All for a Song (39 page)

She lolled her head in his direction. “Yes.”

“Really, truly, like the movies, love him?”

“Yes!”

He took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it over the side. “Well then, baby. That’s enough.”

Enticed and emboldened, she ripped her hat from her head and held it in a clenched fist as she stood, steadying herself with a grip on the windshield. Never before had she felt this free; never before had she moved this fast. The wind freed her hair from its pins, and it whipped about her head and face, turning her into what her mother certainly would have dubbed a “wild, wood-born child.” She might have sand between her toes rather than bits of hard-packed forest floor, but she’d finally become that child again. If she took the time, she might just hear the whisper of a new song, but the roaring wind took it away. It would whirl and twirl and wind its way to reunite with her in the clearing.

The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.

ECCLESIASTES 1:6

BREATH OF ANGELS

6:00 P.M.

Supper is a quiet affair, but the solitude is a welcome relief from the tedious company of the afternoon. They’ve brought her a cup of warm beef broth and a plate of buttered bread.

“After all that rich cake this afternoon,” Nurse Betten said as she set the tray on Lynnie’s bedside table, “you want something easy on your stomach.”

Now Lynnie sips the broth and nibbles the bread, wishing it were melba toast.

It’s only six o’clock, but the room is already autumn-dark. It’s the best part about getting old, being able to put a day behind you as soon as the sun sets. She’ll take her last sip of broth during the final, feel-good story on NBC News with Brian Williams, waiting for Nurse Betten—or somebody—to assist her in one last trip to the bathroom, then doze until ten, when she’ll wake up to watch the local broadcast and see what has been happening in the world just outside the walls of Breath of Angels.

Another day. One of the many the Lord has given her.

There is a soft rap and a sliver of light slices across her darkened room, revealing the thin, irregular silhouette of Charlotte Hill.

“Can I come in?” she asks, and waits as if Lynnie can give her an answer before slipping through the narrow opening.

On the TV, a nine-year-old girl hauls a little red wagon along the sidewalk in some bighearted adventure. Charlotte watches the television, and Lynnie watches Charlotte, and that’s what happens until Brian Williams wishes them all a good night. Lynnie reaches for the remote, which is never far away, and pushes the big button at the top, plunging the room into deep shadow until Charlotte snaps on the lamp.

“Looked like a nice party this afternoon.”

Lynnie lets out a beef-broth-tinged breath and rolls her eyes.

Charlotte laughs. “All right, it looked terrible.”

Why didn’t you come in?

“They don’t know me, or that I’m family. Grandpa Jimmy—he’s your nephew too—always said we had family here, but Great-Grandpa . . .”

Never wrote more than a few letters until Ma died, and then . . . nothing.

“He lived a long time too, you know. He died about twelve years ago. He was almost a hundred. I guess longevity runs in our family, huh?”

Not Darlene. Just sixty-seven when her heart gave out.

“I remember him, though. Even though I was a kid, I loved to hear his stories about the movies. I can watch them with my friends and say, ‘See that? My great-grandfather built that.’ And my grandmother still talks about the day she fetched Lon Chaney’s makeup case and when she made Joan Crawford scream because she was hiding in one of the cabinets of a set her daddy was working on.”

Joan Crawford. Lucille LeSueur.
She’d never forgotten the name.

“I told them that I was going to come find you as soon as I turned eighteen.”

Of course you did. It’s the age of adventure.

“It took me a while, though. I’m about to turn twenty. When I knew I was coming here, I looked for everything I could find about you. I didn’t bring the record, because I was afraid it would break, and Grandpa only had one copy. I’ve looked for it on eBay, but no luck so far.” She is speaking incredibly fast, taking what was left of Lynnie’s dinner and moving it to the table by the door. “But I thought you might want to see these.” She drops her leather backpack on the bed near Lynnie’s feet and takes out an old cigar
box wrapped with twine. “These were with Great-Grandpa’s things. I snuck them out of Mom’s antique closet.”

She’s working the twine with her short, dark fingernails, finally untying it as the door flies open and Nurse Betten pokes her head through.

“Happy birthday again, Miss Lynnie,” she says before her eyes light on Charlotte. “What are you still doing here?”

“Just visiting,” Charlotte says. “A little longer. I’m kind of a fan.”

“A fan?”

“She was a singer. Back in the twenties? Gospel music, like bluegrass.”

“Is that a fact?”

“You know that song . . . ?” Charlotte sings a few lines and, hearing it live—not with that device—Lynnie could swear she is hearing her own voice transported through time. Roland Lundi would love this girl.

“I love that song!” Nurse Betten says. “And you’ve got a real nice voice. You should go on one of those shows.”

“Maybe,” Charlotte says. “If I could ever get the courage to go onstage. People scare me.”

Lynnie wants to say,
Just close your eyes, and they disappear,
but Nurse Betten beats her to it before waving a chastising finger in Charlotte’s direction.

“And not much longer. Miss Lynnie’s had a long day, haven’t you, Miss Lynnie?”

She shouts this last part, a habit Lynnie despises, and starts to duck out the door when Charlotte calls her back in. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course, sweetie.” Nurse Betten comes inside. “What do you need?”

Charlotte takes a deep breath. “I’m not a CSV. I’m not a volunteer at all. See? No badge.”

Nurse Betten claps her hands and shoots Lynnie a smile. “So you’re just a fan? How exciting. But you didn’t need to sneak in. We would have let you come visit.”

“No,” Charlotte says. “I’m family. Distant, long-lost, whatever. My great-grandfather was her brother.”

“Oh.” Nurse Betten draws out the sound as if giving them a clue to the
time it takes for her to come to a full understanding. “How was the party? Was it nice? I wish I could have been there, but—”

“I didn’t go to the party. They don’t know me; we’re not, you know, close.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Life is so short.”

Charlotte laughs, and Lynnie loves her for it. “Not always.”

Nurse Betten looks confused for just a second before a chuckle ripples along her scrubs. “Well, I’m glad the two of you had a chance to visit today. But not too late, if you don’t mind. They get so tired at this age.”

“I understand.”

“Can I get you anything? Coffee, maybe? Or there’s cake from her party. The family left it for the nurses.”

“That sounds awesome,” Charlotte says. “Thank you.”

“How ’bout you, Miss Lynnie?” Nurse Betten shouts. “Would you like another piece of your cake?”

Lynnie holds up her hand.
A small one.

“Well, fine, then. Why don’t you follow me to the nurses’ station and I’ll let you get just what you want.”

“Be right back,” Charlotte says over her shoulder before leaving Lynnie alone with the cigar box.

She should wait. Charlotte, after all, has no doubt brought whatever is in it to share with her. But she brings one finger to the lid, runs it along the edge. With the right amount of effort, the lid lifts and falls backward, exposing the contents within. She sits up, reaches inside, and finds the first item. It’s a folded, faded bit of newspaper, and she need not unfold it to know exactly what she will see. When she closes her eyes, she can hear the music—jazz, meant for dancing, and her feet twitch beneath the sheet in memory. She tastes champagne on her tongue and feels the bubbles misting beneath her nose.

And that dress—nothing she’s worn since ever made her feel the way that dress did. Even as the decades played on, when she wore perfectly modest sundresses or even—on much rarer occasions—shorts, she never felt that perfect combination of exposed and beautiful. She could feel the red silk brushing her legs, the touch of Roland’s hand on her back.

Roland.

Lynnie thought of him now and then, more often in those first days when, out of the clear blue, her voice would come spilling through the family radio. “It’s nothing,” she’d explained at Sunday dinner. “They let anybody make records in Los Angeles.”

And after a few months, she’d never been heard on those airwaves again. In fact, she’d never heard that
song
again—not from her mouth or any other—until today.

She reaches into the cigar box again and brings out an envelope. Once white, it has come to something that looks yellow in the lamplight. In the top left-hand corner is the address for the Hotel Alexandria. She brings the envelope to her face and inhales, expecting to smell the perfumes of the elegant women who strolled its lobby.

It is addressed to Don Dunbar, care of Silverlight Studios, written in block, irregular-size letters. Much as Roland had worked to define his appearance and his speech, he still had the penmanship of a modest upbringing.

“You’re peeking.” Charlotte is back, proving why the shoes she wears are called sneakers. “But that’s okay—I was going to share with you anyway.”

She carries two plates of cake and a Styrofoam cup of coffee with the confidence of an experienced waitress.

“Eat now? Or after? I don’t want to get frosting on the pictures.”

Lynnie reaches her hand for the cake, eager for a moment of celebration.

“Do you want to hear about my family? Well, yours too, I guess.”

Lynnie nods, eager.

“It’s one of the reasons I wanted to meet you. One of my earliest memories is listening to Great-Grandpa and Great-Grandma tell about the day they met. She was jealous because he was talking to a pretty girl, but then he said it was his sister, and they had a bet. . . .”

The script girl!

Suddenly, the bite of cake on her tongue is the sweetest taste she’s ever known, and she can see hints of a sleek Louise Brooks bob in the irregular, pointed tufts of Charlotte’s black hair.

“And look at this.” Charlotte leans forward and reaches inside the cigar box, bringing forth a thin, silver coin. “He called it his lucky dime.”

My dime.
But she wouldn’t take it back.

“This is their wedding picture,” Charlotte says, producing a photograph that confirms Lynnie’s assumptions. “My family says I look like her, and I was thinking about getting my hair cut like that. Everybody’s wearing bangs these days.”

Lynnie nods and hands over her half-eaten cake, eager to see the contents of the envelope, but Charlotte continues talking, listing names and events of people she’s never heard of and doesn’t particularly care about.

“Anyway, I didn’t know if you’d gotten married or changed your name, and I didn’t know your sister’s family name, so I talked my mom into doing one of those genealogy sites, you know? Then, you know, just a bunch of Google and stuff, and here we are.”

Lynnie goes so far as to put her twisted fingers on the envelope and nudge it across the table.

“Oh, yeah.” Charlotte speaks through the last bite of cake, leaving Lynnie mesmerized by the bit of frosting smudged on the ring piercing through her lip. It disappears briefly within her mouth and comes out clean.

Fascinating.

“These pictures are why I had to come find you.” She took out the first. “It says this is in St. Louis.”

Lynnie takes it from her, holding it close and as still as she can in her shaking hand. Roland had said, “You’ll be glad to have the memories.” But she’d refused his offer to have them mailed to her at Heron’s Nest. She’d stored every moment of those days within the infinite folds of her mind. What power could a scrap of paper, void of movement and voice and color, possibly have?