All for a Song (35 page)

“I have.” She wanted to reach out for him but thought better. “Not that there’s anything for me to forgive. I can’t very well ask God to forgive me if I’m placing my sin on you.”

“So instead you’re punishing yourself. You can’t erase what happened, so you’re trying to bury the evidence.”

“I told you I just wanted Donny to recognize me.”

“He’s not the same kid that ran away from the forest, and neither are you. You want to start your reunion with a lie?”

“It’s not a lie.”

“Isn’t it?” He took a cigarette from his breast pocket, held it—unlit—between his first two fingers, and pointed at her with it. “How do you feel in that getup?”

“Comfortable,” she said too quickly for it to be anything other than defensive. “Familiar.”

His continued scrutiny, however, even behind the eventual cloud of smoke, brought her to truth. Even apart from the fact that the sleeves landed just above her wrists, she knew she’d outgrown the dress. The shoes felt heavy, the stockings itchy in their woolliness.

“You see?” Roland said, without the lash of condescension. “Now, put on something nice, fix your hair, and meet me at the car in thirty minutes. And bring the guitar.”

“My guitar?” Her head reeled at how quickly he could change his tack between puffs on a cigarette.

He tossed the red dress inside, where it landed on the corner of the foot of the bed. “I’m hoping to wrangle one more favor out of you before you disappear.”

She found him waiting in the car with a white paper bag and a large round box. The bag held an array of sugar-dusted doughnuts—still warm—from the bakery around the corner. The box, a stylish crushed-velvet hat—a perfect complement to the peach-colored chiffon blouse and modest brown skirt she’d opted to wear.

“Wonderful!” she said, settling into her seat. “How did you know?”

“That you’d be hungry?”

“About the hat.” She pulled it down on her head before diving eagerly into the bag.

“I’m always a step ahead of you, baby. Thought you’d know that by this time.”

The city had a crisp, clean feel this morning—like it had been scrubbed with the salt on the breeze. They drove in silence, hers fueled by nerves and pastry; his nothing more than his usual unflappable demeanor. Finally, as he brought the car to a stop at a square brick building on a street with only two other structures in view, she asked, “Where are we?”

He was already out of the car, lifting her guitar from the backseat. “I told you I had one more favor to ask.”

“And yet you haven’t asked me anything.” She intended to stay in her seat, but he was opening the short iron gate at the front of the property, ready to disappear with her single prized possession. Frustrated, she followed.

“Is this the studio? Is this where Donny works?”

“Yes. And no.”

“What does that mean?”

“Yes, it’s a studio. And no, it isn’t your brother’s.”

They’d arrived at a tall, arched door with a sign instructing all who stood there not to knock or ring the bell if the light
above it was on. Their heads moved in unison to look at the red bulb, and upon finding it dark, Roland bypassed any knocking or ringing entirely, grabbed the handle, and walked inside, saying, “You’ll see.”

They were in a small room, bare save for a few photographs and wooden benches along three of the walls, and a desk where a telephone stood in a sea of scattered papers.

“It’s not much,” he said with a modest swoop of his arms, “but it’s ours for the next couple of hours.”

“For what, exactly?”

“To make a record, like we talked about.”

She folded her arms and risked leaning against the wall, despite its dubious film. “When did we talk about this?”

“Okay, I’ve talked about it. Sometimes with you, sometimes not. But after looking around, I wish we could do this in Chicago. With all that jazz, they’ve got great studios in that town.”

“Roland, I don’t want to make a record.”

“Why not?”

She wasn’t expecting that question, and she didn’t have an answer. “Why should I?”

“Leave me something, Dorothy.” He said it like she owed him, like she bore some responsibility for bringing him to this sad, dingy place. But if she allowed herself to look beyond his carefully crafted edges, she saw something more than an obligation. Like he was asking for a memento of what they’d built together.

“What would you do with it?”

“You mean besides listen to it every night, dreaming of what you could have been?”

She made a playful grab for her guitar, but he snatched it away, holding the case at the neck like a hostage.

“I don’t want to make a record, Mr. Lundi.” She aimed for more insistence.

“Listen. Sister Aimee’s going into radio. Her own license. Sure, mostly to broadcast her own sermons, but who’s to say? People loved your song.”

“So get someone else to sing it.”

“Nobody sings it like you, sweetheart. Just come take a look.” He opened a door next to a large curtain-covered window and, after a quick peek inside, motioned for Dorothy Lynn to follow.

“Is anyone else here?” she called before budging. Not that she was worried about being alone with Roland, but it seemed like there ought to be somebody in charge.

“Not yet.” His voice sounded both distant and muffled. “I thought you might need some convincing, so I told Freddy to give us a few minutes. Come in here.”

The longer she waited, the less choice she seemed to have, and she took a few tentative steps that quickened at his encouragement.

The dark, colorless room they’d first entered had done nothing to prepare her for what was on the other side. Her steps slowed again out of sheer awe. Here the ceiling was twice as high as in the outer office, and everything was painted a perfect, pristine white. Half of the floor was a series of three wide steps, the top one filled with neatly stacked chairs. Music stands were scattered about, and a massive piano—not as beautiful as the one in the Alexandria lobby, but somehow more authoritative—seemed to be holding court over all.

“Don’t let any of this intimidate you.” At some point, as she’d turned in a slow circle, taking everything in, Roland had come up behind her, and his whisper seemed little more than spoken breath in this big room. Her fingers were folded around
the handle of her guitar case as he relinquished it to her, saying, “This is all you need.”

He procured a high-backed stool and brought it to a place where a long, horn-shaped object protruded from an ominous-looking black curtain.

“Like you’ve always done, Dorothy. You just sit down, close your eyes, and sing. Right in here. The magic happens in the office back there.”

“I sing for Jesus, whether I’m alone or in front of people who want to sing with me. I can’t sing into a tube.”

“You write your songs down, don’t you? In that ratty little notebook.”

“Yes.” In fact, it was nestled in with the guitar at that very moment.

“This is nothing more than another way to write them down. To capture the words and the music all at once.”

“I know what a record
is
. But I’d feel silly singing here, like this.”

“I remember a time when you couldn’t imagine yourself singing in front of an audience. And you managed to overcome that all right.”

She smiled, warm with the memory of the lights and the voices raised in song alongside hers. “I felt the Lord with me then.” The Lord, and Roland waiting in the wings.

“And he can’t be with you here?”

At that moment the curtain covering the window on the office side slid open, startling both of them with the appearance of a lean, tired-looking man with a cigar the width of a lumberjack’s thumb wedged into the corner of his mouth.

“Ah,” Dorothy Lynn said. “Now
that’s
inspiring.”

“That’s Freddy,” Roland said. “Wait right here.”

Left alone, she wandered over to the piano and, feeling bold, took a seat on the well-worn wooden bench. Sheets of music stood on the upraised rack. She ran her fingers across the pages. Mozart, then something called “Oh, How He Done Me Wrong,” then something else that was nothing more than a few notes scribbled on the staffs in pencil, titled “Blooms in the Spring.” More music graced the stand beside her, large sheets with covers featuring droopy women or couples engaged in desperate embrace. She browsed through lyrics, finding some that wrapped her up in longing for home and all it offered—her mother, soft forest floors, Brent’s strong embrace and all that it promised. Others were silly or tragic, but all of them once had been a tune in somebody’s head, notes scribbled down. They’d all been brought here and committed to a recording. They could last forever, while hers would disappear.

Looking through the window in the wall, she saw the men engaged in conversation. Good-natured, it seemed, with a few glances thrown her way. Roland’s eyes wrapped her in affection, while Freddy seemed unimpressed. Finally, Roland took his wallet from his pocket and extracted a few bills, which Freddy pocketed without counting. Apparently, she’d been bought.

Roland walked back in, rubbing his hands together. “What do you think, sweetheart?”

She tapped her finger on the piano key, making a tiny, unintentional sound. “Looks like you’ve already decided.”

“I need to pay for the time, no matter what we do. If you don’t want to record your songs, maybe I’ll just recite ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ for an hour. Send it to my kids.”

“I’m sure they miss your voice.”

He held up a warning finger. “I don’t talk about them, remember?”

“You brought them up.”

“I forget sometimes.” He blinked, twice. “Now, what do you say?”

She twisted on the bench. “I owe you so much, Roland.”

He took her hands in his and lifted her to her feet. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Really? All the clothes? And the hotel? And finding Donny?”

“And to think. All for a song.”

He still held her hands, and her gaze, and her brother, and though his eyes and smile were warm, she had the sense that none would be released without ransom.

“What do I have to do?” She could tell he was pleased, though he offered only the slightest squeeze of her hands to show it.

“Just what I told you.” He released her to reposition the stool, scooting it here and there according to Freddy’s silent direction from the other side of the window. “Sit here—” he patted the seat—“take up your guitar, and sing for me.”

The next sound was the click of the latches on her guitar case. She took the instrument out and put the new hat in its place. Because the seat was higher than she anticipated, Roland offered his shoulder to steady her ascent, leaving her feeling a bit marooned when he stepped away.

“No hurry,” he said. “One hour, one song. Take your time.”

Freddy seemed engaged in whatever role he played in this process, and with minimal jostling, Roland turned the chair to take him out of her line of sight.

New, unfamiliar fears gathered within her. Perhaps not entirely unfamiliar. She’d felt the same way when she sang for Roland in the Strawn Brothers Music Store. And when she sang for Sister Aimee in her dressing room. And when she first faced an audience in that darkness beyond the light. Every time, at
every turn, there was Roland. The last voice she heard before her own, the first face she saw upon opening her eyes. Why, then, should this be any different?

She hummed a few bars of the song she’d sung hundreds of times since that first afternoon when it was nothing more than a rattling nuisance, then brought her guitar in tune. “How does that sound?” She trusted his ear more than her own.

For an answer, Roland looked past her to Freddy and nodded.

She stared into the mouth of the horn, thinking it looked somewhat like a big telephone. She could imagine she was singing to Brent, though he’d refused to talk to her, or to her mother, despite how strongly she would disapprove of the whole process.

But when she thought about who she was at this moment, what she’d become—and what Christ had forgiven—she knew what she’d said to Roland moments before was true. She’d sing for Jesus, recording on wax the message he’d given her the way so many men had recorded such in books and paper and scrolls. “When do I start?”

Another silent consultation through the window, and then a simple, short nod of Roland’s head.

She closed her eyes as her fingers found the opening chords, filling the biggest silence she’d ever known. The room was big enough to be a forest and a stage all at once.

Jesus is coming!

Are you ready

to meet your Savior in the sky?

As she sang, the lyrics grew in meaning. She
was
ready. She’d seen what the world had to offer, had a taste of sin and redemption. There was nothing here that she couldn’t leave behind.
Brent and her mother, even. She’d left them both once before, after all, and they’d be joining her. Purified, cleansed, and only nineteen, she could list accomplishments she’d never known to dream about in her childhood. Were Jesus to take her this very minute, she could stand before him unashamed.