"I want to invite you to sing with us every Monday night in the University choir," my professor said my last quarter, his voice hedging some greater invitation. "But there's something you must understand. If you leave here and perhaps sing with us once a week, you will be a good singer. A very good singer. But if you stay, study... if you sing every day... you will be a great singer." His bright Irish eyes darkened over his wide, freckled cheekbones as he lowered his voice. "A very great singer."
The voice teacher I had the quarter before--a cheerful, elderly lady--stopped me before I left her office that last day. She taught me that anyone could learn to sing by teaching two young Asian women in our class who could barely match the piano tones to eventually mimic the sounds seraphim make in their sleep. But as I left that day, she stood by her baby grand piano, fingers stroking the lid, and she called to me hesitantly before I shut the door. "Joanna, you really should change your major. To music. Have you thought of it?"
No, I hadn't thought of it. My husband and I had gotten married just a few months before, and I had one more quarter to finish before graduation. We couldn't afford for me to stay in school. I was finishing my English major, and when I graduated I would go to work doing something sensible. Technical writing. I would make good money--very good money--and enough to pay the debts I married. My husband came home the night before with an $800 leather trench coat. I couldn't stay in school another day...
I had always loved to sing until one summer night in high school Arts Camp. Every night before bedtime, the boys would sing to us across the camp grounds, "Goodnight, ladies. Goodnight, ladies. Goodnight, ladies, we'll see you in the morning." We would stand on our cots, inhale the balmy air through the screened windows, and sing back to them, "Goodnight, gentlemen. Goodnight, gentlemen. Goodnight, gentlemen, we'll see you in the morning." The first night we performed this ritual, my best friend turned to me in her white socks and shorts and said, "Joanna, you can't sing, I swear." And I didn't sing for a long time after that, until I took the voice classes to make up a few needed academic credits. My best friend later studied music at the University of the Pacific. I abandoned my instrument for a pen. It was quieter.
Now as I stared at my divorce papers and the purple ink stamp dating and finalizing the action, the darkening eyes of my Irish voice teacher burned into mine. And I still couldn't answer him. I'd done almost nothing with my life, except for a few stories I'd written, and the debts had tripled. I could no more afford to sing than I could nine years ago. And I had even less time, as jobs were scarce and the only one I could get was 65 miles away. Exhaustion smothered my few waking moments for myself. Something would have to change.
I abandoned the divorce papers on the kitchen counter, pushing away the details of my professor's face, and went to bed. My busy little street in Hollywood finally quieted and I slid under the sheets without earplugs. I made sure my alarm was set for 4:30 a.m. and my body searched for its favorite position. Soon, I fell asleep.
I fell asleep.
I fell asleep.
The garden glowed brighter than the night before. I'd been there in a dream, much as I was now, examining with wonder the unfamiliar lavender and yellow blossoms. A rough path wound between the rows carefully cultivated behind a massive white church wall. The spire's shadow fell to the left of the church, leaving the garden luminous with sunlight. I walked with shadow feet, ghostly, not touching anything, not even the ground.
White silk brocade vest and blue velvet frock coat, black breeches and hose, he crouched over a tiny rose bush, inhaling the delicate fragrance. Dark hair and brow, cheeks pale and rough, he closed his piercing eyes and sang softly in French, his voice resonant like pipe organ. I'd watched him do this the night before, not even thinking I could disturb him. It seemed a metaphysical impossibility, even if it was merely fantasy.
"I know you're here," he said suddenly, the song breaking off. "I sense your presence. You are haunting me, no?"
Startled, I stood motionless beside him. Was this not a dream? Was he not the one haunting me, with his hypnotic voice? I panicked and for the first time in moments felt my body, my heart crashing against my rib cage...
... which I still felt when I immediately awoke.
Sitting in traffic the next morning on the I-5, windshield wipers swishing over raindrops, I thought about my vivid dream and what it could mean. Nothing. It couldn't mean anything, I ruminated as I yawned. It startled me--unnerved me--but I didn't have the strength or energy to care.
Under the swishing and squeaking of the wipers, the radio swelled sweetly with the voice of a baritone:
Calmes dans le demi-jour
Que les branches hautes font
Pénétrons bien notre amour
De ce silence profond...
Two days later, the weekend began with a rainy Friday night. I'd promised a friend who lived in Orange County that I would go to the store on Melrose and purchase her a ticket to the upcoming Halloween festivities in downtown Los Angeles before the prices rose. I wanted to do it that night and not during the weekend itself because I wanted to rest uninterrupted those two days. Eyes blurring dangerously from exhaustion and over-worn contact lenses, I parked on the street and entered the store. Retail Slut. Mannequins in bondage gear and a nun's habit populated the front window. Freaks, I thought.
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