As Bright as Heaven(75)

Howie is my age, freckled and pudgy, and he adores me. He moved to Philadelphia after the flu. Several years after.

I have no idea if my voice will carry into the shadows beyond the grate the same way the notes of the piano are floating up to me. But I open my mouth to sing, and I jump right in where the lyrics speak of there being only a photograph to tell my troubles to.

The piano stops. Whoever is playing it can hear me. I look up at Howie standing next to me, and I laugh.

“Willa! Come on,” Howie implores. “We shouldn’t be here!”

He looks about, half-panicked. There are dozens of people up and down the sidewalks, some in suits and fine dresses, some in weatherworn work clothes, and some—the beggars—in rags. Most haven’t given us a second glance. The vegetable vendor across the narrow street is scowling, however—she is big and red-faced and her disdain at my bending over the grate of a speakeasy that no one is supposed to know about but everyone does is as clear as glass. A man leaning up against the brick wall of the building next to the grate and puffing on a cigar is staring down at me, too. But he looks surprised, not disgusted.

The music starts up again, slow and tentative, inviting me to join in like a hopeful partner at a dance. It pauses, waits for me. So I sing the words about being alone with dreams that won’t come true. The man with the cigar takes a step toward us and Howie grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet and we dash off, the music of the piano falling away.

We run for several blocks before we stop, breathless, holding our sides. Howie looks behind to see if we’re being chased by the police or gangsters with machine guns or the woman with the cabbages. But no one is coming after us.

“What’d you do that for?” Howie says.

I flick back a curl. What a ridiculous question. Why does anyone do anything?

“Did you hear how that piano player waited for me to keep singing?” I reply instead.

“If my parents find out I was hanging around the door to that place . . .”

Howie doesn’t finish. I don’t know what his mother and father do to dole out punishments, but Howie just shakes his head back and forth like it’s just too terrible to contemplate. If Papa found out I was singing into the grate of a speakeasy, he’d give me a stern look and tell me that’s not acceptable behavior. He might extract a promise that I never do that again even though I’m not so good at keeping promises, even to him. And anyway, I could easily make a vow never to sing at the grate of that speakeasy again and uphold it. If I wanted to try my luck at another grate of another speakeasy, I wouldn’t have much trouble finding one. This is Philadelphia. Worse than New York and Chicago, if you ask Dora Sutcliff. I didn’t, by the way; she is just always ready to tell people that.

“But how would your parents find out?” I ask as we start to walk again, and the air in our lungs is now going in and out at the regular speed.

“What if someone saw us?”

“We were just listening at a grate.”

“You were singing down a grate! And not just any grate.” He leans in close to me. “Those places are illegal.”

He says the word illegal like it’s illegal to say it.

“It’s just what they sell that it is illegal,” I offer back.

“That’s what I mean.”

“No, you said the place is illegal.”

“It’s all illegal.”

“So your father doesn’t have any whiskey in your house?” I loop my arm through his, knowing my question will make him gasp. Howie’s father is a deacon at his church and a prominent businessman. It’s unthinkable that an upstanding, law-abiding gentleman such as he would have bootleg liquor in his house, except that it happens all the time. I bet even Papa has some in his back office.

“Of course not,” Howie sputters, turning about to see if anyone on the street is close enough to hear our conversation.

“I bet he does.”

“He does not,” he growls. “And I’ll kindly thank you not to suggest that he does.”

I laugh and kiss him on the cheek. “That’s you being kind, is it? I’d hate to see you being heartless.”

He is so flustered now he doesn’t know what to think. “I’m not sure I should be walking you home from the trolley stop anymore,” he says, but I don’t believe him.

“I completely understand,” I say as piously as I can. “But I do hope you change your mind. You are very handsome when you’re being stern. Good-bye, my dear Howie!”

I turn from him to continue walking on my own, knowing he is most likely fixed to the pavement, torn between running after me and stomping off in the direction of his own house.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” he yells after me.

I turn to him and wave.

As I start to walk the last few blocks alone, I realize I don’t care so very much if Howie walks me home tomorrow. I’d like to swing by that grate again and listen and this time I’d rather he wasn’t beside me.

For a tiny moment there, I felt like I was the only person in the world besides that piano player. It was just me and the piano man and the music. And it was as if the piano man knew who I was, and what I’ve seen and done, and yet he wanted me to sing for him anyway.

That moment lasted only a few seconds, but I can still hear the echoes swirling inside me. When I get home, they will no doubt float away like feathers on the wind. Alex will want to play a game, Papa will want to know if I’ve schoolwork to do, Maggie will want help with supper or sweeping up flower petals in the funeral parlor. We’ve a cleaning lady now, but she comes only on Tuesdays and Saturdays. There’s always plenty to do when I get home from school. I know the spell will be broken when I open the door and go inside the house I both love and hate.