. “Spend some time with her, just in case she can’t make it to the wedding.”

  “You’re not worried that I won’t make it to the wedding?”

  “Should I be? Do you think you might forget?”

  She’d rolled herself over, propped herself on her elbows, and looked straight down into his eyes.

  “Of course not. It’s my birthday. A girl never forgets her birthday. Maybe I’ll have two cakes.”

  A piercing pain snatched her from her reverie. She lifted her bare foot to reveal a small toy soldier wielding a tiny rifle in defense. Mindless of the ruckus it might be creating downstairs, she hopped back to the bed, where she sat down to rub the throbbing instep. As she did, she realized her tears were gone, having disappeared in the midst of her memory. Pity had disguised itself as fear.

  Raising her eyes to the ceiling from which model fighter planes flew in constant battle, she thanked God for the distraction.

  Wincing with pain, she gingerly put a bit of weight on the veteran foot and reached for her guitar, propped against the iron footboard. She cradled it in her lap and strummed it lightly, cringing at the sound. A bouncing five-hour bus ride followed by the handling of two boisterous boys had done nothing for its tuning. She rummaged in her bag for her tuning pipe and played an A, tightening the string until the guitar and the pipe were married in tune before going to the next.

  Oh, Lord, be the captor of my tears. She strummed, trying to match the chords to her prayer. Oh, Lord, be the conqueror of my fears.

  She reached down for the magazine, flipped through, found a page near the back devoted to infants’ christening gowns, and ripped it out. Then, with a grubby stub of pencil fished from underneath the bed, she scribbled in the white spaces surrounding the chubby, well-dressed infants.

  Downstairs, the boys were complaining loudly about their dinner, and it seemed no adult at the table had the power to soothe them. Her stomach rumbled behind the guitar, but the idea of joining them at the table seemed as repulsive as the menu.

  Lord, be the conqueror of my fears.

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes until the world became nothing but her words and her music. As she held still, a familiar song worked its way into both her fingers and her voice.

  What have I to dread? What have I to fear?

  Leaning on the everlasting arms . . .

  Dorothy Lynn closed her eyes and gave in to the chorus, “Leaning . . .” only to hear a second voice in an echoing alto join hers. They’d sung together before—with Ma joining them—on rare Sunday evenings at Heron’s Nest First Christian Church. She kept singing, without missing a note, but turned her head to where her sister’s unmistakable form had entered the darkening room.

  “Beautiful as ever,” Darlene said.

  “Sounds better when you’re singing with me.” She played on.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Darlene walked in, carrying a plate covered with a linen napkin. She was wearing an apron over her dress. “Don’t worry—no beet soup.” She cleared away an army of tiny tin soldiers on the desk between the beds.

  “I think I killed a deserter,” Dorothy Lynn said. “Or he killed me.”

  “Sorry. With children you have to learn to look down when you walk—not that I can see my feet.” She spoke with lightness, but when she turned around, Dorothy Lynn noticed for the first time a hint of pure exhaustion on her sister’s face. She might have been quick to blame the light for the cast of her complexion, but the way she brought her hands around to brace her back announced fatigue beyond measure. She plopped herself on the opposite bed and kicked the shoes off her swollen feet before taking a large gulp of what was left of the water the boys had brought up earlier. “You know, when you play, you sound just like Donny.”

  Dorothy Lynn played a few more chords, bringing the song to a conclusion. “I can barely remember.”

  “You were young, always out in the woods, scribblin’ in that notebook.”

  Dorothy Lynn smiled at the laziness that had returned to her sister’s speech. “I’ll bet Pa would’ve let him play in church. And lead the singin’, too.”

  “He never let you? Play, I mean. Of course you couldn’t lead.”

  “Just for the children—spring and summer Sunday school, outside in the yard. Brent’s the same, but he says once we’re married and he can have proper say, he’ll let me sing on Sunday mornings. I wish Pa could’ve heard me.” She truly hadn’t intended the last statement to carry so much resentment.

  “It’s a woman’s place, Dot. Where her father says, then her husband.”

  “Our father told you to stay put in Heron’s Nest.”

  “But then I fell in love with a traveling salesman from St. Louis.”

  “Were you scared?”

  Darlene moved over to sit beside her. Dorothy Lynn set the guitar on the floor and leaned into her sister’s comforting embrace.

  “Is that what happened earlier?” Darlene asked. “You felt scared? There’s nothing to be frightened of, Dot. Mother says Brent is a wonderful man, and I know he’ll take good care of you.”

  “That’s not it.” Everything Dorothy Lynn longed to say sat in a jumbled pile in the pit of her stomach.

  “Is it . . .” Darlene hesitated. “Is it the wedding night? Because—”

  “No!” Dorothy Lynn interrupted, sparing her sister the embarrassment. She and Brent had shared enough kisses and passionate embraces to leave her more eager than anxious to experience more.

  Darlene pulled away. “Then what is it? You do love him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” It was the first time anybody had asked her that question. “It just seems, sometimes, like it’s happening too fast.”

  “Seven weeks is plenty of time—”

  “All of it. Pa gets sick, and one night Ma brings the new pastor to dinner, and it seems the next we’re engaged. And now . . . it’s all decided for me. Where I’m going to live and who I’m going to be, without ever having a minute to live a life of my own.”

  “Pre-wedding jitters, that’s all.”

  Of course. Hadn’t she come to the same conclusion just moments ago? And here she was again, not knowi
ng whether her fears or her faith would win out.

  “I know just the thing to cheer you up. Why don’t we leave Roy to take care of the boys, and you and I can go to the pictures?”

  “You know Ma don’t like us goin’ to the movies.”

  “And we might not go if she was here. But she’s not. And if she ever asks what we’ve done to entertain ourselves, we’ll say we went for a walk. Which we will—to the theater.”

  “I don’t think Brent likes them either.”

  “Well, you don’t have to obey him . . . yet.”

  Dorothy Lynn felt a spark of intrigue at the thought of a rebellion, even one this small.

  “C’mon, Dot. The theater’s air-conditioned. And it’ll give us a chance to talk more along the way.”

  “All right,” she said, as if talked into a great sacrifice.

  “Wonderful!” Darlene got up from the bed only when Dorothy Lynn herself had stood and was able to pull her up. “And don’t worry. I’ll loan you one of my dresses so you’ll have something decent to wear.”

  They left just after eight o’clock, after it had turned full dark. Darlene had applied fresh powder and lipstick, but it was Dorothy Lynn who felt truly transformed. Darlene had brushed and brushed Dorothy Lynn’s hair, smoothing it at the crown and pinning it in loose coils all around the nape of her neck. She wore a dress of pale-green cotton jersey that felt as cool and light as water against her skin—and a hat that looked somewhat like a mixing bowl turned upside down on her head. And for her feet, the most delicate pair of shoes she’d ever worn, made of soft leather the color of oatmeal, with two thin straps crisscrossed over the top of each foot.

  “Well, look at you.” Darlene spoke in a reverent half whisper.

  “I can’t believe how comfortable the shoes are,” Dorothy Lynn said. She’d fully expected to break her neck coming down the stairs.

  Roy was in the front room battling an oscillating fan to read his evening paper. He barely acknowledged Darlene’s good-bye, much less the kiss she blew to him.

  “He don’t mind?” Dorothy Lynn asked as she opened the front door.

  “Goodness, no. He hates the movies, unless it’s Buster Keaton.”

  It was a short walk to the nearest streetcar. Darlene dropped two nickels in before Dorothy Lynn could open her purse.

  There was an empty seat three rows back, and Dorothy Lynn slid in first, eager to be near the open window to catch the breeze and watch the city fly by. “I think I would like the city.”

  “I think it would break Ma’s heart if you moved away. No wonder she’s so thrilled about you marrying the preacher.”

  “That’s the way it feels,” she said, softly enough that her words were carried on the wind.

  The car dropped them off three blocks away from the theater, and from the way the crowd reacted, everybody on board was going to the pictures. They moved in one mass, with the sisters caught up in the wave at first, but Darlene was in no shape to keep up, and soon they’d fallen behind.

  “We’ve plenty of time,” Darlene reassured.

  “Oh, I’m not worried a mite.” In fact, she was glad to have the chance to take in the sights. The entire population of Heron’s Nest would fit in this single stretch of street—ten times over. Her mind raced to take in all the faces bathed in the light coming from the flashing signs atop all the buildings.

  “I wanted to show you something.” Darlene sounded slightly winded, so Dorothy Lynn slowed her steps as her sister retrieved a postcard from her purse. “I just got it last week.”

  “From Donny?”

  “Yes. I didn’t say anything earlier because you seemed upset. And I guess he hasn’t written to Ma, or you’d have mentioned it.”

  They stopped under a streetlight.

  “Where’s it from?”

  “California. Culver City. It’s where they make the movies.”

  “What happened to Seattle?”

  Darlene shrugged. “Beats me. What happened to New York, or Memphis, or any of those places?”

  The image on the front of the card didn’t look like anything special. A wide boulevard against a bright-pink sky. Dorothy Lynn flipped to the back to read the inevitably short message.

  Making seenery for movies. Good stedy work and beutiful girls. Never hot. Never cold. Tell Ma not to worry, I found heaven.

  Don

  She read it three times over, looking for more. “Still can’t spell,” she said, bathing her comment in affection.

  “School never was a strength.”

  “When’s the last time he telephoned?”

  Darlene thought. “Almost a year. Before we knew Pa was as sick as he was.”

  “And there’s no way to contact him, I guess.” She handed the postcard back to Darlene, who snapped it away.

  “No. But as soon as I got this, I sent a letter to general delivery telling him about the wedding. And the baby. Who knows?”

  “What about Pa? You didn’t tell him?”

  “Bad news is better in person.”

  An explosion of light caught Dorothy Lynn’s eye, and she looked up to see red, yellow, and orange rays bursting from a neon star. The words New Grand Central shone in green above a set of double doors. She was making her way to join the people pouring into them when Darlene stopped her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Isn’t this the theater?”

  “Oh, that’s the old one. We have a new one that just opened up last year.” She pointed down the street to the corner, where a sign big enough to dwarf the Grand Central’s spelled Missouri in enormous, white-lit, descending block letters.

  “So what’s happening in here?”

  The sisters stepped back to read the marquee above the door.

  “Who’s Sister Aimee?”

  Darlene wrinkled her nose. “Oh, her. Aimee Semple McPherson. She’s a preacher.”

  “She’s a preacher?” The very idea lodged in Dorothy Lynn’s mind like a foot in an ill-fitting shoe.

  “Roy thinks she’s insane, but I’ve never given her much thought at all. She came through town a few years ago, driving a car with a sign about Jesus coming soon. Striking the fear of God in people.”

  “Really?” The first notes of a familiar hymn, performed by what sounded like a full orchestra, drifted through the open door. “Can we go in and listen?”

  Darlene grabbed her arm and compelled her toward the looming Missouri. “Not when we’re half a block away from Rudolph Valentino.” Her voice dropped to something warm and throaty. “Come, my sister. The Young Rajah awaits.”

  Giggling like girls, they locked arms and made their way down the street, indulging in breathless banter about the dreamy eyes of the movie’s star. They stopped briefly at a street vendor’s cart and purchased two chocolate bars and a small sack of licorice pieces, which Darlene stashed in her purse.

  Once they reached the doors of the Missouri Theater, Dorothy Lynn was grateful for her sister’s insistence. Not only did she have the opportunity to see the face of Rudolph Valentino displayed on a poster large enough to dominate the massive doorway, she also felt a blast of cold air the minute she walked inside.

  “Oh my,” she said, wishing she could go outside and walk in again.

  “They call it Pike’s Peak,” Darlene said, handing over the stub of a ticket. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

  “It’s like nothin’ I’ve ever seen—or felt—before.”

  Her feet were sinking into the carpet like it was a soft, lush mud. Massive columns held up a rounded ceiling; gaping fireplaces sat cool and dark and empty in the recesses. Tall trees and leafy green plants grew under an artist’s sky while young couples canoodled on round red velvet sofas.

  Dorothy Lynn was sure her eyes were about as round as walnuts as she tried to take it all in.

  “Just wait,” Darlene said.

  Another set of massive double doors, and what was left of Dorothy Lynn’s breath was stolen by the icy fingers of refrigerated air.


  A sea of seats.

  True, she’d never actually seen a sea, but no other word would do. Thousands of them, one rolling row after another flowing down a gentle slope. The seats toward the front were dotted with people; their soft murmuring underscored the strains of the tuning orchestra. From here they seemed a world away, and before she knew it, so did Darlene. Dorothy Lynn concentrated on walking downhill in heels, ignoring for the time being the lush surroundings, focusing on her sister’s rounded figure under the swaying green skirt.

  Minutes later she was enveloped in black velvet, the cushion beneath her more comfortable than any chair her behind had ever known. The lush fabric caressed the backs of her bare arms, and she wondered if Brent would ever consider letting her furnish their future home in theater seats.

  “I’d come here every night if I could,” Darlene said. “I’ve sat through some of the most awful films just to get away from those boys and the heat.”

  “I can imagine.” Dorothy Lynn could feel the sheen of sweat on the back of her neck being lifted and cooled, and she took off her hat, sighing with pleasure at the icy touch to her brow.

  “Put that back on. Do you want everyone to see what a bumpkin you are?”

  Dorothy Lynn felt too happy to be hurt by the words. “I don’t care what they think. Besides, nobody’s lookin’ at me anyway.”

  “Well, they might.” Still, Darlene took off her hat too, and fluffed her fingers through her flattened curls.

  For the next few minutes they chatted—bits of news from Heron’s Nest about people Darlene had long since forgotten and amusing people in St. Louis that Dorothy Lynn had never met. Intermittently, they contorted themselves in their seats to allow someone or another to pass by.

  The noise grew with the crowd, and when Darlene excused herself to visit the powder room, Dorothy Lynn allowed her eyes to wander. The sea of seats had crested with waves of faces. They turned to one another in conversation or faced stoically forward, eyes trained on the empty, looming screen. Nobody looked at her. Maybe if she stood up and shouted, or engaged in some crazy antic, she might have garnered some attention, but simply sitting there quietly, she might not even be there at all. Never in all her hours of solitude in her clearing in the woods back home had she felt so alone. There among the trees of his creation, she could feel the eyes of God holding her like an embrace, his breath in the cool breeze, his voice in the silence.