Songbird (11 page)

That night it rained and Mr. Reasin locked up and went home without our usual closing-time chat. I flipped on the little milk-glass lamp, running my fingers over the tiny polka dots of glass and I settled comfortably onto my bed. I opened that Bible, the Spirit Wind blowing warm inside me. I read until I slept and I awakened to my darkened room, alone and happy, and realizing that God really had a plan for me and I’d best get on with it.

I needed to sing.

I needed to be back in church and I told Mrs. Reasin that the very next day. I hadn't been in church since Mrs. Evans had died.

“Can you all use some help with the four-year-old class, Miss Anita?”

“That would be nice, hon. We leave for church around nine in the morning. Want us to go?” She stood by the bowling-ball polishing machine. She polished a few of the house balls every day, which frustrated Mr. Frank because why waste the power on a house ball that is only going to get grimy anyway? But if you saw Suds ‘N’ Strikes and Miss Anita's house, it would make perfect sense.

“That'd be nice.”

And so there I found myself among the four-year-olds, wiping noses, pouring warm Hawaiian Punch from the can, laying out butter cookies like the ones Mrs. Evans used to buy, reading stories and singing songs.

Mr. Frank and Miss Anita just stared at me with open mouths the first time I sang. And I smiled and shrugged. “Praise the Lord, is all I can say.”

And the gift box in my throat glimmered and shone with the anointing of the Holy Spirit. I knew that and it frightened me because like my little King James Bible says, “To whom much is given much is required.”

13

D
o I look okay?”

Miss Anita hugged me, and with that girdle, I swear it was like hugging a salmon, but I didn't mind. I’ll take good hugs like that no matter what, and you can take that to the bank!

We stood in the hot-pink women's bathroom of the church. The choir, in which I now sung soprano, or alto, or wherever they needed a voice, began to line up outside the door. The self-conscious whispers of be-lipsticked mouths beneath the carefully made-up upper regions of the women's faces shuffled through the louvered vent plate at the bottom of the bathroom door.

“You look wonderful, Charmaine. I’m not sure why you felt you had to scrape your hair back though. I’ve been trying to get my hair to look like yours for years!”

“I didn't want to take away from the rest of the choir. This hair is loud, Miss Anita. People's eyes just go to it.”

“Like moths to a flame!”

“That's truer than I’d like it to be, that's for sure.”

We smiled at each other in the mirror.

“You'll do fine, hon. Trust me. And let's face it, the people here at Holabird Assembly aren't choosy. If there's a blessing to be had, they'll find it sure enough.”

And maybe some hands would be raised in the bargain, lifting up holy hands to the Lord. Now if only I didn't have to sing next to Mrs. Cox, because that woman couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, a bowl, or a box! Hopefully I could concentrate extra hard, especially before my solo part.

I felt like I did the first time I performed at E.C. Glass High. I can hardly describe the nervous blips that ran through all of me like mice in a maze, when we walked onto the platform behind the pulpit. I felt like my heart and my brain turned into giant rat wheels, and two mean little rodents scampered on them, running, running, their slender feet and paws going like pistons, their beady little eyes glowing red and saying, “You nervous enough yet, Myrtle? Huh? Huh?”

Then they laughed this little “weeee-heeeee” laugh that makes me want to stomp on them. Don't even get me started on what they were doing down there in my stomach.

To this day, after hundreds and hundreds of times up on stage, I feel exactly the same. It's different singing for Jesus than in school plays and on “live entertainment night” at Suds ‘N’ Strikes. Yep, after the solo that I am about to describe, Mr. Frank said, “Let's make Saturday nights a little classy at the alley.” And Miss Anita fell for the idea like a ton of girdled Jell-O, bouncing with excitement at the idea. Once again, I was fitted for a gown, but this time, wooo-hooo, we threw taste to the wind! Miss Anita and I sure breathed a more common air than Cecile Ferris and I ever would!

Life was too short. Clothes could be too fun.

But thoughts of sequined gowns were yet to rise from the depths of my entertainer's heart that morning in church. A soulful sea of faces, Bibled laps and expectant hearts waited for a blessing.

I was glad that tongues don't sweat like hands do, further making singing in public even more difficult. But perspiration beaded on my forehead as the choir rose for the choral number. The piano player was Billy Noekowski, a bony, large-headed fellow with detonated black hair and ice-pick legs. His large knees reminded me of footballs. He pounded his way into the introduction.

I started into the first verse of “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” The choir ooohed and mmmm'd all around me as I sung louder and with more feeling than ever before. And I just wanted to sing and sing and sing and
Zing
about Jesus. Because He was all I had, really, right then in my life.

All I had.

I tell you this. He's really all anybody has, and I count it a blessing I learned that so young. Because then everything else, all the people, places, things—the nouns of this world, and even the adjectives that describe them: big, nice, yummy, loving, breezy and all —are just filling in the pie!

Nobody cares about you and God, Myrtle Charmaine.

14

L
uella brought the kids over for my first night singing at Suds ‘N’ Strikes. In the women's rest room she applied my makeup. “I just got into Artistry makeup, Charmaine. I figure if I sell a little on the side each month, it may pay for groceries.”

“Sure looks good, Luella.”

Oh, Luella is so pretty.

Her girls, Isabela and Guadalupe watched, their large brown eyes absorbing their mother's every flitter and flick.

Anita Reasin entered one last time. “It's almost curtain time, hon! How do you like the dress? Comfortable? And are those shoes too high?”

“I love it. And the shoes are comfy as can be.”

Well, as four-inch heels could possibly be.

Luella pinkied some gloss over my reddened lips. “You did a remarkable job on this gown, Anita. You should be proud of yourself.”

Anita herself dressed up for the occasion. No housedress tonight! The black skirt and beaded sweater actually became her girth. She appeared heroic, a woman in charge of the place. “I am. I haven't sewn in years. I wondered if I could still do it. Well, anyway, you guys, Frank just taped up the final bit of tinsel on the new stage and we're ready to go.”

I gazed at myself in the mirror one last time. I looked at least twenty-three or -four. “Are you sure this is okay?”

“I sure am, hon. I haven't been this excited in years. A lot of the church people are coming, too. You'll have a full house, hon.”

And so my debut as a real singer occurred that night in May during my sixteenth year, over five years after Mama had left. I sang songs like “Sing,” “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” and well all those Burt Bacharach type songs because Billy Noekowski had piano books for them. He played, banging away, his sparkly red bow tie that matched my gown vibrating with each chord pounded, or tinkled, or swirled.

I sang amid the sounds of tumbling pins, dryers, washers, pinball machines, and cheers from folks who got strikes and spares. I sang amid the fluorescent lights, the gleam of polished wood, and the neon beer signs. I sang amid the smell of popcorn butter and pink candy, pizza and National Bohemian. I sang under the warm air from the overhead heating vent and the smiles of those who knew me as that poor girl with no family.

And I sang better for all of it.

I know that now.

But I still don't know if the misery is worth the art. I did realize, however, that I would do all I could not to become like Mama. Work hard. Not be satisfied with my present.

We ended that set at the bowling alley with “Down by the Riverside.” The joint really thumped, let me tell you.

Part Three

1

I
t's easy to see your life as a roadmap of sorts after the fact. Looking back now it made perfect sense I wouldn't stay at Suds ‘N’ Strikes Forever. I spent an entire year there singing. Mrs. Reasin showed me how to sew and Luella somehow managed to pass her eye for design on to me. And I’d be dishonest if I said I didn't enjoy my life there in Baltimore. Church with the Reasins on Sundays. Choir. Singing at the bowling alley and running the snack bar during the days. My nosebleeds stopped, too.

Luella and the kids invited me over for supper at least three times a week and those kids just loved me because I’d play Monopoly or Ants in the Pants with them as much as they wanted, which gave Luella time to have a nice long soak in the tub. “I haven't felt like a girl since Claudio died,” she said. “Sometimes I get so busy being a mother I forget I’m even a woman at all.”

So I learned to sew and that skill came in handy because I was always working on some kind of singing costume. A lime-green affair with silver beaded trim hugged my frame the night Bansy Pruitt entered my life.

Now Bansy resembled a human beanbag, a lumpy pyramid that began beneath a skull the shape of a gumdrop and continued to flare out in a downward flow.

He placed a tiparillo between his ribbon-thin lips, lips shadowed by a nose so small I wondered if someone had wacked it off in his childhood with a hockey stick or something. See, that northern, cold weather look hovered about him, categorizing his entire form as jowly, soft-sided luggage.

I hated his accent from his first word which was, “Yo.”

Yo? What kind of a greeting was that? I could see “Hey” or “Hi” or even a nod and no word at all. But “Yo”?

“Hey.”

I just finished my set. Old Billy Noekowski and I really grooved. We settled into our own artery, pumping rhythms and melodies together in a most biological fashion. I don't mean to be prideful, but I don't think anybody does a better rendition of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” than I do. And I sure did have them laughing with my irreverent interpretation of “Billy Don't Be a Hero,” an eye-roller for sure.

Bansy smacked his lips. “Good singing, gal.”

Gal. Oh, my lands!

“Thank you.”

“What's your name?”

“What's yours?”

He sucked on the tiparillo. “I like your style, girlie.”

At that moment, Mr. Reasin sidled up and spirited me away.

“Who is that guy?” I asked.

“Beats me. Seems a little shifty, but you can never tell.”

“He reminds me of that Plumpy character in Candyland.”

Frank laughed at that. “You know, Charmaine, you're exactly right.”

2

I
found out Bansy Pruitt's name the third night he showed up at Suds ‘N’ Strikes. By that time I began to get a little weirded out by the fellow, so I just |walked my singing shoes right on over, placed my hands flat on his table and set, “So let me get this straight. You're here because you're doing laundry, right?”

“No.”

“Then maybe you better march you and your tiparillos right on out of here because you're beginning to scare me.”

I felt my eyes tear up because although I was a scrappy sort back then, confrontations scared me to death. The shadow of Mama still loomed. Loomed like a thin, mangy old cat with only one claw left, but a claw that, nevertheless, could scratch out an eye in a split second.

“Don't be scared, Charmaine. I’m here because I think you've got talent. Have a sit.”

Have a
sit

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“All around.”

“Not good enough.”

“New Jersey.”

I sat down.

“So what brings you to Suds ‘N’ Strikes?”

“I’m actually a location scout for a local filmmaker.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We may use the alley in a new film.”

“What's it called?”

“Bowl-O-Rama.”

“Bowl-O-Rama?”

“Bowl-O-Rama.”

“What kind of a name is
Bowl-O-Ramal
”

He shrugged, driving his angel-food shoulders up into his neck blubber. “My boss is more than a little eccentric.”

“I’ll bet!”

“So you think the alley will do for this movie?”

“Yeah. You gonna bring your boss along?”

“Yeah, next week.”

“When I’m singing.”

“I’m thinking about doing just that. He'll like the strange angle. I mean who's ever heard of a Laundromat-bowling alley with live entertainment?”

I eased up a bit. “You can sure say that again, mister. Have you met the Reasins?”

“They own the place, right?”

“They sure do. And once you get to know them, you'll want them in your movie.”

“Think they'd mind having one shot here?”

I shook my head. “They'd love something like that. They really would.”

That night, a spring mist falling on the roof of the bowling alley, Mr. Reasin and I sat drinking vanilla Cokes. During the previous summer we put up a big beach umbrella and a couple of lounge chairs. But now it sheltered us from the wet.

“Well, I’m letting them come make that movie here.”

“You don't say!”

“Yep. Worked out a good deal, I guess. Not that I would really know if it wasn't. But it'll cover expenses and then some.”

“So what are you gonna do when they shoot the film?” I asked. “Go on vacation for the month?”

“Heck, no! I’m going to be watching these scoundrels like a hawk. You know those entertainment types.”

Well, no, I didn't really. “I know what you mean,” I said anyway.

“Always looking for freebies even though they make more money than anybody these days.”

I didn't know that either. “Still, it's gonna be exciting, don't you think?”

He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Let's hope it's not too exciting. But hey! You get to be an extra! Even have you singing in the background. That's got to make you feel good.”