All for a Song (15 page)

When she looked back on her childhood, she looked into her future. This very moment stood in marked isolation. A hinge. A turning point. Her own little portion. And the appetite to taste it grew within.

Darlene patted Dorothy Lynn’s arm and focused on carefully folding the unfinished dress. “Think I’ll wait to start sewing tomorrow. I’d just have time to get started, and it’d be time to fix dinner. That all right with you, Dot?”

But the last of her words were lost as Dorothy Lynn walked up the kitchen stairs to the boys’ room, where her newly strung guitar stood in the corner, surrounded by a toy mile of train tracks. She picked it up, along with her purse, and quietly walked down the carpeted front steps and out the front door.

Her cup awaited.

She had no idea where to go but to the theater, and her first step into the gaping, silent lobby made her feel like the embodiment of the fool Darlene thought her to be. The only light came through the open door, and the only sound from the buzzing of an electric sweeper in the hand of a tall, tired man who seemed unwilling to lift his eyes from its repetitive path.

She tried repeating “Excuse me?” at varying volumes, but if he did hear her above the machine’s din, he gave no indication. Waving her arm to catch his eye proved equally fruitless, and it wasn’t until she moved directly into the sweeper’s path that he even looked up, and then not until the machine had tapped the toe of her sturdy brown shoe.

“Whaddya want?” Not only did he not turn off the machine; he continued to maneuver it in a narrow arc around her feet.

“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, Lundi.” 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.”