Songbird (7 page)

But I’d lie there in my room, the green room with a distinct guest-bedroom feel (except for the framed pictures of the Evanses, my own pillow, and my willow plate), looking out at the night sky through the leaves of the big sugar maple tree outside the window and I’d theorize.

I made a list of the possible happenings of Isla Jean Whitehead.

1. She just plumb forgot about me.

2. She didn't forget, but figured I’d be all right one way or the other.

3. She was having so much fun she hadn't realized how the time had flown.

4. She had other children by now and to bring me into the big, beautiful house in Washington, D.C. would just be confusing for everyone involved.

5. She tried to come back to get me but that snazzy man wouldn't let her, and so she'd been checking up on me in secret all of these years for her own sense of satisfaction. She'd known I was doing all right.

6. She was dead.

That's why I didn't want to admit anything beforehand, before I really gave her enough time. Because I knew that any mother who really loved her daughter would come back when she said. So Mama either didn't love me anymore, an evil thing to do, or she was dead.

Either one, take your pick, broke my fourteen-year-old heart. I decided that day dead was better than evil.

Isla Jean Whitehead died that day.

And my goodness, almost four years after her disappearance, it was time for me to let her go. At least for a while. I had things to do. A life to get on with. I had breasts, small ones, but breasts, nonetheless, menstrual periods, and hopes for a scholarship to William and Mary someday. Isla Jean Whitehead, just go on and die, and leave me to grow up without your ghost getting in the way.

Not that you were even all that nice when you left.

So when Cecile Ferris breezed into my room around 10:15, drink in hand, chiffon fluttering, I was trying to memorize theorems.

“Myrtle, dear. How is your homework coming along? Isn't it late? Shouldn't you be in bed?”

Cecile always asked questions in threes. Like some people sneeze three times, every time.

“Just memorizing theorems for a geometry test tomorrow. It is late, yes ma'am, but I couldn't sleep, so I decided I’d redeem the time and study a little.”

“What a good child. Now, guess what? Did you know we always have a big Christmas party here? And would you like to sing for us that evening, with Clarke on the piano, of course?”

Immediately, I thought of what a party here might be like. I pictured an old movie. Lots of swirling gowns, waiters hoisting trays of little foods, the pop of corks, and an underpinning of laughter and conversation.

“Okay. I will. I like singing with Mr. Ferris.”

“Perfect! I’ll have my seamstress come and fit you for a gown tomorrow after school. You don't mind, do you? What's your favorite color? And would you be opposed to having it full length?”

“That sounds fine. I like yellow, and I’ve never had a full-length gown, but I’ve always wanted one.”

“Perfect, then. Clarke says he'll practice with you after school each day. Do you mind learning some new songs? Will your voice teacher mind? Do you think you can learn enough new old tunes to fill an hour?”

“It all sounds fine to me.”

That was the thing about Cecile. All of her questions kept her from being overbearing. She never wanted to force me to do anything I didn't want to do. I sometimes think wealthy charity-minded folk who would even consider taking in a foster child don't quite know how to handle the situation. So they don their kid gloves and hope for the best.

Lucky for her she got me, a generally genial teenager with a focus on greater things, cause she could have ended up with some horrible girl who'd sneak out and take the car night after night, and poor Cecile wouldn't have possessed the hardware needed for a do-it-yourself project like that!

The next day I sat next to Clarke at the piano and sang “That Old Black Magic.”

I liked Clarke. A boyish quality still lightened his overall demeanor, putting an innocent twinkle into his eye, enabling him to appreciate a meal around a breakfast booth with farmers, truckers, and mechanics and still hang out with the blue-bloods at Oakwood Country Club.

I’m suspicious of most rich people, I’ll say that right up front. Not a good thing for someone in the business of living off others’ donations. Harlan many a time has said, “Look, Charmaine. It's the only way we can minister to all the regular folk. Just because they've got a lot to give doesn't make the gift any less valuable to us or their motives any less pure.”

So Clarke and I sat there together, that gentry musty smell clouding around us. But I didn't mind. He set his hands on his knees and turned toward me. “What about doing a couple of the more modern tunes?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don't know. Like ‘Feelings’ or something? Or ‘The Shadow of Your Smile.’”

“Okay. And how about ‘Sing’?”

“I don't know that one.”

“It's by the Carpenters. I love the Carpenters.”

Clarke stood up. “Let's get on over to the record store at the Plaza.”

So we went and bought a Carpenters album.

“Can we go by Billy Joe's for ice cream?” I asked.

But he shook his head and drove the other way.

When we pulled up to the house he hurried into the music room, opened up the lid to the hi-fi player, and put on the music. We listened to “Sing.”

“What do you think, Mr. Ferris?”

“Don't like it. Doesn't have that classic feel.”

And “Feelings” did?

Well, you just never know. I could give him “Shadow of Your Smile,” picturing a movie starlet singing that while dressed in unimaginable finery. But “Feelings”? Still, maybe there was something to what he said. Maybe there was something to hanging on to the old standards.

After we practiced, the seamstress arrived to measure me. She didn't smile much, but then again, her mouth was pinched down on a bunch of pins.

When she finished, she took out a pad and wrote down the numbers. “Mrs. Ferris says you like yellow. And with that red hair, I’d say it's not a bad choice.”

“It's cheerful.”

“Never mind that, it's what looks good that matters. Black would really be the best, now that I think about it.”

I thought about number six on my list of Mama's possibilities and refused.

“All right. I’ll get started. I’ll consult with Mrs. Ferris from here on out.”

And so began my professional career.

Trudging up the stairs, the strains of “It's Very Clear, Our Love Is Here to Stay” piggybacked my steps. And I considered the words, thinking it the most ridiculous song ever written.

3

T
wo weeks later I was a hit. The hairdresser dolled me up. I wore a little makeup for the first time, other than the school plays. My yellow dress, a pale shade in brushed silk with antique ecru lace “befit my tender years,” as Mrs. Ferris said, yet displayed an elegance. But not a stuffy elegance. I looked like a very proper singer. I looked at least twenty years old.

I shook a lot of hands that night, my own hands enveloped in full-length evening gloves.

“You'll go far.”

“That's a set of pipes you've got there, little missy!”

“My goodness, isn't Cecile quite the lucky one to have you here to sing for her?”

I waved to a little old man who patted my hand as he held it, tears in eyes. He'd just said, ‘”Fly Me to the Moon’ was my late wife's favorite song.”

But one comment stood out among the rest. “You're quite a woman, Myrtle.”

I turned to the source of the new voice. And there he stood, a rugged young man with saucy, impertinent eyes, the kind of eyes I’d read about in those little romances Grandma Sara used to read. But his weren't dark and brooding. They were blue, as bright a blue as you can imagine. A blue like a pansy, a blue just like Mrs. Evans's blue.

Now, I’m short. I’ll tell you that straight away. And this fellow wasn't all that tall, maybe 5’ 10”, but next to my bitty old 5’2”, he towered.

My heart raced. I was thankful for the gloves that drank in the sweat from my palms. Beautiful, he exhibited a freedom such as I’d never seen, with his overly long hair, his casual dress and, could that be an empty earring hole in the left lobe? Yes, wild and free and beautiful. And that night, so was I, the pretty singer with golden tones, fluid arms, and talent. I wasn't like the rest of them.

We had that in common.

“Thank you.”

“When will you be singing again?”

I shook my head. “I’m the Ferrises’ foster daughter. It's not like I have paying gigs.”

He raised his brows, highlighted by hours in the sun, I supposed. His tanned face seemed to point in that direction as well. Wild and free.

Free.

My very first rush of power hit me. I felt like I finally had set my feet upon the earth. I was free, wasn't I? No parents to tell me what to do. No real guidance of any sort. I was free.

4

O
n Sunday afternoon, he came to call. His voice filled the entry hall like a valentine in Charlie Brown's mailbox.

“Yes, it's me again, Aunt Cecile. I didn't get a good chance to visit with you at the parry. You don't mind my stopping in do you?”

“Of course not, Richard.”

Richard.

Come to think of it, he did look like a Richard. I’d call him Rich, though. I really would.

She strolled arm in arm with him into the living room. So I snuck down to the bottom of the wide, curving staircase, tucked my knees under my chin and listened.

His father was doing fine after the death of his mother. Yes, ma'am, UVA was going splendidly, he was going to get to room in the Jeffersonian part next year, a real honor even if the rooms were only heated by a fireplace and you had to drag your own wood over from the woodpile. “And don't get me started on the bathrooms.” Yep, still planning on going overseas during the summer to work on a well-digging project in Africa.

Hmm. That seemed interesting, very noble and all.

“No, Aunt Cecile, let's not get started on politics! Come now, you know better, you yellow dog Democrat. Yes, I’m a Democrat, too, but for different reasons, important reasons.”

Politics? Oh, who cares? Get on with more interesting discussion.

“Oh, yes! I didn't tell you about that? Are you sure? Not even during our visit to UVA? Clarke and I decided with this big old house and no ability to have children of our own, we'd try helping out a needy young person.”

A needy young person. Yes, that would be me.

And then I heard words that sent shivers through me. “She's extraordinary!”

“Yes, she is, isn't she?”

“Has such presence. A very natural thing.”

“Oh, yes. Utterly herself, I believe. I mean, she's been taking voice lessons for years, but no one can teach that sparkle. What is it they call it out in Hollywood? You know that expression, don't you? Help me out, please?”

“The ‘it factor’?”

“Heavens, yes. That's it exactly.”

“Can I meet her today?”

Oh, just those voices and nothing more, and I didn't give a hoot! It was all I needed. Someone wanted to talk to me. Myrtle Charmaine Whitehead.

“Of course! Will you stay for supper? You like pork, don't you? Can I get you a drink?”

“Be delighted. Do you think she'll sing for me?”

“I don't see why not. Now tell me more about this trip of yours,” Mrs. Ferris began, and I beat it on up to my room. I had to get ready! I had to shower, shave my legs and underarms — even though I’d be wearing a long-sleeved dress, but let's face it, you feel better with your underarms shaved—pick out something to wear. Something simple, not school-girlish, but not as though I’m trying to look mature. It's one thing to look mature. But to look like you're trying to look mature is, well, immature. Kinda pathetic, too. I got enough sympathy without going looking for it.

The whole time I readied myself I heard his words, “Do you think she'll sing for me?”

For me.

Oh, my lands! Sing for him.

And then it occurred to me that never once had I really had a crush on a boy in school. But here this young man comes along, well, a bonafide man, actually, and I turn into a big bowl of whipped cream, nothing but air and sugar.

Sing for me.

The blue eyes, that windy hair. I wanted to look at his hands, get a good, long look at them, and I wanted to wonder what they'd feel like caressing my face.

Yes, I’ll sing for you, Richard. I’ll sing like you've never heard before. I’ll shine under your chin like a spring buttercup.

5

T
hat seamstress seemed to think of black as my “quintessential” color. But when I walked into the dining room for dinner, wearing the emerald dress Grandma Sara had made for me the year before, I banished black forever!

His eyes descended on me, first to my hair, which I’d gathered up with a few hairpins to lie on top of my head, then they examined my face — I just smiled with a relaxed little grin, acting, acting, acting like I did in the school plays—and then they stared at my chest.

No one ever stared at my chest before. But at fourteen, I wasn't what even a compulsive liar would call voluptuous, because even a compulsive liar would get no thrill in the lie. It would be like pointing to a blade of grass and saying, “That there's a pot roast.” Or plunging a hand into ice water and saying, “Reminds me of that hot tub Aunt Evaline bought last year.”

But I was sweet enough looking, I guess. Enough for Richard the Adventurous, anyway, to see me as more than a little kid.

They stood by the table, almost ready to be seated, drinks in hand with musical ice that accompanied each lift to their mouths.

“Myrtle, this is my nephew, Richard.”

He came forward and took my hand in his left hand, covered it with his right. “It's good to see you again. Aunt Cecile has been telling me a lot about you.”

“There's not much to tell.”

“You've had quite a life, I hear.”

“I guess so.”

And then the housekeeper came in with a big tureen of soup. She set it at Clarke's place, put a stack of bowls next to it, and quietly left the room.