How High the Moon (44 page)

Mr. Carter was supposed to be giving Les Paul and Mary Ford a big intro, but instead he hurried off the stage to stand half hidden behind the edge of the curtain. Probably talking to somebody about what he should say or do next.

That’s when Mr. Morgan put his hand over mine. Chocolate on the outside, vanilla underneath. For a minute, it was the old jukebox man’s hand instead. I knew that the day had come when I had more blue in my life than the blue in my eyes. I remembered what he told me all over again. Remembered it until I could feel his fingers itsy-bitsying up my leg, and up over my heart, to tap over my throat. The place that felt clogged up and closed like a fist, with tears I didn’t want to cry.

Below me, heads were gawking this way and that, or tipped toward their neighbors, whispering, or checking their watches. Suddenly I knew what I had to do.

I raced down the steps faster than I ever had, not slowing down until I got to row four.

Mrs. Fry and Charlie were sitting together, Miss Tuckle sitting
in the seat where Teddy should be, the space reserved for Ma, empty. “Teaspoon,” Miss Tuckle said. “What happened? Where were you? Teddy went to find you.” And Mrs. Fry said, microphone-loud, “Is the show over?”

“Not yet, Mrs. Fry,” I said, ignoring Miss Tuckle’s questions. Not because I was still upset with her, but because there wasn’t time. I grabbed Charlie’s arm and said, “Come on, Charlie. I need your help.”

“Where we going?” Charlie asked, looking nervous, like maybe I was going to drag him someplace high.

I yanked him to his feet. “Never mind that, Charlie. Move your butt, not your mouth. Mrs. Fry, can I use your hankie?” She didn’t hear me, so Miss Tuckle asked, since she was closer to Mrs. Fry’s ear. Mrs. Fry took her hankie out of her sweater sleeve and handed it over. “Quick, Miss Tuckle. Clean off my face if it’s a mess, will you?” I hung on to Charlie tight so he wouldn’t make like a banana and split while Miss Tuckle wrapped the embroidered hankie around her pointy finger, licked it, and gave my face a few quick swabs. “Thanks,” I said. Then I heave-hoed Charlie down the aisle, over feet and around knees, and dragged him up the stage steps.

Things sure were a mess on the side of the stage where the audience couldn’t see, with Jay and Mr. Carter, the gala helpers, and even the Mill Town orchestra director, huddled together trying to figure out what to do because they had eleven hundred and forty-nine people restless in their red velvet seats.

“Well, someone has to say something!” Jay squawked, like the big squeak he was.

“Well, I’m not comfortable saying anything,” Mr. Carter said. “I wish someone would find Mrs. Bloom.”

I dragged Charlie with me into the middle of their circle and looked up past Mr. Carter’s big belly. “Mrs. Bloom has got to pull a no-show,” I said. “Put us on, Mr. Carter. Me and my friend here
can do ‘How High the Moon.’ We’ve been practicing it all summer. And while we aren’t Les Paul and Mary Ford, we do the song real good. Put us on.”

Mr. Carter leaned over his belly and glanced at me, then turned away like I was nothing but a buzzing housefly. So I turned to Jay. “Big Squeak, you know I can sing. You said so yourself. And Charlie here, even Brenda said he has a real gift. Not that it would matter much, even if we didn’t have as much talent as a three-legged cat in a tap-dance contest, because who’s going to throw rotten tomatoes at a couple of kids? It’s like Mrs. Bloom said, kids always steal the show.”

Jay looked like he was going to yell at me to get back to the dressing room. But then he paused.

“We don’t have anything else, Big Squeak. Admit it. We’ve got to improvise.”

Jay looked at Mr. Carter, and Mr. Carter started shaking his head. “Oh no… oh no… I’m not…”

“Pip Squeak’s right. We have nothing else,” he said. “Get out there, Phil, and tell them there was a mix-up and Ford and Paul can’t be here. Apologize profusely, then announce the kids.”

The orchestra director’s head peeked over Jay’s shoulder. “What key do you do it in, kid?” he asked. Charlie shrugged, so the director grabbed him and dragged him to the grand piano that was sitting behind the red curtain. Charlie played a couple of notes, then they hurried back offstage. The director made a beeline for the orchestra pit, and Charlie made a beeline for me.

Mr. Carter was still shaking his head, so Jay piped up, “Oh, for crying out loud.” He grabbed the microphone and stand.

“Use Isabella Marlene!” I called to him as he pulled the red curtain open to head out. “That’s my stage name. And it’s Charlie Fry on the grand.”

While Jay made apologies and tossed in a few jokes for good measure, Charlie stuck his hand in mine. “My stomach don’t feel so good, Teaspoon,” he said.

“Make yourself burp,” I told him. And while Charlie swallowed and belched, I reminded him that it wouldn’t be any different than playing
Live at the Starlight
at home. “Just keep your eyes on the piano keys, and play with your heart like you always do, Charlie.”

“Teaspoon!”

I turned and there was Teddy in his new suit, weaseling his way through the crowd as easily as I could, being small and all. “Are you okay, Teaspoon? What happened?”

“Not now, Teddy,” I said, “Listen. Me and Charlie are getting our intro.”

“So without further ado, put your hands together and welcome a little lady who’s bound to knock your socks off. Miss Isabella Marlene, with her pianist, Mr. Charlie Fry.”

I was just about to head out when I noticed that the half-moon was still hanging, even if it should have been changed up an act ago. “Hey, Teddy,” I called. “Tell Jay to drop the full moon.” Then I squeezed Charlie’s hand, gave him a grin, and said, “Let’s go have our debut, Charlie.”

I don’t know why the crowd laughed while they clapped, when I tugged Charlie across the stage and set him down at the piano—maybe it was Charlie’s high-water pants—but they did.

I got Charlie settled, then went to take my place, center-stage. I blinked against the stage lights, bright even with the center one out. And as I waited for the applause to die down, I looked up at the Starlight ceiling, blinking and twinkling, and I said in my head, and in my heart,
This is for you, Brenda. And for you, too, Ma
.

I paused a minute, took a big breath, lifted my shoulders up and perked my smile like you have to do when you’re center-stage, and then I shouted, “Hit it, Charlie!”

That Charlie, he came in right on cue, and he didn’t miss a note, even if he was playing a little on the slow side.

And sure enough, as I sang that first line, I felt the music going right down through me. Lifting that sad up and making my feet light enough to tap-dance. Well, if I
could
tap-dance, that is. So I
just swayed to the music, my hands up, palms facing the crowd, sashaying a little this way, then that way, as I sang.

That music rose, going up over my heart to that place where you put your thoughts when you want to do the right thing, and opening my throat so that my voice rang out like church bells. By the middle of that first verse, you can bet it had carried every bit of that sad up to heaven so Jesus could hold it for me, leaving me with nothing to hold but those notes.

I sang the first verse, then turned my head quickly and shouted, “Pick up the tempo, Charlie!” snapping my fingers into the microphone so he’d know how fast he needed to go. There were a few chuckles, but that kid, he picked the beat up to perfect, like a little trouper. And then, man, we were cookin’!

Like magic, the orchestra joined in on the second verse. Boy, did me and Charlie sound professional with all those instruments behind us, the drummer’s thumps and swishes making it easy for Charlie to keep time.

And that wasn’t all! While Charlie was banging out the solo part with everything he had, Mimi Hines and Phil Ford came out on stage from the left, and Louis Prima and Keely Smith came out from the right. They stood beside me, but father back, and when I started singing the last verse, they joined in with harmony so good that even the angels had to be dancing.

By the end of the second chorus, that whole stage was filled up with every act we had in the show. The Sunshine Sisters in the back (probably because they didn’t know the song, so who’d want them up front), and Mrs. Derby (who did know the song, but was singing Ethel-loud and not very splendored, so who’d want her up front, either), and the Farthings who danced across the stage, doing the jitterbug, I think, though not the Juicy kind.

I had my arms spread wide and my head back, the center-stage light shining bright in my eyes, as my voice climbed with the
ah, ah, ahs
for the big finish.

At the end of the last note, Mimi Hines reached for one of my
hands, and Keely Smith reached for the other. But I shook their hands away and gave them the wait-a-second finger. Then, while the crowd roared, calling me back, I weaseled through the people on the stage, all the way back to the grand piano. I grabbed Charlie’s hand.

Oh boy, was that something. Me and Charlie walking to center stage at the Starlight Theater while the crowd went nuts. Our hands clasped above our heads, while the rest of the acts did the same with their neighbors. A few camera flashes winked right along with the Starlight’s stars before I said, “Okay, Charlie. Take a bow. Now!” And down we dipped as the crowd got to their feet.

I’m grateful to have once again been given the chance to work with my editor, the exceptionally talented and committed Kerri Buckley, who lovingly guided this book through its many incarnations and served as the liaison between me and the rest of the fabulous Random House team: Nita Taublib, Jane von Mehren, Dennis Ambrose, Lynn Andreozzi, Paolo Pepe, Diane Hobbing, Laura Jorstad, and Katie Rudkin. And of course, to my amazing agent, Catherine Fowler, who is a joy to work with.

I am also indebted to the individuals who lent me their expertise in the areas of theater and music so that
How High the Moon
would be as authentic as possible: Erik O. Olson, Larry Kirchgaesner, Scott Fritsche, Roi Evans, Jason Paul Collum, and Brian Walker. Thanks also to Dixon, Debbi, Nadine, and Lynn at
doyouremember.com
, and to Karl Grube, who toured me through the Weill Center in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, the magical theater where I first met Teaspoon.

My appreciation, also, to my family and friends who lent me encouragement, support, and ideas: Kerry Kring, Shannon Kring, Jerry Ducommun, Lynn Kring, Sariah Daine, Sylvia Wollemann, Chris Pimental, Sugar Blue, Gayla Collins, Shelby Ehemann, and, most especially, Brenda Larson, my “feminine influence,” who gave me the seed that grew this story and who passed away before it
bloomed. I miss you, my wise, witty friend. Take good care of my little angels.

Last but not least, I’d like to thank the many individual readers, book clubs, and booksellers who share their love for my work with me, and with potential readers. Your enthusiasm and encouragement inspires me.

Sandra Kring
lives in Wisconsin. Her debut novel,
Carry Me Home
, was a Book Sense Notable Pick and a 2005 Midwest Booksellers’ Choice Award nominee.
The Book of Bright Ideas
was named to the New York Public Library’s Books for the Teen Age list in 2007. Visit her on the Web at
www.sandrakring.com
.