Page 37 of A Boy Called Lovesong

I felt seen. I felt exposed. What could the boy with the spoons possibly have to do with me being there in Clara’s Crossing?

“No,” I said defensively. “I’m not here for anything special. I’m… I’m nothing special. My car broke down, that’s all.”

The elevator bumped to a halt on the upstairs level.

With a yank and a clang, Maybelle hauled open the grill doors of the elevator.

The boards creaked in time with Maybelle’s limp as I followed her past the top of the grand staircase. I noticed half the steps were broken or bowed and realized the elevator was perhaps the lesser of two evils, no matter how slow it was. As Maybelle led me down a long hallway, doors on either side, I wondered if the rotten staircase was in fact the reason she was limping in the first place.

“Over there’s the door to the bathroom,” Maybelle pointed. “That’s a share situation too. Be respectful and you’ll find there’s enough personal time for everyone. There’s a kitchen downstairs that you’re free to use anytime, but unless you’re the type who gets peckish at midnight you won’t be needing it. I feed everyone under my roof. Lunches I pack for the cotton pickers to take into the field with them, but I’m happy to pack you one too. Breakfast I serve in the dining room at six, supper at eight, straight after church every night.”

“There’s church… every night?”

“Reverend Jim likes to remind us on a daily basis to avoid the Devil’s temptations. But between you and me, it ain’t the reverend’s sermons that we all go for. It’s Lovesong on the organ. You ain’t heard gospel music till you hear Lovesong play it.”

At the mere mention of his name, I braced myself, a flush of nervousness making my hands shake. I clutched Chet and my suitcase a little tighter. “Is he here now? Lovesong?”

“He’ll be back soon. He’s been out in the fields with the other cotton pickers. Apart from those of us who work here in town, just about everyone else in Clara’s Crossing works the fields.”

I felt a hint of relief, but it didn’t blow away the cloud of dread altogether. I had come all this way to confront Lovesong Valentin, but I wasn’t ready to see him quite yet. I knew I would come face to face with him soon, and when I did, I would need to muster up the courage to look him in the eye and tell him who I was…

Why I was there…

What he did.

“Here’s your room.” Maybelle turned the old brass knob on a door at the end of the hallway. She pushed the door open to reveal a large, high-ceilinged room containing two beds, each pushed up against the wall on either side. Both beds were neatly made with a tall antique dresser standing beside it.The only difference was, one bed was surrounded by musical instruments: an electric guitar on a stand with a portable amplifier beside it, an acoustic guitar hanging by its guitar strap from a hook on the wall, a banjo hanging from another hook, a violin in an open case atop the dresser, a trumpet on the pillow, and a double bass leaning drunkenly against the wrought-iron footer of the bed. There were piles of sheet music on the floor, and on a small stand a few feet from the bed sat a record player, with a pile of records stacked against the wall beside it.

In contrast, the other half of the room was waiting for someone to occupy it. There was nothing but sheets and pillows on the bed opposite, nothing but a small leadlight lamp, a set of towels and an old porcelain wash bowl and jug atop the dresser.

The room smelled of old wood, as well as the scent of rain that drifted into the room through the open French doors leading out to a balcony. Sheer curtains swayed in the breeze, and suddenly I picked up another scent in the room. A smell I knew from interviews with classical musicians and visits to Joel’s classroom at Juilliard.

It was the piney smell of rosin, the waxy substance used to condition the strings on a violin or cello bow.

There was one other thing that struck me about the room.

The walls were almost completely blank.

No framed photos or painted canvases.

No posters of musicians which one might expect given the clutter of musical instruments on one side of the room.

There wasn’t even a clock on the walls, keeping time with the hours of the day as they slowly crept away.

The only exception was a simple wooden crucifix hanging on the wall above the head of Lovesong’s bed.

Thoughts of Joel’s sister Regina and her hellbent religious ways flickered through my head and I promptly pushed them away as Maybelle flicked a switch on the wall.

Overhead a fan ticked into motion.

“It’s nothing fancy, I’ll grant you,” she said. “But it’s a roof over your head, and unlike most of the rooms, this one don’t leak. At least not yet. I hope you’ll find yourself comfortable here, for one night at least, Mr.—” She paused, her brow creasing as she realized. “I’m sorry, how rude of me. I ain’t even asked your name yet.”

“Noah. Noah Van Owen.”

“Well, you certainly brought the deluge with you Noah Van Owen. I’m Maybelle Sugarbaker. Pleasure to meet you.”

I hesitated a moment, then awkwardly said, “I’m sorry about before.”

“Sorry for what?”

---