All for a Song (4 page)

Jessup, still dressed in his Sunday suit, smiled through the window of his shop as he opened the door. He was a tall man and thin, with a long, narrow nose that ended in a bulbous lump just above his stubbled lip. Smiling, he greeted each customer with a warm “Afternoon,” while standing a respectable distance from the jar on the countertop.

“Hello, Jessup.” Dorothy Lynn dropped in her dime and settled back against the counter with her elbows up on the varnished wood.

“You gonna call that sister of yours?”

“Yes, sir, if she don’t call me here first. It’s her turn, but you never know.”

“Not that I begrudge the business, but seems to me your pa should have put a telephone out at your own place, bein’ the preacher and all.”

“That’s just it.” Dorothy Lynn leaned forward and lowered her voice to guard her words from the few people gathered behind her. “Bad enough we get people on our doorstep day and night. Can you imagine if anyone could just pick up the phone and call? Pa always said he’d have to wear his waders to get through the gossip, how people are.”

Jessup touched the end of his nose and winked. “Ain’t easy bein’ a keeper of secrets. That machine in there makes spreadin’ stories easy as hot butter on bread. Not that I’m ever listenin’.”

Dorothy Lynn winked too. “Of course not. By the way, I know my brother has the number here, should he ever need to call. You’d tell me if he did?”

“Child, I’d keep the line open and run for you myself.”

“Thanks.”

In a move so sneaky she almost missed it, Jessup slid a Clark Bar across the counter and whispered, “For the walk home.”

She smiled a thanks so as not to call attention to the gift and turned her eyes toward the row of closed louvered doors. Intermittent conversation seeped through, punctuated with laughter and a few incredulous shouts. When a door finally opened, Mrs. Philbin—a middle-aged, pear-shaped woman—came out. No doubt she had spent the last ten minutes speaking with her worthless son who’d just been arrested for running moonshine in Virginia, as she kept her eyes downcast in a failing effort to hide her tears. From the corner of her eye, Dorothy Lynn noticed that Mrs. Philbin got a candy bar too.

Once inside, she pulled the door shut, sat on the narrow bench, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light provided only by the two-foot space between the top of the door and the ceiling. Lifting the earpiece, she tapped the receiver and said, “Long distance, please. St. Louis,” to the familiar voice of Mrs. Tully, one of Heron’s Nest’s three switchboard operators.

“Long distance. St. Louis,” Mrs. Tully repeated. “How are you doin’, Miss Dorothy Lynn?”

“Just fine.” But before she could say more, the line clicked, then hummed, and another woman’s voice came on.

“Number, please?”

“St. Louis, four-two-one-five.”

“Four-two-one-five, connecting.”

Another click, another hum, then a ring, and a young woman’s voice with the inevitable sound of screaming children in the background.

“Darlene!”

What followed was a muffled sound as Roy, Darlene’s slight, eager husband, received his orders to round up the boys and take them to the kitchen before Darlene’s attention fully returned.

“It’s early,” Darlene said against a new background of only slightly fuzzy silence.

“It’s past one.”

“We usually talk at two. We haven’t sat down to dinner here yet.”

Dorothy Lynn held the candy bar to her mouth, gripped the wrapper in her teeth, and tore it open. “I couldn’t wait to tell you.” She spat out the scrap of wrapper. “We announced the engagement this morning.”

“To the handsome young minister? He proposed three weeks ago.” Darlene, as always, seemed up for a scandal.

Dorothy Lynn rolled her eyes as she took the first bite of the crispy, chocolate-covered candy. Were this any day other than a busy Sunday, Mrs. Tully would no doubt be lingering on the line.

“We wanted—I wanted—to be sure, before we made it official. First to each other, then to our families, then the church.”

“And you’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”
Darlene’s mimicry sounded accusatory. “Why didn’t you spend the afternoon with your beau and let Ma call?” She could tell Darlene was battling between suspicion and concern.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why? It can’t be a problem with the man himself. He’s handsome as anything and tall and well-mannered. Just like Pa in every way.”

Dorothy Lynn had only the blank, dark wall of the telephone booth to stare at, but she could clearly picture her older sister, plump in her third pregnancy, sitting at the ornate telephone table nestled in the nook under her stairs. Right then, she knew, both sisters were leaning in, drawing closer to the flared tube that carried their voices, as if doing so could bring them closer to each other. She took another bite of the Clark Bar and spoke through her chewing.

“Getting married to him means I’m never going to leave this town.”

“Where were you planning to go?”

“I don’t know. Nowhere, I guess. I just thought . . . You got to move up to St. Louis, and who knows where Donny is. He’s probably been all over the world by now. And me? I get to move into that old, run-down parsonage behind the church.”

“Donny’s seeing the world because his britches are too big
to come home. And I’m in St. Louis because my husband is here. That’s my place. I had no idea you were struck with such wanderlust.”

“I’m not.” For reassurance, Dorothy Lynn sat up straight and gave her head a vigorous shake. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than my first case of pre-wedding jitters.”

Just then the comfortable, low buzz on the line played host to a faint click, and Dorothy Lynn knew the line had been opened to a third ear.

“Enough about all this,” she effused. “Ma told me to ask if you’re drinking enough milk.”

“Tell her I’m becoming a cow myself.”

“And the boys? They still growin’?”

“RJ can climb up to the cookie jar all by himself, and Darren has peeled the wallpaper off one half of the playroom.”

“And to think, there’s one more on the way. And Roy? How’s business?”

“Couldn’t be better. He’s thinkin’ he’ll be hiring another salesman. Hey, maybe if that
other situation
doesn’t come through, you can move up here and sell cars.”

They said their good-byes, and Dorothy Lynn returned the earpiece to its cradle. The last bit of the Clark Bar was more than an average bite, but she stuffed it all in and crumpled the wrapper in her hand. A local farmer in his Sunday overalls shuffled past her, eyes down, and closed the louvered door. Jessup maintained his place at the counter and tipped an invisible hat as she left, her cheeks full of candy.

The minute she stepped away from what was known as “town,” Dorothy Lynn slipped her shoes off in favor of the cool earth beneath her feet. She hooked the two straps over one finger, where they dangled as listless as her steps. The other hand held the unfinished verse of the poem she’d written during the church service. Boundaries and lines, fences and lots. Portions. Enough.

Tall trees encroached on the path toward home, swallowing up the town behind her. She knew the path by heart, of course, and memories called to her mind what her eyes couldn’t see. The large stone around the next bend. The tree that was split in half when lightning struck it last spring. When the birth of his second child had forced Pa to move from the single-bedroom parsonage, the parishioners had tried to get him to build a house in town, but he clung to what privacy his family could have.

My lot is a tiny clearing, nestled in the pine.

For Ma, it was enough, though she’d once lived in North Carolina, where she’d actually seen a horizon where water touched the sky.

If my portion were an ocean, would I be satisfied?

Her brother certainly hadn’t been. He’d crossed oceans on
ships and had even drunk wine on the streets of Paris, France. Heron’s Nest would never be enough for him. The way he sounded in his infrequent letters, no place yet was worthy to be his lot. For him, the world was an endless portion of adventure. His last postcard—Christmas, before Pa died—was from Seattle. How could it be that the Lord could be so generous with Donny, dole out his life with an open hand, and squeeze her and her inheritance in one tight fist?

She was humming to herself, mind locked on the question, when Brent stepped into her path—something she realized only when she bumped into him.

“You looked like you were a million miles away,” he said once she’d steadied herself.

“Nope. Just here.” She tapped the side of her head. “Thinkin’ about the sermon.”

“It was a good one, if I dare say so myself.”

“You dare.”

He sounded uncharacteristically nervous. She noted the large basket in his hand.

“Your mother packed us a picnic. I thought, if it’s all right with you, we could have some time together. Alone.”

“Didn’t we have time alone last night? Ma might get suspicious.”

“It . . . um . . . was your mother’s idea.”

Her feet seemed rooted to the ground at that moment, though she felt the urge to fly. As a compromise, she took the free arm Brent offered and charged him to lead on.

“Actually,” he said, “I was hoping you would lead me.”

“To?”

“To the place you told me about. Your fairy ring.”

He said it with such intimacy, such
ownership
—not of the
place, but of her, and the arm linked through hers both held her and compelled her to lead him.

“And I thought,” he said, as if picking up a thread of conversation, “you could bring your guitar.”

“My guitar?”

Speaking the same word right after him, Dorothy Lynn noticed the difference in their speech—almost a reversal of syllables. He must have noticed it too, because he smiled, leaned into her, and said, “Yes, your
git-
tar,” in such a way as to join them together in the word.

“It’s at the house,” she said, giggling.

“No.” He handed the basket to her and, with a mischievous air, ran ahead and stepped off the path, where he reached behind an impressive pine and produced her guitar, holding it triumphantly by the neck.

Dorothy Lynn’s toes curled into the moist earth. “You set it on the ground?”

He looked stricken. “Just for a few minutes. I wanted to surprise you.”

She reached and took it from him, trading the basket. “It’ll warp.” She ran her hand along the familiar curve of the wood. “That can ruin the sound.”

“It wasn’t long, I promise. I held it the whole time I waited for you. I didn’t set it down until I heard you coming.”

As far as she knew, the only other person who had ever even touched her guitar was Donny, and she felt a surge of protection not only for it, but for her music. Her path. Her portion. “I told you I never shared my songs with anybody.”

He resumed walking, and she fell into step beside him.

“I noticed you were writing during the sermon.”

“Not the sermon; the psalm. There’s a difference.”

He granted her that. “And I heard you humming as you came up the path. Is it a song?”

“Not yet. I have to think on it.”

By the time they reached what Dorothy Lynn had come to know as
her
clearing, their conversation was equal parts laughter and words, with moments of breathlessness in between.

“If Pa had known you were such a jokester, Brent Logan, he’d never have let you set one foot behind his pulpit.”

“I wish I could have heard him in his prime.”

“He was so good. So powerful, like his very words were keepin’ us held to our seats. I used to love it when he’d let me come up and recite a verse of Scripture, seein’ all those faces. Kind of turned my stomach. . . .” Her voice trailed off, remembering.

“It’s not an easy thing to do. But your father had a gift, and I like to think I have a calling. I can only hope God will equip me to be worthy of that legacy.”

Dorothy Lynn leapt to restore his confidence. “Oh, Pa might have only heard you preach a few times—and he was mighty sick at that—but I heard him tell Ma more than once that he thought you were a fine preacher.”

“I take that as the highest compliment.”

“You ought to, since I think he concerned himself more with handin’ over his flock than handin’ over his daughter.” Then she swung her arms wide. “We’re here.”

They’d stepped into a nearly perfect circle of soft, green grass under an expanse of cloudless blue sky. Large, rounded stones sat in groups of three or four, as if arranged for a formal parlor rather than a simple clearing in the Ozark Mountains.

“It does seem magical,” he said, twisting his head to take it all in.

“This is my lot,” Dorothy Lynn whispered. “Take your shoes off.”

“Are you saying it’s holy?”

“No, just inviting. God made the grass the softest carpet here. Seems a shame not to take every advantage of it.”

He did. After taking the folded blanket from the top of the basket and sending it wafting to the ground, he sat right down and removed his shoes, socks, and garters and rolled the cuffs of his pants up for good measure.