The Song Reader

M
y sister Mary Beth was a song reader. Song reading was her term for it and she invented the art as far as I know. It was kind of like palm reading, she said, but instead of using hands, she used music to read people’s lives….

Her customers adored her. They took her advice—to marry, to break it off with the low-life jerk, to take the new job, to confront their supervisor with how unfair he was—and raved about how much better off they were. They said she was gifted. They swore she could see right into their hearts.

Sometimes I thought Mary Beth’s gift would bring us everything.

“A novel of remarkable wisdom and tenderness….

Every splendid page inspires courage.”

—Kevin McIlvoy, author of
Hyssop

M
y sister Mary Beth was a song reader. Song reading was her term for it and she invented the art as far as I know. It was kind of like palm reading, she said, but instead of using hands, she used music to read people’s lives. Their music. The songs that were important to them from as far back as they could remember. The ones they turned up loud on their car radios and found themselves driving a little faster to. The ones they sang in the shower and loved the sound of their own voice singing. And of course, the songs that always made them cry on that one line nobody else even thought was sad.

Her customers adored her. They took her advice—to marry, to break it off with the low-life jerk, to take the new job, to confront their supervisor with how unfair he was—and raved about how much better off they were. They said she was gifted. They swore she could see right into their hearts.

From the beginning, my sister took it so seriously. She’d been doing readings less than a month when she had those cards printed up. Each one said in bold black letters:

Mary Beth Norris

Song Reader/Life Healer

Let me help you make sense of the music in your head.

[Family problems a specialty.]

Leave a message at 372-1891. Payment negotiable.

She had to work double shifts at the restaurant to pay for the cards and the answering machine, but she said it was just part of her responsibilities now. “I have a calling in life,” she told me, “and I’ve got to act like it.”

I wish I’d saved one of those cards, but I wasn’t there the night she buried them at the bottom of the garbage can. It was after Ben left, and after I discovered she’d lied to me about my father. It was when the trouble with Holly Kramer was just beginning, and I still thought—like most of the town—that her talent was undeniable.

Some people even claimed she had to be psychic. After all, no one else knew that Rose was in trouble except Mary Beth; no one even suspected that Rose would take Clyde’s car on that sun-blind Saturday morning and drive it right over the sidewalk and through the glass wall of his News and Tobacco Mart except my sister, who told Rose two months before that she’d better stop seeing Clyde. From the song chart, Mary Beth knew Clyde had to be bad news. She shook her head when Rose got stuck on “Lucille” for five weeks and warned her a life can’t hold this much sadness for long. When Rose started humming “Hungry Heart,” Mary Beth knew the lid was about to blow off Rose and Clyde’s relationship. But she didn’t tell Rose I told you so when we went with Rose’s mother to bail her out of jail. She wasn’t that way with her advice, not at all.

My sister kept file cards on her customers, “song charts” neatly alphabetized in a large green Rubbermaid box in the corner of our kitchen. On Saturdays she would meet with new customers in the little room downstairs our landlady Agnes had donated to the cause—as long as Mary Beth kept the room clean and didn’t disturb Agnes’s husband’s sketches and charcoal pencils still sitting on the desk exactly as he left them when he died eighteen years before. Sometimes she gave advice at these first meetings, but usually she waited until she’d kept the chart for at least a few weeks before she gave them a reading.

They were instructed to call twice each week, on Sunday and Wednesday, and leave a short message telling her the songs and the particularly important lines they had hummed for the last few days. She had to rewind the cassette on the Phonemate back to the beginning to fit all the messages that would come in. I helped her update the charts. (It was a lot of work, especially when they reported country and western songs, which I hated.) I wrote down the titles and lines exactly as they said, even if they got it wrong, for what’s important, Mary Beth said, is how
they
hear the words. But if they were off on the lines, we would make a little star on their chart since Mary Beth said they might be hearing them wrong for a reason. We also made an “S” if they’d sung the lines on the machine, and a “C” if they’d sounded like they were crying or struggling not to.

Mary Beth was proud of this organized system. It allowed her to just glance at an entry and know quite a bit. For example, one of the entries on Dorothea Lanigan’s chart was the last two lines of “Yesterday.” Dorothea had changed only a word and a tense, but Mary Beth had nodded when she looked at the chart later that night and said, “Well, that’s that.”

Even I thought this one was obvious. After all, the song was about lost love, wasn’t it? “It’s too bad Dorothea and Wayne are splitting,” I said. “She must be miserable.”

Mary Beth looked up at me from the floor where she was sitting surrounded by charts and burst out in a laugh. “Leeann, they are going to be engaged by the end of the month. You mark my words.” And of course, it turned out to be true. They had their wedding the next summer. Mary Beth was the maid of honor, since Dorothea said it was all thanks to her.

It was a gift, everybody said so. Sometimes I wished I had the gift, too, but I knew I didn’t; I’d tried and failed too many times with my friends to believe otherwise. I asked them about their music and I gave them my theories, but I was always way off, and Mary Beth finally told me I was dangerous. “You can’t mess around with something like this. What if somebody believes you?”

I knew, though, there was little chance of that. Mary Beth was the kind of person you take seriously; I had never been. Only my sister saw me as the thoughtful, intense person I felt I really was; my friends and acquaintances looked at me as a sweet, happy-go-lucky, go-along-with-anything kind of person. And I knew that was a side of me, too, but I was more comfortable at home, always had been, even though I didn’t have parents.

Sure, we were a small family after Mom died, but it wasn’t lonely. We had the endless stream of my sister’s customers and of course the music. Every day, all day, our stereo would play and Mary Beth would talk about the lyrics, what they really meant. Even when we got Tommy, she kept it up, because she said babies could adjust to noise just fine, as long as you gave them the chance.

When Tommy first came to us, Mary Beth wasn’t even all that surprised. She was only twenty-three, but she’d wanted a child as long as she could remember, and she was a big believer in things working out, no matter how improbable the odds. “It was meant to be,” she concluded. “It’s a sign that I’ve waited long enough.”

At first, I didn’t see it that way. I was eleven then; I knew you couldn’t just hand over a living, breathing baby as payment for services rendered. Of course Mary Beth insisted Tommy wasn’t payment, but I didn’t see the distinction. After all, a customer had given him to my sister after the song reading was over, the same way they gave her cakes and stews and afghans and even cash occasionally.

Her name was Linda, but she called herself Chamomile, like the tea. She had a garden of red and purple flowers tattooed on her back, a string of boyfriends back in Los Angeles, and a fourteen-month-old son with big black eyes and curly black hair that she hadn’t even bothered to name.

She called him the blob, because she was so sure he was retarded. He couldn’t walk or crawl; he didn’t talk or coo or even cry much. Nobody wanted that baby: not Linda, not her parents, and not any of the families on Missouri’s waiting list for perfect, white infants. Mary Beth took this as another sign that she was supposed to have him. She didn’t care if his daddy was black or brown or from Mars, because the first time she picked him up, he held on to her hair with his fist like he was afraid she’d disappear. When she curled up next to him at night, he breathed a fluttering little sigh of what she swore was pure happiness.

Linda was back in Los Angeles and the adoption was already final when the doctor confirmed what Mary Beth had been saying all along: the only thing wrong with Tommy was the way Linda had been treating him. He turned into a chubby-legged toddler who giggled as he followed us all over the apartment. He called me “E-ann” in the sweetest little voice. He called Mary Beth, Mama.

Sometimes I thought Mary Beth’s gift would bring us everything.

My sister Mary Beth was a song reader. Nobody else in the whole world can say that, as far as I know. And even after everything that happened, I still find myself wishing I could go back to when the music was like a spirit moving through our town, giving words to what we felt, connecting us all.

I
t started when we tried to find our father, once, a long time ago. Mom had just died and we were reeling from the loss of our normal life.

Tracking him down was my idea, although I thought it was the obvious thing to do under the circumstances. My sister didn’t agree. At Mom’s funeral, when people asked if we were going to contact our father now, she stared right through them. Later she said she couldn’t believe such a rude question. How could it matter after this? How could anything matter after this?

Mom had been on her way home from the July sale at Venture department store when she pulled out in front of an eighteen wheeler on Highway 61. Her car was cut in two, but when the insurance adjuster pried open the trunk, the bag from the sale was still intact. A green and pink striped bath towel, two packages of girls’ size 10 underwear for me, and the album
Plastic Letters
for Mary Beth. Mom didn’t know anything about Debby Harry or punk, but she’d always called Mary Beth her “blondie.”

What I remember about that time is how tired I was. I would go to bed so sleepy that I felt like I’d be out for hours, only to startle awake and realize again what had happened. Mary Beth had the same problem, but when the doctor at the hospital had offered her sleeping pills, she’d said no. “Doctors try to cure everything with pills,” she told me, “even feelings.”

I would have gladly taken them but nobody offered. I was just a kid.

We waited weeks to clean out Mom’s bedroom. We bagged up the clothes first, to give to the needy. It was what Mom would have wanted. Mary Beth was almost six feet tall; Mom had been five-three at best, and I had no immediate plans to wear polyester pant suits and stiff-collared shirtdresses.

Dad had been gone five years by then, and the room seemed like it had always been only Mom’s. There was no aftershave stain on the dresser, no tie collecting dust in the bottom of the closet, no flattened, laceless wing tip under the bed. It was just luck that I found his ring under Mom’s cedar chest—luck in the form of an old vacuum cleaner that balked and spit the silver circle back at my ankle hard enough to make me bend down and take a look.

It took me a minute to realize that the ring must have been Dad’s. It was engraved with his initials, HN, Henry Norris, but it was so small it fit me. I found out later that he’d worn it as a little boy, a gift from his mother. Dad adored his mother. This was one of the few facts I had about him.

He grew up in Tennessee. His father died when he fell off a train, drunk, when Dad was seven. His mother had to support them with her sewing, “piecework” they called it, since she was paid only when she finished a piece of clothing, getting nothing if she was too sick or tired to turn in anything at the end of a day. But when Dad was seventeen, she, too, died suddenly. She had a stroke of some kind, quite rare for as young as she was, and I’d heard whispers between cousins I barely knew about Dad’s reaction: how he had a kind of nervous breakdown and great-aunt somebody had to take him to her house to recover, and how after that he, the brightest-smartest-could-have-made-something-of-himself boy you ever saw, never even finished high school.

Mary Beth told me once it takes guts to go nuts, and he must have had guts. “Most people,” she said, “ignore the wound, put a Band-Aid on it, and forget it. Only the gutsy ones can look right at the blood, stare into the pain, and risk losing their minds to know what’s what.”

I didn’t think she was talking about Dad, though. She almost never did. Even when the social worker assigned to my “case” asked about our father, Mary Beth just said he was “out of the picture.” (The social worker was supposed to figure out where to put me after my mom died, but her job didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Mary Beth was twenty-two and perfectly responsible; then too, my sister was the only person who wanted the job of caring for me. What was there to decide?)

I wore the ring for several weeks, thinking it would tell me something about him. I’d had a dream he was standing on a boat wearing a skipper’s cap, holding a compass, issuing directions to unseen sailors. Later I realized I’d seen a picture of him on a boat, taken when he and Mom were on their honeymoon at the Lake of the Ozarks, but this didn’t shake my feeling that he had crossed the sea and was thousands of miles from Tainer, Missouri.

When Mary Beth saw the ring on my finger, she said, “How cute,” as though I was a little kid playing dress-up, as though this ring was as meaningless to me as the ones that shot out in colorful plastic orbs from the gumball machine.

She knew I didn’t really remember Dad. I was five when he left us; she was seventeen. One of the only discussions we’d ever had about him was when she realized I was making up things, telling my friends whatever came to mind, from a secret government assignment that called him to Venezuela, to a job in Hollywood, behind the camera for
Eight is Enough.

I think she felt sorry for me, because she gave me two true stories instead. When he worked for Hedley’s Auto Parts and Tires, she said, he made a jungle gym out of junk parts and old tires that had a ten-foot-tall hideout that was the favorite of all the kids in the neighborhood. And once, he won a contest at the civic club downtown. It was like
Name That Tune
and he could name them faster than anyone. He always loved music, especially show tunes like “Oklahoma” and “Camelot” and classical stuff.

Neither of these things helped. The jungle gym had nothing to do with me; I’d never even seen it. (We’d moved into our apartment on the second floor of Agnes’s house when I was just a baby; Mary Beth said the gym would have been impossible to move even if we’d had the yard space.) And the contest business was just another connection between Dad and my sister that I didn’t share. She was the musical one, the one who’d had the largest record collection in the senior class.

Maybe I wanted to know something about him that she didn’t. Maybe that’s why I started writing to his relatives to locate him, without mentioning what I was doing to her or anyone.

Mom had kept some of their addresses in her blue phone book. I began with the N page, for Norris, and just kept going, writing one a day every afternoon, before Mary Beth came home from her waitress job. I knew it was a long shot, but Mom always said hard work would pay off in the long run.

And it turned out to be true. After a few months of writing, I got the information I was waiting for. Joseph Morgan, from Kansas City, a second cousin of Dad’s whom I’d met only once long ago at a family reunion in Boonville, had seen Dad. His letter went on for two pages, updating me about people and things I’d never heard of, but it ended with the news that Dad had given him an address. No phone, not even an unlisted one, but a street and an apartment number and even a zip code.

I folded the letter carefully and stuck it in my dresser, under my pajamas. I intended to keep it a secret from Mary Beth for at least a few days, but I barely lasted through dinner.

She didn’t speak for a full minute after reading the letter. I thought for sure she was upset, but then she smiled. “You did it, honey. Good for you.”

It crossed my mind that she’d known all along I’d been trying to find him, but I was too happy to care. When I told her I was going to write him that night, she nodded. “Of course you are.”

It wasn’t a long letter. I told him we were doing fine, that I was in the fifth grade and my favorite subject was history. In the last paragraph, I told him about Mom. I almost didn’t, figuring it would come as such a shock, but I worried that if I didn’t, he might not write back. I signed my letter, “All my love. Your daughter, Leeann.”

I circled the date I mailed the letter on the calendar, Tuesday, December 5, and calculated how long I would have to wait for a response. I figured for sure I would hear something by the fifteenth, but when the fifteenth came and went, I decided he hadn’t written because he was going to just show up for the holidays and surprise us. I wished I’d asked him what he wanted for Christmas. I had to get him something, but I didn’t know what he liked or his size or even his favorite color. I settled on a one-size-fits-all acrylic sweater from The Men’s Place in bright blue and violet stripes. My favorite color was blue, Mary Beth’s was violet. I figured our father had to like one of those colors at least a little.

Mary Beth knew I was buying Dad a present and she didn’t try to talk me out of it. “It’s sweet of you. If he doesn’t come here for Christmas, we can always mail it to him. But what’s really important is what you want for Christmas. You haven’t told me yet, you know.” She sighed. “I want to make this holiday as normal as possible. I think it’s what Mom would want for us.”

I didn’t really care about presents, but I made a short list. On Christmas morning, it was all there: a pair of jeans, a Sony portable radio, and a set of fancy drawing pencils. But Dad didn’t come. Of course. His sweater, wrapped in green and yellow snowmen, stayed under the tree in the back, almost out of sight, until New Year’s Day when Mary Beth and I packed up the ornaments and put the tree out in the street with the trash.

I stuffed the present under my bed, where it was safe, and where I wouldn’t have to see it every day. I stopped thinking about Dad. I knew I’d have to keep trying, but I didn’t know where to begin. But about a month and a half later, I came up with a plan. I would go to Kansas City to deliver the sweater myself.

This time when I told my sister there was no smile. She was watching
One Day at a Time
and filing her nails. She said it wasn’t a good idea, and turned up the volume on the TV.

“Come on, Mary Beth,” I said. “I’m sure we could get there in a few hours. It’s not that far.”

“It takes about five hours, but that’s not the problem.” Her voice was flat; she was concentrating on the edge of her thumb. “Think about it. He knows exactly where we are, and he hasn’t ever come back to see us. There has to be a reason for that.”

When I pressured her to tell me what that reason could be, she shook her head. “I’m not up to discussing this right now. Please, Leeann, just leave it alone.”

But I couldn’t do that. Every night that week after she got home from work, I begged her to change her mind, and every night, she told me to drop the subject. I tried everything, from promises of good behavior to persuading her latest boyfriend, Nick, to take my side. Nothing helped. My promises were sweet, she said, but they didn’t change the situation. And Nick’s advice was meaningless. What would he know about
her
family and
her
life?

He wasn’t the first guy to hear that from my sister, and he wasn’t the first (or last) to be dumped when he tried to interfere. She told him not to call anymore after she found out that he’d offered to take me to Kansas City himself one Sunday when she had to work. I felt bad for him, but I had to tell her. I knew it would be just the thing to make her realize she had no choice in the matter.

I didn’t want to go with Nick; I wanted to go with her.

And it worked. She said we could leave in a few weeks, as soon as she could arrange a weekend off. I hugged her and thanked her. I said it would be an adventure, a real-life long-lost-loved-one kind of meeting like the ones in the movies.

“Maybe,” was all she said.

When the Friday evening finally arrived, I packed up the present and my nicest skirt and knitted beige sweater while Mary Beth threw together some of her stuff. The drive took almost exactly five hours, and I was so tired when she pulled into a Travel Lodge motel in Independence that I fell asleep immediately, with my clothes still on, when I lay down on the stiff motel bed.

The next morning we had to get our bearings in Kansas City and find the downtown area, and then go south, like the map Mary Beth bought at the motel told us to do. When we finally got close to Dad’s, however, Mary Beth decided we couldn’t go yet since we hadn’t had lunch, so we headed farther south, to the Plaza. I complained a little but I really didn’t mind. Just seeing his neighborhood had made my throat go dry and itchy.

We ate and hung out at the Plaza, looking in store windows, trying on clothes we couldn’t afford. Finally, Mary Beth said we’d better get going, and we headed back up to Harrison Street.

We found the address quickly. It was a three-story, dark red brick apartment building, run-down looking, with an overflowing Dumpster on the side, and two yellowing plastic chairs sitting on the front lawn. We opened the door, and I swallowed hard when I saw Henry Norris printed neatly on a white card above the middle of the six buzzers.

Mary Beth rang the buzzer. No one answered so she rang again. Still no answer, so she rang the buzzer on the left, underneath the card that said Landlord.

A woman in a purple housecoat and silver-sequined slippers opened the door. She looked us over without any expression. “Who’re you looking for?”

Mary Beth said, “Henry Norris. I see his name here, but he doesn’t answer his buzzer. Do you have any idea when he might return? We’re sorry to bother you, but we’ve come a long way, and we can’t wait too long.”

“I wish I knew. He lit out of here two weeks ago without so much as a good-bye. He didn’t owe me no back rent, but he left the place in an awful state. My nephew came over last week and took one look and told me he’d have to give it at least two coats of paint before I can advertise. In the meantime, I’m losing money, and I can barely make ends meet as it is. So I’m not real happy with Henry Norris right now. Are you related?”