Sing for Me (11 page)

SEVEN

I
t’s nearly five o’clock on Tuesday evening when I finish cleaning stairways and foyers; nearly six when I’m finally home. Rob will pick me up in less than half an hour. “That’s my girl!” he declared when, after much thought, I called him yesterday to say I’d like to go to the audition. “Not that I’m auditioning,” I told him (and myself). “There will be plenty of other singers for the Chess Men to choose from. I’m just going to listen—and if by any chance no one else shows up, well, then maybe I’ll help out. Maybe. Just until they find the right person. I don’t want them to lose their chance to perform.”

Rob snickered at that. Snickered! “Right,” he said. “Your motives are pure. I understand, Rose.” I managed to ignore his knowing tone.

Now I need to freshen up fast. But first I must make some kind of excuse to Mother. The truth is impossible.

I find her in the kitchen. She gives me a frantic look and gestures expansively at the bags of flour, sugar, and cinnamon, the brick of butter, the bottle of oil, the mixing bowls spread across the table, the baking pan resting on the stove.

“It might as well be Christmas! We’re having
brunsviger
!” Mother exclaims. “When I saw Nils at the National Tea today, we started talking about good food—Danish food. I asked him if he likes brunsviger as much as we do, and next thing I knew he’d purchased the ingredients for me, and next thing after that, I’d invited him over for dessert. He said he was tickled pink at the thought of brunsviger, which I think, Rose, is really the thought of you.”

“Mother!” I imagine Nils, collecting and paying for things that are by no means staples, things that are in fact rare treats these days. I imagine him handing these things to Mother with a shy duck of his head, that shock of hair falling into his eyes.

If it were any other night but tonight.

Mother smiles at me. “Nils is generous. Quite the fellow. Now”—she flaps her hands—“go clean up, then bring Sophy back with you. You know how she loves to help. Hurry, Rose! He’ll be here shortly.”

“I have other plans—”

But I don’t get the chance to finish. Mother darts at me. “Change them! I’ve already told your father. He’s on his way home.” She turns me right around and pushes me down the hall to the bedroom, where Sophy sits in her chair by the window. Then, like that, Mother’s gone. I can hear her in the kitchen, unwrapping the wax paper from the precious brick of butter.

Sophy gives me a bright-eyed, questioning look. “Hurt?”

I look down. I’m clutching my chest. Mother’s strong-arming left me breathless, and now that I’m breathing again, my heart does ache. No wonder. My heart’s divided. The thought of a night with Nils is comforting. It would be so easy to stay here with him. We are easy together. Nils and I like the same,
delicious food. We share many of the same memories. What are Theo’s memories? What kind of food does he like? And how have I become a person who sneaks around, doing things she’s been raised not to do, enjoying—no, embracing—things she’s been raised to reject?

I tell Sophy that I’ll be right back. I go to the telephone that rests on the little table in the hallway. I dial Rob’s number.

When my cousin realizes it’s me calling, he interrupts my hello to say he’s on his way out the door.

“I can’t go.” Quickly, I tell him what’s happened. And then: “Dad will be here any minute.”

That’s all I needed to say. Rob doesn’t respond, but I know he understands.

“Well.” I put my hand to my chest. My heart aches again. “Mother needs my help now.”

Rob says, “I’ll be by at our usual time.”

I blink. “Our
usual
time?”

“Like last time. Late, after everyone else has hit the sack. So you can’t take advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to audition with one of the best up-and-coming groups in town. Calliope’s will still be there. We can at least enjoy the music.”

From the kitchen, Mother yells my name. She is not the yelling type.

“I’ll be outside your place at eleven o’clock. I’ll wait for ten minutes. If you haven’t climbed down that fire escape by that time, I’m going to knock on your door and wake your parents up. We’ll see what happens then.”

“That’s blackmail!”

“See you soon.”

He hangs up the receiver. I stand in the hallway, considering Rob’s threat. My mad, maddening cousin. But then again, he’s right, isn’t he? I have a choice. I don’t have to call the whole thing off. Just part of it. And if Mother and Dad don’t know that I sometimes listen to that music in a place like Calliope’s—well, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Will it?

I set the receiver back into its cradle, go to the bedroom, freshen up fast, then carry Sophy into the kitchen and settle her as comfortably and securely as possible into her child-sized wheelchair.

“The topping, please. Get to it, sweetheart.” Mother, kneading the brunsviger’s thick, doughy batter, nods at the necessary ingredients. I start mixing cinnamon into brown sugar, and next thing I know, I’m thinking of Theo—his hands holding a remnant of my childhood, the rose-patterned rag, the contrast between the faded pink-and-white cloth and his beautiful dark skin. Applying the whisk in smooth strokes, I remember the curve of Theo’s back as he bowed over the radiators. He took off his suit jacket and tie, working, and beneath his neatly pressed shirt, I saw the shape of his ribs, his shoulders. He rolled up his sleeves, and I saw his arms, the muscles there. When he turned and caught my eye, he blushed again. His high color, his sweet confusion, his eyes . . . I am remembering all this. If I let myself, I’ll remember more.

“Hurry!” Sophie says.

Blinking, I look up at her. She frowns, impatient with the way I’m dawdling, whisk in hand.

“He’ll be here soon.” Mother cracks the oven door and checks the temperature.

Nils.
He
is Nils. Nils will be here with me tonight.

I grip the whisk tightly and with a few sharp flicks of my wrist finish mixing the topping. Now I help Mother pour the batter into the large baking pan and press it flat to the edges. Then I spread the topping across the top of the batter with a spatula.

“My turn,” Sophy says, and it is. It’s one of those rare, special times when Sophy can feel helpful in the kitchen, when she can feel helpful anywhere at all.

I set the pan before her on the table, then kneel beside her. She kisses the air—
I’m ready
—and I lift her arm, gently straighten her curled fingers, and ease her forward so that her hand hovers just above the pan. “Now?” I ask. Sophy kisses the air again. I lower her hand until the tip of her index finger pokes a hole in the topping. Sophy laughs, a throaty chortle of pure joy. I help her give the unbaked cake another poke. Again and again she pokes at it, until the raw brunsviger is dotted with impressions of her fingertip. Into these, the rich topping will melt, spreading through the batter as the cake bakes. This is what makes brunsviger so delicious. Even now Sophy’s hand is a delicious, gooey mess, ready to be savored. I lift her hand to her mouth, and hold it there while she licks the batter from her fingers. Mother puts the pan into the oven. Soon the scent of baking brunsviger will waft through the air. I can barely wait. And in a few hours, I’ll be sneaking out to Calliope’s again. I can barely wait for this, either. I am tense with waiting.

We hear it then, the knock at the door. I jump, jarring Sophy’s hand against her teeth.

“Ouch!” She narrows her eyes at me.

“Sorry!”

“He’s early.” Mother smiles. “Don’t worry so, Rose. You’ll be fine.”

“Will I?”

Fumbling, as I never do, I grab a damp tea towel and wipe Sophy clean. Then I take a deep breath, fling the towel on the counter, and go to open the door.

We sit on the love seat in the front room, Nils and I, balancing our plates on our laps. It is just as I knew it would be with him. It is easy, enjoyable, a confirmation of who we’ve been raised to be. Nibbling at the last crumbs of our brunsviger slices, we talk on and on about the Danish food we love—the desserts, of course, but other dishes as well. He builds an open-faced sandwich this way; I build it that way.
Tomato, tomahto.
At the next church sociable, we agree to build sandwiches for each other and test which method is truly better, which results are more delicious. Now we are on to American food. I tell Nils about Dad, just off Ellis Island, making a beeline for a drugstore to taste his first ice cream soda. It’s still Dad’s favorite treat, and I’ve inherited his passion for cold, creamy, sweet drinks, along with his love of pretzels and caramel apples. Nils prefers Cracker Jack and hot dogs. These taste best at Wrigley Field, he says. When he asks what sports I like, I have to admit: none in particular. Sophy’s the baseball fan. Like Nils, she has a head for sports and numbers and sports’ numbers. I don’t have a head for any of these things, I admit. I prefer words. I took Latin in high school and loved it for the way the words sounded. If I could learn Italian, I would. It’s like music. No wonder why the Italians love opera so much. And pictures—I like pictures, too. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the Art Institute. I’d like to go again. Nils says he’d like to go, too. We could go together. We agree we’ll do that soon.

“But music, that’s what I love best,” I say.

Nils nods, and his hair falls into his eyes, and I find myself leaning toward him. “There’s nothing like a rousing chorus of ‘A Mighty Fortress,’ ” he says, pushing back his hair even as I’m raising my hand to do the same. I quickly sit back, though I don’t think he realizes what I was about to do. He crosses one long leg over the other, getting more comfortable. “I love those great old hymns,” he says. “Though some of them have questionable origins, you know. ‘A Mighty Fortress’ was originally a German drinking song—the tune, that is.”

“Oh?”

“In fact, Mr. Block was telling me the other day that his church doesn’t allow music during the services for just that reason,” Nils continues. “Mr. Block says the focus is wholly on Scripture, teaching, and prayer. It’s a purer form of worship, he says. Which makes me think. What is the purpose of all the hymns we sing, Rose? Prayer? I don’t think so, at least not for me. By verse two, my mind is wandering—unless you’re the one singing, of course. But if you’re not singing, well, then, I’m a goner. It only takes a word from Pastor Riis to bring me back again, but I’m concerned that I wander at all. ‘If your hand offends your brother, cut it off.’ Isn’t that what it says in the Bible?”

“Something like that.” If our church banned music from its Sunday mornings, I would ban our church from my Sunday mornings. I would join another congregation. Not Mr. Block’s. Not for all the bricks of butter in the world.

Nils looks at me intently. “I’m thinking of asking Pastor Riis about it all.”

“You should.”

“I will.”

The ticking of the clock on the mantel fills the room. The gas fireplace flares and fades, glittering black glass coals reddening and darkening.

Second helpings. That’s what we want.

Saying just that, I take Nils’s plate and go to the kitchen.

“Well?” Mother says as I cut us each another big piece of cake. “How is it?”

Sophy scrutinizes me from her wheelchair.

“Delicious,” I say.

Mother laughs. “Nils is delicious?”

“Mother!”

The back door swings open and Dad bursts into the kitchen, bringing with him a blast of cold air and the scent of smoke. He’s been smoking on the back porch again. Or maybe he was sitting on the narrow stairs that lead up to it from the back alley. Those are his two options if he wants a cigarette close to home. Mother hath ordained it. Can’t say I blame her. Still, Mother frowns even though Dad has followed this, her singular rule.

Dad ignores her frown. “Nils is still here?”

I gesture, plate of brunsviger in hand, down the hallway. “I’m about to bring him seconds.”

“Good,” Dad says.

Nils and I dig into round two, and our conversation shifts to our shared longing for spring flowers and summer warmth. If he can take the time away from work without leaving Mr. Block in a lurch, he plans on visiting his grandparents in Iowa over the Fourth of July. They are growing frail, and he wants to help them with some big tasks. “Batten down the hatches, so to speak, so they don’t have to worry about paying someone to do what they used to do without batting an eye,” he says. “And they have some
things they brought over from Odense that they want to tell me about. I’m their only grandchild, so I have to carry on the old stories. I plan on writing them down before I forget.”