All for a Song (18 page)

“Yes, he did,” Dorothy Lynn said, enjoying her flash of cruelty. “But not in the way that you think. Please, I’m tired. Can’t we talk in the morning?”

“Do you promise to tell me everything?” Darlene’s expression had been restored to one of mere suspicion.

“Everything.”

She went into the room and shut the door behind her. Enough light came through the window, even with the shade pulled down, for her to prepare for bed without bothering to light the lamp. She leaned the guitar against the cluttered desk and stepped out of her shoes. Wishing she had her sister’s help, she worked halfway down the row of pearly buttons at the back of the dress, shrugging out of it the minute she’d unfastened
enough to do so. The dress landed in a puddle at her feet, and she unsnapped the garters. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she rolled her stockings down and tossed them on the floor. Somewhere, amidst the books and soldiers and overturned rocking horse, she had a nightgown.

Narrow and thin as it was, though, the mattress felt wonderful as she stretched out on it. The best it had ever felt. After all, it was a bed for a child, and in that she found comfort. That, and the sound of hundreds of voices raised in her song trapped within her pillow.

The smell of coffee lured her. Eyes still full of sleep, she found her housecoat hanging on the hook on the back of the door, wrapped it around her, and headed for the kitchen.

“Well, look who’s up,” Darlene said, though she didn’t seem surprised. She wore a dressing gown, though Dorothy Lynn strongly suspected it belonged to Roy, given the blue-and-black pinstripes and wide lapels. For a feminine touch, Darlene had wrapped a thick, blue silk ribbon around her head, securing it with a bow just behind her ear. Her soft, bobbed curls puffed all around it.

Dorothy Lynn had no sooner said “Coffee?” than a steaming cup was on the table, filled to the point of sloshing into the saucer. She leaned forward and took a scorching sip off the top. It was good, better than Ma’s, and she said so.

“It’s Hills Brothers.” Darlene, busily scrambling something delicious in a skillet, used her elbow to point to the can. “You know Ma won’t buy it.”

She glanced at the can sitting on the countertop. The image of the exotic man wearing a turban, long robe, and slippers
as, midstep, he sipped from a cup, embodied their mother’s reluctance.

Dorothy Lynn sighed and took another sip. “She’s missing out on the whole world.”

“From what I remember of Scripture, seems that’s what a good Christian woman is supposed to do.”

“And if I remember, the Bible also says only harlots cut their hair.”

Darlene presented her with a plate of eggs and pulled two pieces of toast from a countertop contraption. “So tell me, Dot, should I take you to the barbershop today and have yours cut?”

The accusation couldn’t have been more obvious, and it took all of Dorothy Lynn’s control to sink her teeth into the crispy toast and suppress an equally hateful reply, and she was glad she did, because her sister’s apology came right on its heels.

“I’m sorry. Of course if anything horrible had happened, I’m sure you would have told me.”

“Why would you even think I was capable of such a thing?”

“Well, he is so handsome. And girls these days—”

“
Girls,
Darlene. Not your sister. Do you know what he wanted?”

“What?” Darlene sat across from her at the table with her own coffee, thirsty for a story.

“He wanted my innocence. He wanted to put this perfect, virginal girl on the stage, singing a sweet song, so that people like you and Roy who think Sister Aimee is some sort of abomination would feel nice and safe.”

“That’s beautiful.”

Dorothy Lynn stabbed her eggs. “It is not beautiful. It’s loathsome.”

“How can you say that?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Why not?”

“You and Ma and Pa—even Brent—none of you understand what it means when I write a song. Where it comes from. You think it’s silly, or quaint. Brent said he’d have no problem allowing me to keep writing once we got married.
Allowing
me! Like it’s a right of his to take away. And then, it finally seems that someone is interested—someone with power—and it turns out he only cared about the length of my hair and my unspoiled nature. He would have used a trained monkey if he thought that would get the people’s attention.”

“He wanted
you
.”

“Maybe.” She pushed the food around on her plate.

“So, how awful was it?”

“How awful was what?”

“Singing, in front of a crowd. You were so upset last night, but I didn’t want to pry. . . .”

“Yes, you did.”

“That’s when I thought it was about something juicy.”

They laughed, putting Dorothy Lynn’s mind momentarily at ease. She took a bite of breakfast and studied her sister. Without her usual rouged cheeks and lip color, Darlene’s face had a soft, porcelain appearance, made full by the weight gain of her pregnancy. In fact, if not for that, she would look almost like a baby doll, except for the lacquered nails gripping her coffee cup.

“Oh, Sis,” she said, steeling herself for the opening of the wound. “It was awful.”

Darlene
tsked
into her coffee. “Stage fright?”

“The opposite.” Between bites, she told of the rousing prayer with Sister Aimee before the evening began, her own prayer alone
on the stage, and the moment she heard herself—as if from the catwalk—singing the song that had before then existed only in her head. She tried to capture the sound of the crowd, singing and praising, and the beautiful, comfortable, natural feeling when she sang a more familiar hymn. “And then,” she concluded, “I didn’t want to leave. I’ve never felt such, such . . .
power
. And it was terrifying.”

“Do you see? How it corrupts? Innocent little thing like yourself. Keep at it and you’d be just like that woman.”

Dorothy Lynn didn’t dare tell her that, for a split second, at least, that was exactly what she’d wanted. “They’d never let that happen. Well, not Mr. Lundi, anyway. He made sure that the audience knew I wasn’t nothin’ but some sweet country girl who wrote a tune for Sister Aimee. Felt like I was back at the schoolhouse on recitation day.”

“Well, at least it’s over.”

She thought for a moment. “Yes.”

“And we can get back to making your wedding dress?”

“Yes,” she said, gulping the last—now tepid—sip of coffee.

“Then go get dressed while I clean up this kitchen. Mrs. Mevreck said she’d keep the boys until noon.”

Flush with the relief of confession, Dorothy Lynn raced up the stairs. In the upstairs bathroom, she splashed water on her face and cleaned her teeth. After running her brush under the tap, she pulled it through her hair, plaited it in two long braids, and wrapped them around her head, pinning them in place.

Back in the room, she was stripped to her underwear when there was a knock and there Darlene stood with the almost-dress draped over her arm. “Now, yesterday, before our
interruption
, I almost had this pinned.”

“No reason we can’t pick up where we left off.”

“I set the machine up in the front room,” Darlene said, motioning for Dorothy Lynn to follow.

“I’m not dressed yet.”

“We’ll get you dressed in this downstairs. It’s fine—there’s no one here but us.”

Wearing only her camisole and underpants, Dorothy Lynn hunkered down and tiptoed behind her sister. Never in her life had she been out and about in a house wearing only underclothes, and she felt especially terrified and daring.

“Relax,” Darlene said. “We’re all girls here.”

They went into the front parlor, where Darlene had mercifully had the foresight to draw the curtains. Though midmorning, the room was a pond of gray, cool light; Dorothy Lynn pulled her arms closer to her, shivering.

“When are the boys due back?”

“Not for two more hours.” Darlene made no attempt to hide her relief. “RJ will start school next year, so things’ll be easier.”

At her sister’s prompting, Dorothy Lynn held her arms out stiffly, stepped into the dress, and stood perfectly still as it was brought up gingerly over her shoulders.

“We want a nice, clean line,” Darlene said, walking a slow circle around her. “Close enough to show your figure but loose enough for dancing.”

“Oh, there won’t be dancin’.” She couldn’t imagine Brent allowing such a thing.

“That’s a shame.”

“Besides, Pa’s not here to dance with, so . . .”

“Oh, Dot. I’m so sorry. That was insensitive of me. But I did talk to Roy the other night, and he said that—if we don’t hear from Donny—he’d be happy to walk you down the aisle.”

Dorothy Lynn’s eyes darted over to the photograph displayed
on the mantel. It was Roy and Darlene on their wedding day—she, nearly unrecognizable in her slender serenity, and he full of protective pride. “I barely remember your weddin’.”

“You were young.”

“What I do remember is how Ma cried that night. After you’d driven away. And Pa pattin’ her and sayin’ it would be all right. That we’d see you again come summer. But she just said it would never be the same.”

“It’s not.”

She could feel the fabric cinching close to her as Darlene closed it up the back.

“I don’t suppose she’ll cry after my wedding.”

“Of course she will.”

“She won’t have nothin’ to cry about. Brent already says he wants us to have dinner with her whenever we can so she won’t be alone. And it’s not but a ten-minute walk from our door to his.”

“It won’t be the same. You’ll be his wife. He’ll be your priority.”

“I suppose.” But it had already become a common thing, the three of them puttering around. “I don’t know why we’re bothering with this.”

“With what?”

“
This.
The dress, the wedding. You’re the only family to be there, and that’s dependin’ on the baby. We’re not headin’ off to any kind of new life or anything. I’m just changing beds.”

Darlene swatted her bottom. “Don’t be vulgar.”

They said nothing for a while until Darlene took the pincushion from her wrist and declared the fitting done. She took Dorothy Lynn’s hand and helped her down from the stool, saying, “Let’s try it out.”

“What do you mean?”

Humming, Darlene crossed the room to the gramophone and began flipping through the discs piled on the table beside it. When she found what she was looking for, she turned the crank—an amusing sight from behind. As the first strains of a familiar tune filled the room, she turned with her arms open wide. “Shall we?”

A woman’s thin voice poured from the speaker.

I once had a gown, it was almost new,

Oh, the daintiest thing, it was sweet Alice blue. . . .

Darlene was so rarely silly, Dorothy Lynn couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Carefully, she took her sister’s hand and stepped into an embrace, ready to let Darlene lead. They giggled, bobbing their heads until the top of the next count, then launched into dancing.

“You dance divinely,” Darlene said, making her voice husky and masculine.

“Why, thank you,” Dorothy Lynn warbled. They waltzed a near-perfect box around the room, occasionally bumping into an end table or sofa.

And they sang.

In my sweet little Alice blue gown,

When I first wandered down into town,

I was so proud inside,

And I felt every eye,

And in every shop window, I primped passing by.

More than once, to avoid tripping, Dorothy Lynn stepped in closer, and she brushed against her sister’s protruding belly.

“She’s dancing too!” Darlene exclaimed, and they laughed louder.

It was Dorothy Lynn who first heard the knock at the door.

“Probably another vacuum cleaner salesman,” Darlene said as she lifted the needle off the record. “Roy says I should indulge them, but who has the time?”

She stepped into the entryway, leaving Dorothy Lynn to immediately regret not having been released from the dress before being abandoned. She could never take it off on her own.

The voices were muffled, but it certainly wasn’t a vacuum salesman at the door. Darlene spoke in low, agitated tones, but not low enough.
“You need to go away. Just leave her alone.”

Roland, and she knew his charms—more persuasive than any salesman could hope to be.

“What does he want?” Dorothy Lynn called, but if she hoped her sister would serve as a buffer, she was mistaken. Suddenly, Roland Lundi was in the front room. His suit, pale gray, blended with the light.

“Dorothy.” Then he stopped and cocked his head, noticing what she was wearing.

“It’s my wedding dress.”

“Is it?” He took a bold step forward and examined it closer, curious.

“It’s inside out. We’re making it. My sister—she’s making it.”

“I hope I haven’t brought you bad luck by looking at it.”

“That’s only for the groom,” Darlene said without a hint of humor or kindness. “And you’re not the groom.”