Turning about, she walked toward the newspaper stand. It sure seemed like a waste of time to walk all the way to the corner, then across the street, and all the way back down this side of the street, but if that was way folks around here did things, she’d just have to get used to it.
That wouldn’t be so hard.
A few minutes later, she decided crossing the street at the corners was downright easy compared to deciding what newspaper to buy. She’d never seen so many. In the end, she picked the one with a picture of a big building on the front page and a headline about a new theater that would open soon. The man selling the newspapers said that building was only a few blocks away, so that paper seemed like a logical choice.
She paid the man, tucked the newspaper under her arm and walked down the block to where a sign said the soup of the day was tomato.
The inside of the café was red and white everything, right down to the floor. She found a seat at a white table and sat down on a red chair, smiling at how bright and cheery everything appeared. Far cheerier than that man driving the red car. He had been nice looking, though. Far nicer than any of Olin’s sons. It could have been his suit. She wasn’t used to seeing men in suits.
“What can I get for you?”
Shirley glanced up at the woman with a red scarf tied around her dark brown hair. It was tied with a big red bow smack-dab in the middle of the top of her head. It looked spiffy. Shirley figured she might have to tie a scarf that way on her head. She’d have to buy one first. Which meant she needed to get a job.
“I would like a bowl of soup, please, and a cup of coffee,” she said, and then held her breath, waiting for the woman to comment on the way she talked.
The woman smiled and nodded. “Coming right up.”
Shirley smiled, too, mainly to herself. That man didn’t know what he was talking about. Determined to forget all about him, she laid the newspaper on the table, but then, just out of curiosity, scanned the entire front page for the word ain’t.
By the time a bowl of soup and cup of coffee were set on the table, she’d skimmed the entire newspaper and hadn’t found the word. Not once.
That was fine, she didn’t need that word, anyway. Pert-near never said it.
She scanned the newspaper again while eating her soup.
“Well, gal-darn it,” she whispered.
The soup was gone, except for a small amount on the bottom. She grasped the bowl with both hands, but then looked around the room. Others had bowls of soup, but none had picked up the bowl to drink the last bits, so she slid her hands off the bowl and folded them in her lap.
She watched and listened to other people, especially a woman dressed in a dark blue dress and wearing white shoes.
“More coffee?”
Shirley nodded and slid her cup to the edge of the table.
“New to town?” the waitress asked as she poured the coffee.
“Yes, I am,” Shirley answered, conscious of how she sounded. She didn’t sound like that other woman, that was for sure. “I truly am,” she added, focusing on sounding less like, well, a country bumpkin.
“If you’re looking for a job, Mel—he owns this place—is looking for a dishwasher.”
If felt as if someone had just kicked her in the stomach. Washing dishes. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, but she’d washed dishes her entire life, and had sworn she wouldn’t do that again. Not for someone other than herself.
Once again, trying to make herself sound different, sophisticated, Shirley nodded. “Thank you, I will keep that in mind.” She’d heard the woman in the blue dress say that just a few moments ago. Then a hint of excitement fluttered across her stomach. If the waitress knew about a dishwashing job, she might know about other ones. “Do you know of any singing jobs?”
The waitress shook her head. “No.” She nodded toward a man sitting at a table. The same man who’d been talking to the woman in the blue dress. She’d left, but he hadn’t. “Roy would be the man to talk to about that.” The waitress slid the coffee cup back to the center of the table. “Coffee and soup’s fifty cents.”
Fifty cents? Shirley picked her purse up off the floor. At these prices she’d be broke in less time than it took to sneeze. She counted out the change and handed it to the waitress. “Thank you.”
“Good luck to you.”
As soon as the waitress walked away, the man rose from his chair and walked over.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you say that you’re a singer.” He pulled out the chair on the other side of her table. “Mind if I sit down?”
Shirley’s insides leaped so fast she almost flew off her chair. “Yes, I am a singer.” He was wearing a suit, like that fella that had almost run her down with his big red car. She peeked around the edge of the table. He wasn’t wearing boots, either. She wouldn’t hold that against him. Nodding at the chair so he’d go ahead and sit down, she added, “Been singing my entire life.”
The guy with the red car, his hair had been the color of sand; this fella’s was as dark as garden dirt. So were his eyes, and he had a pointed jaw. Made her wonder if it was on account he rubbed it so much. That’s what he was doing now. Rubbing his chin.
“Tell me about your experience,” he said, still rubbing his jaw.
“My experience?”
He smiled. “Yes. Singing. Where have you sung before?”
“Oh.” She waved a hand. Should have known that’s what he meant. “Everywhere. While cooking, cleaning, gardening, working in the barn, feeding the hogs. I just sing all the time. Have for as long as I can remember.”
“I see.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at her so hard she wanted to make sure her collar wasn’t flipped up or something. She was about to check when he gave a slight nod.
“Have you ever sung in front of people?” he asked.
“Oh, sure. Every Sunday I could make it to church.” Wanting him to know how good she was, she continued. “Folks there said I had the voice of an angel. Churches up over in Lincoln had me come sing at funerals whenever I could make it.”
“Lincoln?”
She nodded. “Lincoln.” The way he frowned said he might not know where that was, so she added, “Nebraska.”
“Oh, yes, Nebraska. I’ve heard of that.” He folded his arms across his chest. “How long have you been in California?”
“Since the train I just got off crossed the state line.” Her heart shot into her throat as he glanced at the door. Afraid he might leave, she asked, “Wanna hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Me sing.” Before he could say no, she drew in a deep breath and let the words flow. “Amazing grace, how sweet...”
She continued through the third verse, then, repeating the final line, she held on to the notes while letting her voice slowly fade away. Others back home liked how she’d always done that.
Folks here must, too, because everyone in the café was looking at her and clapping. Excitement fluttered inside her stomach. She smiled and nodded at them, and then turned her full attention to the man sitting at her table.
“That was very good,” he said when the clapping stopped.
“I know.” Folks had been telling her that for years. “That’s why I’m here.”
Smiling, he nodded. “What is your name?”
“Shirley. Shirley Burnette.”
“Well,