All for a Song (16 page)

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, Dorothy 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.”

“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.