The song finished and I returned to our pew. A prayer was offered to
close the service, then the crowd rushed me. Women in floral prints
smiled and clasped my hand, men in square black suits clapped my
shoulder. The choir director invited me to join the choir, Brother Davis
asked me to sing for the Rotary Club, and the bishop—the Mormon
equivalent of a pastor—said he’d like me to sing my song at a funeral. I
said yes to all of them.
Dad smiled at everyone. There was scarcely a person in the church
that Dad hadn’t called a gentile—for visiting a doctor or for sending
their kids to the public school—but that day he seemed to forget about
California socialism and the Illuminati. He stood next to me, a hand on
my shoulder, graciously collecting compliments. “We’re very blessed,”
he kept saying. “Very blessed.” Papa Jay crossed the chapel and paused
in front of our pew. He said I sang like one of God’s own angels. Dad
looked at him for a moment, then his eyes began to shine and he shook
Papa Jay’s hand like they were old friends.
I’d never seen this side of my father, but I would see it many times
after—every time I sang. However long he’d worked in the junkyard, he
was never too tired to drive across the valley to hear me. However
bitter his feelings toward socialists like Papa Jay, they were never so
bitter that, should those people praise my voice, Dad wouldn’t put
aside the great battle he was fighting against the Illuminati long
enough to say, “Yes, God has blessed us, we’re very blessed.” It was as
if, when I sang, Dad forgot for a moment that the world was a
frightening place, that it would corrupt me, that I should be kept safe,
sheltered, at home. He wanted my voice to be heard.
The theater in town was putting on a play, Annie, and my teacher
said that if the director heard me sing, he would give me the lead.
Mother warned me not to get my hopes up. She said we couldn’t afford
to drive the twelve miles to town four nights a week for rehearsals, and
that even if we could, Dad would never allow me to spend time in town,
alone, with who knows what kind of people.
I practiced the songs anyway because I liked them. One evening, I
was in my room singing, “The sun’ll come out tomorrow,” when Dad
came in for supper. He chewed his meatloaf quietly, and listened.
“I’ll find the money,” he told Mother when they went to bed that
night. “You get her to that audition.”