All for a Song (7 page)

Darlene and her husband, Roy, lived in a modest home on the outskirts of St. Louis, though Darlene seemed determined to elevate its status. The house was painted a shade of soft powdery blue, trimmed in a deep lacquered red. Flower beds lined the cobblestone walkway to the front porch. There, two wrought-iron benches flanked a gilded screen door where Dorothy Lynn stood, listening to the sounds of screaming on the other side. The actual words were muffled, but the scene was clear—the boys had gotten into one mischief or another, and thus were the victims of Darlene’s vocal admonishment.

Dorothy Lynn took what she knew would be the last peaceful breath for a while. She dropped her bag on the porch and pressed the bell but kept the guitar in its sack slung over her aching shoulder. It had been a long five-block walk from the bus stop. She cocked her head toward the door and listened as the rumpus died down. Moments later, Darlene appeared behind the filigree and swung the door wide.

“Come in, come in! You should have telephoned from the station, or I could have told Roy to bring you home.”

“Little walk never hurt no one,” Dorothy Lynn said. “And just look at you! Ma would say you look positively radiant.”

“That’s because Ma’s a liar,” Darlene said, ushering her into the front parlor. It was papered in a bold combination of stripes and florals—two of the seven different patterns of wallpaper to be found throughout the house.

“Won’t be too much longer,” Dorothy Lynn said. The last time she’d seen her sister had been at their father’s funeral, and then the baby had been more of a suggestive lump—boosted by the leftover softness of its older brothers. Now Darlene carried it like a sidecar.

“Can’t be soon enough. Here, let me look at you, Miss Bride-to-Be.”

Dorothy Lynn braced herself for Darlene’s barely masked indulgent pity.

“I can’t believe you still haven’t cut your hair, Dot.”

“Ma says a woman’s hair is her crowning beauty. Well, not Ma, but the Bible, I guess.”

“Ma should recognize that we’re well into the twentieth century. She herself could look much more chic. And that dress?” She clucked her tongue. “At least you’re wearing shoes.”

Dorothy Lynn shrank under her sister’s scrutiny. Even eight months gone in ninety-degree heat, and Darlene still looked like something from a fashion plate. Her dress was some sort of sea-green foamy material that draped across her rounded stomach, banded by a silk ribbon just at her hip. Her hair was the same dark-caramel color as Dorothy Lynn’s, though it shone in a bobbed cap of rippling waves just below her pierced, bejeweled ears.

Suddenly, the weight of Dorothy Lynn’s dull, brown braids felt oppressive on the back of her neck, and the plain, sack-like
fit of her dress had more to do with the natural fall of the fabric than the fashion of the day.

“Things aren’t as fancy in Heron’s Nest,” Dorothy Lynn said, though even she admitted there was no excusing her scuffed brown shoes.

“Well, thank the Lord you saw fit to come here for your wedding dress, I say.” Darlene cupped her red-tipped fingers around her mouth and, in a voice more suited for her mountainous home than her city dwelling, hollered for her boys to come fetch Auntie Dot’s bags.

A clattering of steps followed as Darlene’s sons, RJ and Darren, ran down the stairs, screaming, “Auntie Dot! Auntie Dot!” They tumbled over each other when it came to the final steps, then erupted into fisticuffs in a competition to see who would have the privilege of carrying the bags. They were six and four years old but tussled with each other as if they’d been fighting since the womb.

“Careful with this,” Dorothy Lynn said, taking the guitar from her shoulder. “Hold it up. Don’t let it bump along the ground.”

RJ, the older of the two, took on the responsibility with a solemn nod.

“Why on earth did you bring that thing?” Darlene asked.

“It needs new strings. And rather than orderin’ from the Sears and Roebuck, I thought I’d find a music store here in town, let them string it for me.” Part of that was a lie, though. She simply couldn’t bear the thought of being away from it for the weeklong visit their mother intended.

Darlene linked her arm through Dorothy Lynn’s and began leading her down the hall. “I doubt very much you’ll have time for that. The wedding’s what—seven weeks away? I just got the Butterick in the mail yesterday, and . . .”

She kept on and on about the dress pattern, but Dorothy Lynn heard none of it. Her eyes went to the ceiling, where the telltale sounds of her strings indicated that the boy, indeed, was dragging her guitar on the ground. In fact, he’d bumped it all the way up the stairs.

“Are you listening to a word I say?”

“Sorry,” Dorothy Lynn said, feeling like too much of a child herself to be here for a wedding gown.

Darlene sighed. “I know, I know; those boys . . . But mind that you aren’t too critical, because God has a way of paying you back. Now, I said I have a snack and some lemonade waiting in the kitchen, but you’ll probably want to wash up first.”

Her voice hinted at a grand surprise, which turned out to be a brand-new water closet at the end of the hall.

“We just got it put in last week. Such a blessing not to have to run up and down the stairs. But look who I’m telling. Poor thing, you still have to run clear across the yard, don’t you?”

“So did you all your life. Don’t see that it hurt anything.”

“Ah, but it is so nice to have all that behind me.”

“Especially since you have
that
behind,” Dorothy Lynn said, pointing at Darlene’s ample seat. The comment may have been cruel, but somehow she didn’t feel a spot of guilt, especially when her sister giggled right along.

Darlene went in with Dorothy Lynn just long enough to pull the chain that turned on the light and point out which hand towels should and shouldn’t be used. Left alone, Dorothy Lynn ran her hands under the cool water pouring from the spigot, cupped them, and splashed her face. To think, her sister did this every day—twisted a handle and watched water flow. Hot and cold, according to the two handles. Patting her face dry, Dorothy Lynn gave a sidelong glance at the glistening commode and sighed.

In the kitchen, Darlene had prepared a tall glass pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cheese sandwiches.

“Now,” Darlene said, smoothing the dress pattern on the table, “we might have to do some alterations, here with the sleeve. It might be chilly in October.”

Dorothy Lynn leaned forward, chewing her sandwich and studying the line drawing of the woman modeling the dress. Her figure was as two-dimensional as the drawing—flat-chested and narrow-hipped—much like Dorothy Lynn’s own. The artist’s pencil had given her a cap of close-cropped curls. One arm extended gracefully, showing off the flutter of the sleeve; the other was bent, bringing a narrow finger to touch her dark, puckered lips, as if hushing herself.

“In an ivory sateen,” Darlene said, running her finger over the image as if feeling the fabric. “That would give it a nice weight against the chill. And see how the sash gathers here and ties at the hip? I thought maybe a rose-colored lace, and get silk shoes dyed to match.”

“That all sounds a bit fancy for a simple wedding. I don’t see why I don’t just wear Ma’s dress.”

“Because nobody rides in covered wagons anymore.”

“It was good enough for you.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Darlene said, expressing a regret she’d managed to keep hidden all these years. “We didn’t have any money, and the styles weren’t so terribly different. But we’ve won a
war
since then. You deserve a new dress.”

“Seems a waste to spend so much on something I’ll never wear again.”

“Oh, but of course you could wear it again. Change out the sash and the shoes. It would be perfect for any kind of smart party.”

“We don’t have smart parties in Heron’s Nest,” Dorothy Lynn said. “Things haven’t changed so awful much since you left.”

“Maybe you won’t be in Heron’s Nest forever. Your man’s from a big city, right? Could be you’ll end up right back there someday.”

“You don’t know Brent. He thinks he’s found paradise itself.”

“That’s because you’re his little bird.”

Dorothy Lynn blushed. “Well, I’ve been happy enough there up to today. No need to think things’ll change much.”

Just then a whoop heralded the arrival of the boys, one chasing the other, wielding two pistols and screaming, “Bang! Bang!” as he fired bullet after bullet into his brother’s back. They circled the table three times, each snatching a sandwich on the final pass.

“Those aren’t for you!” Darlene leapt from her chair and gave chase, though the sandwiches had been ferreted away in the boys’ mouths.

In their absence, Dorothy Lynn browsed through one of the pattern books scattered on the table. Ma had said not to worry about the money, that they’d been putting aside a little for her ever since Darlene’s wedding.

“I just don’t know if I can see myself in it,” she said to the empty kitchen. The ride up from Heron’s Nest and even these few minutes in Darlene’s house made it impossible to ignore just how quickly the world was growing up without her. Who besides Brent, her mother, and every other soul she’d known all her life would see her in this dress? The day before the wedding would be just the same as the day after—and all the following. Seemed an awful lot of trouble for a bit of fabric.

When Darlene came back in, she had a triumphant smile on her face and two half-eaten sandwiches in her hand.

“Savages,” she said, but her eyes conveyed a glint of humor.
The boys followed behind, significantly subdued, and climbed up to the table. Without speaking a word, Darlene placed the remnants of the recovered sandwiches on a plate in front of each boy. Slowly, as if their very appetites had been stripped away, they nibbled in silence.

Darlene plopped herself back in her chair, only mildly breathless. “You’ll see, when you’re a parent. It’s never too late to demand obedience.”

Later, those words echoed in Dorothy Lynn’s mind as she stood obediently, arms extended, while her sister wrapped a measuring tape around her bust and waist and hips, clucking at the minute difference between the numbers.

“You’ve got a flapper’s figure.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a compliment.”

“Maybe because I’m jealous. I see them all over town here, looking so stylish, and here I look like a basket of melons in a dress.”

Dorothy Lynn made a thoughtful sound and slouched, contorting her body in the way she’d seen women do on the covers of magazines. She brought an imaginary cigarette to her lips. “We don’t have any flappers in Heron’s Nest. I could be the first.”

“I don’t think your fiancé would take to such a thing.” Darlene never had much of an imagination. She jabbed Dorothy Lynn’s thigh. “Stand up straight. I have to measure for the length.”

Since pregnancy hindered Darlene’s movements, Dorothy Lynn slipped off her shoes and climbed up on a chair. Simply being here—
up
here—made everything else seem so far away. She looked down at the top of her sister’s head, only half-listening to the one-sided debate over the hemline. Not once did Darlene
look up to ask her anything. She must have assumed Dorothy Lynn had no opinion. After all, she’d lived her whole life in the simple frocks Ma pieced together or the ready-made dresses from Sears and Roebuck that came in plain brown packages in the daily post. How could she have an opinion about something that was no more than a series of confusing-looking solid and dotted lines and diagrams spread out over the kitchen table? She had no idea what sateen was, or that lace came in the color of roses, or that she would be called upon to walk not only in shoes, but in shoes with heels.

Most of all, though, she had no opinion because it all seemed so far away. Seven weeks was forever; Heron’s Nest, a world away. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Brent—not as he would look at the head of the aisle as she made her way toward him, but as he looked when he was sitting at her family’s kitchen table. Or on their front porch. Or in his designated chair at the front of the church. Or when he kissed her. Or when—

“Dorothy Lynn!”