Free Sing for Me by Karen Halvorsen Schreck Page B

stairs, empty it carefully, return for more. Seven times I do this before the floor is finally free of litter. Now, to sweep. Sweeping, singing, I think of Mahalia Jackson. Hers is a voice that holds hundreds of years of hard history, trials and labors beyond any I can imagine, any I’ll ever know. I’ll never sing like Mahalia Jackson, but I can sing inspired by her.
    I clear my throat and test out my best, lowest register. My voice isn’t nearly as low as Miss Jackson’s, or nearly as rich andlush. But warmed up like this, I’m surprised by the notes I’m able to reach. Mr. Helt would be proud. My voice doesn’t falter or break. I can sustain the song:
Amazing Grace,
How sweet the sound . . .
    I sweep back and forth, back and forth, the broom’s straw bristles against the stained-wood floor my steady accompaniment:
I once was lost
But now am found . . .
    There’s no blot on this music. It’s spotless, as is my soul when I sing it. And if I keep up the effort, soon this place will be spotless, too.
    I make bold and ask God to bless Miss Jackson, wherever she is, however she is, whatever she is doing on this day. Then I tuck the hem of my last best skirt up into my waistband. I pull off my shoes and stockings, get down on my knees, plunge a rag into the bucket of vinegar and water, and start to scrub the floor.
    Before Dad came to America, he was a cabin boy on a Danish ship, and then a sailor. Though Mother winced, he’s told us stories of swabbing the ship’s deck, the raucous songs they used to sing. The only sea chantey I know is “Blow the Man Down.” Swabbing, I sing that:
Yo ho, blow the man down . . .
    Because I am alone, and because this is the most fun I’ve had all day, I pull out all the stops. Forgive me, God (and, by extension, Mother), but I really let ’er rip:
Give me some time
To blow the man down . . .
    “Miss Sorensen.”
    As clear as a ship’s bell, my name sounds in my ears. I look up, frightened. Too late, I remember to yank down my skirt’s hem.
    He’s standing in the open doorway. I’d recognize him anywhere.
    “How on earth?” I hear myself say.
    “My question exactly,” he says.
    He’s not wearing the dashing tuxedo of Friday night. He’s wearing a simple brown suit, a white shirt, a brown tie with thin gold stripes. The suit’s cut is a few years out of date, and there’s a sheen to the fabric that shows the wear that comes when cloth is at the cheaper end of the spectrum. But he’s neatly put together. There’s not a wrinkle from collar to cuff. That’s true of his white shirt and his striped tie, too.
    He either takes very good care of himself or there’s someone in his life that does.
    “Your voice.” He starts to say something else, but then he simply smiles. It’s like a light has been turned on inside him, and that light fills up the room.
    I can feel his warmth again, though he is standing some feet away. I can feel his warmth, and now I am warm, too, in spite of the draft from the window that stirs my hair.
    Am I looking at this man in exactly the same way that Nils looks at me? I look quickly down into the bucket of dirty water. “I didn’t realize anyone was listening or I would have kept my singing to myself.” I can’t see my reflection for the water’s cloudy surface.
    “Keep your singing to yourself and you’ll deny the rest of the world a lot of happiness.”
    I look up and his smile fades at my expression.
    “I don’t sing for the world. I sing for God.” My hands are tight fists. “I sing at church.”
    “God is bigger than church, don’t you think?”
    I feel a sudden, sharp need to stand up and defend myself. But my bare legs are soaked, my skirt the worse for wear, and I have no desire to look foolish. So I stay where I am and hold my head high.
    “Why are you here?”
    He takes a step back. I suppose he doesn’t want me to feel threatened. No wonder. Just last week I read a story in the Trib about a lynching.