Grounded (35 page)

Then there was the matter of the brand-new song, one that would take some work on the band's part to come up with an arrangement. At least she'd written out the words and the melody and faxed them to Barry to give him a heads-up.

She locked the car and met her assistant at the front door of the building. “We're only two minutes late,” Sam assured her as they made their way up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Grace wished they'd been ten minutes early. She hesitated as they came into the room full of mikes, amps, and other sound equipment, being careful not to trip over long wires snaking here and there. All five members of the band were busy setting up their instruments. Barry was standing at the soundboard, doing sound checks with first one, then another.

Reno was the first one to notice them, stopping mid-chord at the keyboard. Then Nigel looked up and put down his drumsticks. Petey, saxophone strapped around his neck and shaved head glistening under the fluorescent lights, stared in her direction. Like synchronized swimmers, the two guitarists—freckle-faced, redheaded Alex and Zach, still sporting his African knots—turned toward them, instruments gone silent.

Grace's mouth went dry.
Oh, God …
It was worse than she thought. She needed to say something, apologize, do something—

And then Reno began to clap his hands together—
thwop, thwop, thwop
—as a slow grin spread over his face. One by one the others joined in. Clapping. Grinning. Laughing.

“Good on ya, Grace!” Petey called out in his fake Australian accent.

Alex did a loud
wah-wah-wah
trill on his guitar. “Yeah! Gonna be the best tour yet.”

“All ya need now is a good black gospel song!” Zach's skilled fingers added a rhythmic beat on his bass guitar, picked up in an instant by Nigel's snare drums, and a moment later all five musicians were jamming something that sounded vaguely like “Amazing Grace” as Grace just stood there, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

Barry walked over to them, a big grin plastered on his bearded face. “Grace … Sam … good to see you.” He handed a pair of large, padded earphones to Grace. “You ready?”

They only got through three songs Monday night, including “Blessing upon Blessing,” and then they all went out for Giordano's pizza afterward—the first time Grace had actually just hung out with the guys. Why hadn't she ever done this before? She sat back in the large padded booth and just listened as they laughed and joshed each other, making wisecracks about Nigel's tattoos and Barry's latest gray hairs. Grace felt overwhelmed by the support of Barry and the band—one more “gift of grace,” she thought, knowing they'd had every reason to be upset with the last-minute changes.

A black gospel song
, Zach had said … could she do it? That would show respect for the band—for Zach in particular. And add a nice variety to the theme.

By the time they got together again Tuesday night, she'd found the song: “Your Grace and Mercy” by the Mississippi Mass Choir. Zach was so happy he gave her a big kiss. “Now that's what I'm talkin' about, sister!”

“I might need some help,” she admitted. Black gospel wasn't really her style. The only other gospel song she'd done was an old spiritual she'd recorded for her CD.

Zach shook his head. “Just think about the words and sing 'em like you mean it, nice an' slow.”

Your grace and mercy brought me through …
Yes, she could sing that song and mean it.

Sam was at the house every day, still working on getting permissions while Grace practiced her songs, but it was Wednesday before Grace realized they hadn't heard anything from Estelle Bentley about whether she still planned to drop in again to pray that afternoon. Grace was curious—had Rodney followed up with the job possibility at Lincoln Limo? Probably too soon to know anything. They'd find out in good time.

But when they stopped for lunch, Sam went to the front window and pulled back the thin curtains that let in light but kept out prying eyes. “Doesn't Miss Estelle cook for the women's shelter every day?”

“I think so. Why?”

“Just asking. I noticed her car is still sitting in front of the house, been there all morning. Hope she's okay.”

Grace peeked out the window. The little black SUV was there all right. “Maybe she just had the day off.”

“I think we oughta call.”

“Call? Whatever for?”

Sam turned. “Duh. Because that's what neighbors do when they notice something might not be right.”

“Sounds like being nosy to me.”

“Just … call, Grace. Miss Estelle won't mind. If everything's okay, she'll still appreciate that you cared. Or if you won't, I will.”

“Okay, okay, I'll call.” Besides, it would be nice to know if Estelle planned to drop over again to pray, and if so, what time. She needed to let her know they had to leave by five to get to practice.

Sam stuck her head in the refrigerator to rustle up some lunch while Grace dialed Estelle's number. The voice that answered was breathless. “Grace? That you? Lord, Lord, … I'm so sorry I didn't call to let you know.”

Grace made a frantic motion at Sam and pointed to the phone as she switched to speaker. “Let me know what? Has something happened?”

“Yes, yes. O sweet Jesus! Mother Bentley passed yesterday. Just like that, another stroke! We've been all up in a tizzy, makin'
arrangements an' plannin' her homegoin' service. But, oh dear, I should've called earlier.”

Sam hovered at Grace's elbow, dark eyes widened, hand over her mouth.

“No, no, it's all right,” Grace said. “But I'm so sorry to hear that Mr. Bentley's mother died. Sam is too. She's right here. Uh, is there anything we can do?”

“Fact is, yes, there is … look, can I run over in about half an hour? I've got some more calls to make, but I need to talk to you. Would you have a few minutes?”

Grace and Sam ate a quick lunch of tuna sandwiches. Sam kept shaking her head. “That's so sad. Didn't Miss Estelle say they were fixing up the first-floor apartment for Mother Bentley? Wonder what they'll do with it now.”

The doorbell rang. Estelle came in, wearing a loose caftan and sloppy slip-ons that had seen better days, her straightened salt-and-pepper hair caught up in a careless topknot. Both Grace and Sam gave her a hug, once again expressing their sympathy for the Bentleys' loss.

Estelle got right to the point. “Can't stay … sorry about our prayer time today, but I'm workin' on the repast. Harry should be the one to ask you this, but … oh, you know, he's got a dozen different things on his mind, dealin' with the funeral home, the cemetery, his mother's apartment.”

“Of course. But, um … ask me what?”

“We could bring something to the repast,” Sam jumped in helpfully.

“Oh, no. that's all right. My Yada Yada prayer group sisters have got that covered now, thank you,
Je
sus. But Harry wanted to ask you for a special favor, Grace. Wanted to ask if you'd sing at his mother's homegoin'.”

“Sing?” Grace was startled. She'd never even met the woman, and barely knew Harry. In fact, she'd never sung at anyone's funeral before.

Estelle nodded. “He wants that song on your CD. Harry plays it over an' over. Has come to mean a lot to him, he says. You know the one, that old spiritual … ‘Give Me Jesus.'”

Which is how Grace came to be sitting in the strangest church she'd ever been in the following Saturday, a large storefront in the Howard Street Shopping Center, its big glass windows looking out over the parking lot with
SouledOut Community Church—All Are Welcome
in big red script across the glass. The large room with its rows of padded folding chairs set in a semicircle was filling with a diverse crowd of young and old, mostly African Americans and whites, but a good number of Hispanics as well. The room almost looked festive. Colorful handmade banners hanging on the wall behind a low platform seemed to shout, GOD IS GOOD … ALL THE TIME and THE JOY OF THE LORD IS OUR STRENGTH.

When she and Sam first arrived, someone was playing gentle music on a keyboard as people slowly filed past an open casket flanked by two large flower arrangements, but they'd simply found seats toward the back. When the service started, the casket was closed, and then Harry and Estelle Bentley, followed by Rodney Bentley, his son DaShawn, and a few other people who must be relatives walked up the middle aisle and took their seats in the front row.

Grace looked at her program, wondering where she was scheduled to sing. A sweet picture of a smiling black woman filled the front page.
Wanda M. Bentley, 1922–2010
. Wow, almost ninety years old. The inside page had a biography on the left and an order of service—called a “Homegoing Celebration”—on the right:
Prelude … Processional of Family Members … Praise and Worship … Remarks … Resolutions of Condolence … Reading of the Obituary …

Oh, there it was.
“Give Me Jesus” by Grace Meredith, Soloist
, just before the eulogy.

The praise and worship time was so exuberant and joyous—not like any funeral service Grace had ever been to—that by the time the pastor leading the service finally called on her, she felt wrung
out. But with an encouraging squeeze on her arm from Sam, Grace walked to the front of the room, took the cordless mike that was handed to her, and nodded at the man standing at the soundboard in the back of the room. Glancing at the Bentley family in the front row, she got an encouraging smile from Estelle, dressed in lovely black and white, but her husband's eyes were closed, as if waiting expectantly. As the instrumental track began to play, Grace focused her gaze on the family, took a deep breath, and began to sing the rich old spiritual.

Give me Jesus,
Give me Jesus
You may have all the world,
Give me Jesus
.

She sang first one verse, and then another, and saw tears sliding down Harry's face.

And when I come to die,
And when I come to die,
And when I come to die,
Give me Jesus
.

But not only tears glistened on his face. A smile of perfect peace.

As Grace sat down, the words of the song were still echoing in her spirit.
You may have all the world … Give me Jesus
. Would she be willing to give up all
her
world for Jesus? Her singing career? The concert tours? The admiration of her fans?

Easy to say. She didn't think Jesus was asking her to give it up.

But … would she be willing to give it up for Roger?

The burial was going to be a private affair later that day, so after the service, tables were set up and mountains of food appeared for the repast. Grace and Sam stayed for a little while, but soon had to excuse themselves as Barry had scheduled yet another practice with the band that afternoon.

“When you leavin' for the tour?” Estelle asked as they hugged good-bye.

“Tuesday. We're taking the train, you know. The first concert is in Seattle on Friday, but we have to allow three days for travel.”

Estelle wagged her head. “
Mm-mm
, hope Harry doesn't get assigned to one of those long-distance routes, but … I shouldn't complain. Just glad he has a job.”

Grace was tempted to ask whether Rodney had gotten a job, but decided this wasn't the time.

“So you'll still be here on Monday?” Estelle was saying. “Good. I'll come over to pray for your tour—and will keep you covered each day you're on the road. God's got your back, you know.” The older woman wrapped Grace in another big hug. “Thanks for singin' that song,” she murmured. “Meant a great deal to my Harry.”

The homegoing service for Mother Bentley—which Sam said was pretty traditional for black folks—stayed with Grace the rest of the weekend. The Resolutions of Condolence from various churches and organizations, as well as the remarks of family and friends, made Grace wish she'd known Harry's mother. It was so easy to think of the elderly as just …
old
, forgetting that they too had once been rambunctious kids with big dreams, had worked hard to
support their families, had suffered disappointments and sorrows along the way with dignity and courage, and had influenced their worlds, big or small. Once again Grace felt a pang that she'd never taken the time to get to know old Mrs. Krakowski across the street.