Songbird (28 page)

Harlan nods and lifts a finger. He's weary, already getting the dirt on some of the problems we've inherited at Port of Peace.

One of the elders thinks if you don't show up on mulch day, no matter how much you do in other areas, you're not pulling your weight. He's mad at half the church.

The nursery staff is in an uproar over an eighteen-month-old biter whose mother drops him off on Sundays. Two people are threatening to quit unless he's asked to leave. Three people are threatening to quit if he
is
asked to leave.

“We're all the Jesus that child may ever know!” says the children's minister. And I agree with her, but I’m keeping my mouth shut. I’ve already decided I’m keeping my mouth shut about everything I possibly can.

And at the pinnacle of our troubles teeters the disagreement as to who they'll hire to put new railing on outside and whether spindled or Chippendale would be more appropriate.

My lands.

However, a lot more good things than bad things go on at Port of Peace and I try to remind Harlan of that every day.

They hired Henry Windsor on as the new music director. And Melvin, already employed by some sound system company, runs all the equipment on Sundays.

I fix the tea as Harlan and Grandma talk about the class she'll be taking at the preschool. The pre-k class. She's excited. Buzzing around the rim of my brain I hear that sweet, geriatric twitter, that youthful, high sound that makes me wonder what she was like as a youngster.

Harlan doesn't know we've been searching for Mama these past few years. I think he's always wanted to assume she was dead, for my sake. He never brings it up unless I do, which surprised me, and I almost never bring Mama up. All these years later I still don't talk about her much. Now that I’m a mama, with a mama's heart and soul and a mama's way, I sometimes even allow myself to hate her. Sometimes I hope she really is dead. Even if she was a schizophrenic. Or manic-depressive or whatever disorder she suffered from. I’ve tried to read a little about everything. I do know she was
not
an agoraphobic! A lot of symptoms overlap, and it's hard to remember what she was really like. I was only eleven years old and kids seem to accept things as normal that are hardly so. I cannot diagnose her any more than I can diagnose what ails the lady in the checkout line.

So, yes, maybe I should feel more sorry for her than I do. I probably don't really wish she was dead. But with my heart so sore from being tossed back and forth all of these years, I wish Harlan's easy explanations worked for me. I need to remember my mama was a victim. But that doesn't make the memories of her mistreatment of me any less painful. In fact, it makes it worse because there's nobody really to blame, is there? Nobody to focus my now unjustifiable rage upon, nobody to take responsibility. And here I am, wounded, yet feeling sorry for my attacker.

If that doesn't feel like a case of eternal heartburn, I don't know what does!

I set down the pot and some mugs onto the table. We fix our cups, milk and sugar for Harlan, just milk for Grandma, and nothing for me.

Everybody's tired. We sit in silence and that's okay because that's what families do.

I am struck suddenly with the realization that I am living in a house with four other people. My flesh and blood grandma, my husband, our adopted daughter, and our foster son. I remember Ruby talking years ago about that adjective our son bears. “Foster.” And I do believe that the next time Grace calls I’ll ask her what she thinks about Harlan and I becoming official parents.

Leo George Hopewell.

I like that.

I think Leo will, too. Hopewell is a much nicer name than Underhill.

Harlan excuses himself after finishing half his cup and I know he's going back to do his evening Bible devotional. He's been reading Spurgeon's
Morning and Evening
every day ever since I’ve known him. I’m more of a
Daily Bread
kind of person. One verse, a short paragraph, a poem, and a prayer. Now whoever thought of that was a genius. It even keeps the attention of someone like me.

Grandma scrapes off her glasses and rubs the shelf of skin beneath her eyebrows with the pads of her thumbs. “Oh, me. I’m tired, sweetie.”

“I’m so glad you came down here, Grandma.”

“So am I, Charmaine. You're my sweetie.”

Oh, the love I feel just now.

“Tomorrow I’ll take you over to the school. I can help you set up your room if you'd like.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, I’ve got plans. You handy with a stapler? I’ve got to put up my bulletin boards by next week.”

“But school doesn't start for two weeks.”

“I’m an early bird. Remember, what else have I had to do for the past two and a half decades?”

I see her point.

I have to ask the question. “Any more news?”

She shakes her head. “Just more dead ends. We're never going to find her on our own.”

“That's what I’m afraid of.”

“You want to hear what I’ve been thinking?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What if we hire a detective?”

“A private eye?”

“That's exactly what I mean.”

I sip my tea and look down. “Aren't they expensive?”

“I’ve lived frugally and selling the house helped, too. And now that I’m living here with you and Harlan, my expenses are even more limited.”

I nod. “You got any idea who you're gonna get?”

“I do. He's from Richmond. He's coming down to Mount Oak next week to meet with me.”

“Where?”

She shrugs. “I don't know. He's going to call when he gets into town. You got any suggestions?”

“How about Bill D’s Restaurant?”

“That's what I’ll tell him.”

A private eye. I am amazed. Of course I wondered about doing something like this years ago, but I knew it was something Harlan and I could never afford.

Poor Grandma Min. Most old people spend all their savings on their health, but it appears Grandma is still forced to give all she has for a daughter who never gave a fig for anyone.

As I said before.

3

I
am so excited. You should see this Brooks Tone Records place! Marble and chrome and leather chairs. The receptionist, with a black, arsty-type dress — very New York — and a French twist with some tendrils hanging around her pale face, is so polite.

“My name is Charmaine Hopewell? I have an appointment with Carl Bofa?” I am whispering. I don't know why. Maybe it would echo too much in here and I’d seem like the Podunk singer I am. Why did I think coming here was a good idea? What was MaryAnna thinking? Me ready for a real record deal? In this high-class, high-powered world?

Her switchboard lights up. “Just a moment, please.”

So calm!

I mean singing in front of the folks that come to concerts like Gospelganza is one thing, but coming to Nashville to a big record company like BrooksTone? I’m an idiot.

She works those buttons like it's a typewriter, saying, “BrooksTone Records … one moment, please,” “BrooksTone, please hold,” and “Thank you for holding, how may I direct your call?”

She's more polished than Reverend Robert Schuler.

“I apologize for the delay.”

I wave a hand with nails lacquered much too red if hers are any indication. “Oh, things always come in droves, don't they?”

“They absolutely do.”

They absolutely do. Now I would never have said it so fine like that! I would have said, “They sure do!” and then blabbered on about all the times that it had happened to me.

Wonder if this gal gives deportment lessons in classiness? Right now, I sure do wish Cecile and Clarke Ferris had rubbed off on me more.

“I’ll let Mr. Bofa know you've arrived. Why don't you have a seat on the settee?”

The settee? It looks like a leather couch to me.

I am out of my league here. I’m so far out of my league I’m in a different sport altogether. It's like a softball player from Podunk, U.S.A. trying out for a Stanley Cup hockey team.

Even the decor tells me this.

Where there aren't windows there are gold records and posters, cover art and paintings by Mr. Bofa. Now, I don't know much about much, but these paintings look like something Hope would do. I can't even tell what they are!

I have no idea what color the walls really are.

Gray maybe?

Does it matter? Probably not. I’ll never see this place past today anyway.

“Ms. Hopewell?”

The soothing voice accompanies a light touch on my shoulder and I open my eyes.

I’m sure my face matches my hair. “I can't believe I fell asleep!”

“It's all right. A lot of people do. It's the furniture.”

“Very comfy!”

Why am I shouting everything?

“Jay is ready to see you now.”

I look at my watch. “I’ve been sitting here for an hour?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. We've had a delay in the scheduling.”

“No, no. I wasn't complaining, I just can't believe I fell asleep for that long!” I whisper, “Was I snoring?”

And she laughs her true laugh and I can see the girl behind the image. I like her. “Yes, but nobody came in.”

“Oh, good ! Promise me if I do that again you'll wake me up!”

“I will.”

She smiles into my eyes this time. She has nice eyes, a grayish-green mossy kind of eye with a deep blue rim. Eye-of-the-storm eyes.

We are sisters and I know this because when she turns around, her tag at the back of her neck is turned out and there's a runner down the back of her panty hose.

“I’ll show you back.”

I grab my purse. “Thanks.”

Her heels click a lower tone than mine as we negotiate the black marble floors. She's much taller and therefore heavier than me. And now I can see that the dress beautifully hides a nice-size derrière. Good for her. I’ll bet she's not living on Diet Coke!

More art, more records, more posters.

Wait a second!

Jay?
Who's Jay?

“I thought Mr. Bofa's first name was Carl?”

“It is. You'll be seeing Jay Spentser first. He's our artists relations guy.”

“My first line of defense?”

“Exactly. Use him for all he's worth. It's why they pay him five times as much as they pay me.”

Oh, that was indiscreet. Good, then.

She shows me to an opened doorway. A pair of white sneakers, the boat kind, glow from beneath the kneewell of the desk and a preppy-type guy wearing a pink Izod shirt stands to his feet. “Charmaine Hopewell! I’d recognize you anywhere.”

“I hope that's good,” I say.

“It sure is. It pays to stand out in this business.”

The receptionist smirks. “Don't let him fool you.”

And we say in unison, “He says that to all the girls.”

He winces at the receptionist. “Thank you, Ella, for
your
support.” He sounds like those cute Bartles & Jaymes guys in those funny commercials.

I smile. “You sure know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”

“It's my job.”

“I’m Jay, by the way.”

“Ella told me. Good to meet you.”

We shake hands. What a cutie pie. Freshfaced, blond, was quite possibly a tennis pro in another life if you believed in other lives. But he must be a golfer judging by the paraphernalia. Golf clubs, golf shoes, golf ice bucket, golf tumblers, golf pictures, golf books, and a mechanical bank where a golfer putts the penny into the slot.

“Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

Ella steps forward. “Soda or coffee or tea? We have whatever you'd like.”

“I’d like a Diet Coke.”

Ella backs out and says, “You be good now, Jay!”

Jay sits back down and rocks back in his leather desk chair. “Ahh, a Diet Coke, huh? That's a good girl.”

“A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.”

“And nowadays it's hard to get away with being a big singer.”

I smile. “There are some.”

“Yep.”

“But I don't have their voices.”

He taps the desk. “I like a girl who knows her limitations. But it's not about just the voice, it's about the attitude and of course, the ministry.”

My ears perk.

He leans forward, eyes earnest. “We may be fun and games here at BrooksTone, but to me it's about more than the bottom line. You really sing to the soul when you're up on stage.”

“You've seen me?”

“Who do you think got your foot in the door here?”

“Well, then, I should thank you.”

“No need. I felt like the Holy Ghost was whispering in my ear.”

“You feel like that, too, sometimes?”

“No doubt about it.”

Well, my, my, my. I guess Christians come in all shapes and sizes. He just seems too normal to have the Holy Ghost whispering to him. I mean, he's wearing a polo shirt and jeans.

Ella arrives with my Diet Coke. “I’d love to stay and chat, but the phones will go crazy.”

“’Bye, Ella,” I say.

And we smile into each other's eyes once more.

One thing for sure, I am at home with these people. Now I guess Mr. Bofa will be another story.

“So, what questions do you have, Charmaine?”

“Tell me about BrooksTone.”

He does. And I learn that it was bought out by the big entertainment conglomerate, Kinglee Enterprises, last year. “Of course, they brought in new managers who care only about the bottom line.”

I shrug. “Business is business, I guess.”

“But does one really have to compromise their intended mission?” he asks.

“I sure hope not.” I lean forward. “What is your intended mission?”

“To further the gospel while building up the artist him- or herself.” He leans forward. “But I want you to know I am here for you. I’m determined we'll always put the artist first and foremost.”

I’m not sure whether to believe him or not. But I guess I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

He looks at his watch. “Well, ready to go meet the big guy?”

“The big guy?”

“Just a pet name.”

I guess a pet name like “big guy” can go either way.

“Let's go then. I might as well get this over with.”

He escorts me farther on down the hallway and we stop at the end. He points to the left.

Double doors and a stainless steel nameplate that says, CARL BOFA, VICE PRESIDENT looms, yes looms, before me.