Songbird by Lisa Samson Page B

the music room, opened up the lid to the hi-fi player, and put on the music. We listened to “Sing.”
    “What do you think, Mr. Ferris?”
    “Don't like it. Doesn't have that classic feel.”
    And “Feelings” did?
    Well, you just never know. I could give him “Shadow of Your Smile,” picturing a movie starlet singing that while dressed in unimaginable finery. But “Feelings”? Still, maybe there was something to what he said. Maybe there was something to hanging on to the old standards.
    After we practiced, the seamstress arrived to measure me. She didn't smile much, but then again, her mouth was pinched down on a bunch of pins.
    When she finished, she took out a pad and wrote down the numbers. “Mrs. Ferris says you like yellow. And with that red hair, I’d say it's not a bad choice.”
    “It's cheerful.”
    “Never mind that, it's what looks good that matters. Black would really be the best, now that I think about it.”
    I thought about number six on my list of Mama's possibilities and refused.
    “All right. I’ll get started. I’ll consult with Mrs. Ferris from here on out.”
    And so began my professional career.
    Trudging up the stairs, the strains of “It's Very Clear, Our Love Is Here to Stay” piggybacked my steps. And I considered the words, thinking it the most ridiculous song ever written.

3
    T wo weeks later I was a hit. The hairdresser dolled me up. I wore a little makeup for the first time, other than the school plays. My yellow dress, a pale shade in brushed silk with antique ecru lace “befit my tender years,” as Mrs. Ferris said, yet displayed an elegance. But not a stuffy elegance. I looked like a very proper singer. I looked at least twenty years old.
    I shook a lot of hands that night, my own hands enveloped in full-length evening gloves.
    “You'll go far.”
    “That's a set of pipes you've got there, little missy!”
    “My goodness, isn't Cecile quite the lucky one to have you here to sing for her?”
    I waved to a little old man who patted my hand as he held it, tears in eyes. He'd just said, ‘”Fly Me to the Moon’ was my late wife's favorite song.”
    But one comment stood out among the rest. “You're quite a woman, Myrtle.”
    I turned to the source of the new voice. And there he stood, a rugged young man with saucy, impertinent eyes, the kind of eyes I’d read about in those little romances Grandma Sara used to read. But his weren't dark and brooding. They were blue, as bright a blue as you can imagine. A blue like a pansy, a blue just like Mrs. Evans's blue.
    Now, I’m short. I’ll tell you that straight away. And this fellow wasn't all that tall, maybe 5’ 10”, but next to my bitty old 5’2”, he towered.
    My heart raced. I was thankful for the gloves that drank in the sweat from my palms. Beautiful, he exhibited a freedom such as I’d never seen, with his overly long hair, his casual dress and, could that be an empty earring hole in the left lobe? Yes, wild and free and beautiful. And that night, so was I, the pretty singer with golden tones, fluid arms, and talent. I wasn't like the rest of them.
    We had that in common.
    “Thank you.”
    “When will you be singing again?”
    I shook my head. “I’m the Ferrises’ foster daughter. It's not like I have paying gigs.”
    He raised his brows, highlighted by hours in the sun, I supposed. His tanned face seemed to point in that direction as well. Wild and free.
    Free.
    My very first rush of power hit me. I felt like I finally had set my feet upon the earth. I was free, wasn't I? No parents to tell me what to do. No real guidance of any sort. I was free.

4
    O n Sunday afternoon, he came to call. His voice filled the entry hall like a valentine in Charlie Brown's mailbox.
    “Yes, it's me again, Aunt Cecile. I didn't get a good chance to visit with you at the parry. You don't mind my stopping in do you?”
    “Of course not, Richard.”
    Richard.
    Come to think of it, he did look like a Richard. I’d call