raised her voice. “I know you do, Miss Casey. I’ve heard you talking. I’m hearing you right now. There’s nobody in the world who can talk like you who can’t sing.”
“You’re a very nice person, Margaret, but no. I’ve . . . The other night . . .”
“What is it, Miss Casey?”
“Have you ever heard of a mountain that was alive, Margaret? Honestly, now. A mountain whose wife washed clothes?”
Doubtfully, Margaret shook her head. “A dream, Miss Casey? I wasgoing to say I sing in the choir. In church, you know, when I’m not on the road, because there’s hardly ever a show on Sunday morning. I’m not much of a singer, but I know some good singers and I know how they sound.”
“Do you really, Margaret? Give me a sample. What do you sing?”
“I’ll try to get the tune right, Miss Casey. It’s such a lovely song, but I’m not good with tunes unless I have the music.” She sang, her voice quavering a bit on the high notes. When she had finished, Cassie applauded.
Smiling gratefully, Margaret said, “Now let’s hear you sing it, Miss Casey. You can’t help but be better than I was.”
Cassie stood and coughed to clear her throat: a soft, apologetic sound.
“As close as tomorrow the sun shall appear,
Freedom is coming, and healing is near.”
“Louder, Miss Casey!”
“And I shall be with you in laughter and pain
To stand in the wind and walk in the reign,
To walk in the reign.”
The song seemed to fill her, a host of angels caroling through the corridors of her mind.
“The sower is planting in acres unseen
The seeds of the future, the field of God’s dream.
Those meadows are humming, though none sees them rise.
The name of the sower is God of Surprise.
God of Surprise . . .”
When she had finished singing as much as she could recall, Margaret clapped enthusiastically. “Wonderful! You have a wonderful, wonderful voice, Miss Casey. I knew it. Why, I declare, it was like—like I don’t know what. If you could come to church just once—”
The telephone rang. Cassie excused herself with a gesture and picked it up.
“Was that you singing?”
“I’m afraid so.” Cassie managed a rueful smile. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
“I—Pickens is my name. Brian Pickens. I have the place above yours, and I work at—it doesn’t matter. I got your name from your mailbox. I wanted . . . I was out earlier today, and I saw you come in. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. And it won’t happen again, Mr. Pickens, I promise.”
“I’d like you to break that promise. Holy tornado! I’d
love
for you to break it. I just wanted to say that you’re—well, I’ve seen you now. And I’ve heard you. And there’s nobody like you. Nobody at all.”
For a moment it seemed to Cassie that Brian Pickens was being strangled.
“For the rest of my life I’ll be telling people about somebody I talked to on the phone once. Thanks for that—thank you a million. I mean it.” He hung up.
Very slowly, Cassie hung up, too.
“Miss Casey?”
Feeling dazed, Cassie turned toward Margaret. “Yes?”
“Trouble, Miss Casey?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I promised you eight hundred dollars.”
Margaret nodded. “I’d really appreciate it, Miss Casey. I need it pretty badly.”
“I’m going to give you a raise. Nine hundred a week. I’ll advance you the first nine hundred now.” Cassie got out the envelope of checks given her by Barclays Bank. “I opened this account today, and they printed these up for me. The ink’s barely dry and you get check—” She glanced at it. “Number triple-zero one. It will be good, though.”
Breath sighed in Margaret’s nostrils. “I don’t know what to say, Miss Casey. This is such a relief.”
The telephone rang, and Cassie said, “It’s probably the man upstairs again. Get it, will you?”
Margaret did.
As Cassie signed the check, she heard Margaret say, “I’ll tell her, ma’am.”
Cassie looked up. “A woman? Was it
“You’re a very nice person, Margaret, but no. I’ve . . . The other night . . .”
“What is it, Miss Casey?”
“Have you ever heard of a mountain that was alive, Margaret? Honestly, now. A mountain whose wife washed clothes?”
Doubtfully, Margaret shook her head. “A dream, Miss Casey? I wasgoing to say I sing in the choir. In church, you know, when I’m not on the road, because there’s hardly ever a show on Sunday morning. I’m not much of a singer, but I know some good singers and I know how they sound.”
“Do you really, Margaret? Give me a sample. What do you sing?”
“I’ll try to get the tune right, Miss Casey. It’s such a lovely song, but I’m not good with tunes unless I have the music.” She sang, her voice quavering a bit on the high notes. When she had finished, Cassie applauded.
Smiling gratefully, Margaret said, “Now let’s hear you sing it, Miss Casey. You can’t help but be better than I was.”
Cassie stood and coughed to clear her throat: a soft, apologetic sound.
“As close as tomorrow the sun shall appear,
Freedom is coming, and healing is near.”
“Louder, Miss Casey!”
“And I shall be with you in laughter and pain
To stand in the wind and walk in the reign,
To walk in the reign.”
The song seemed to fill her, a host of angels caroling through the corridors of her mind.
“The sower is planting in acres unseen
The seeds of the future, the field of God’s dream.
Those meadows are humming, though none sees them rise.
The name of the sower is God of Surprise.
God of Surprise . . .”
When she had finished singing as much as she could recall, Margaret clapped enthusiastically. “Wonderful! You have a wonderful, wonderful voice, Miss Casey. I knew it. Why, I declare, it was like—like I don’t know what. If you could come to church just once—”
The telephone rang. Cassie excused herself with a gesture and picked it up.
“Was that you singing?”
“I’m afraid so.” Cassie managed a rueful smile. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
“I—Pickens is my name. Brian Pickens. I have the place above yours, and I work at—it doesn’t matter. I got your name from your mailbox. I wanted . . . I was out earlier today, and I saw you come in. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. And it won’t happen again, Mr. Pickens, I promise.”
“I’d like you to break that promise. Holy tornado! I’d
love
for you to break it. I just wanted to say that you’re—well, I’ve seen you now. And I’ve heard you. And there’s nobody like you. Nobody at all.”
For a moment it seemed to Cassie that Brian Pickens was being strangled.
“For the rest of my life I’ll be telling people about somebody I talked to on the phone once. Thanks for that—thank you a million. I mean it.” He hung up.
Very slowly, Cassie hung up, too.
“Miss Casey?”
Feeling dazed, Cassie turned toward Margaret. “Yes?”
“Trouble, Miss Casey?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I promised you eight hundred dollars.”
Margaret nodded. “I’d really appreciate it, Miss Casey. I need it pretty badly.”
“I’m going to give you a raise. Nine hundred a week. I’ll advance you the first nine hundred now.” Cassie got out the envelope of checks given her by Barclays Bank. “I opened this account today, and they printed these up for me. The ink’s barely dry and you get check—” She glanced at it. “Number triple-zero one. It will be good, though.”
Breath sighed in Margaret’s nostrils. “I don’t know what to say, Miss Casey. This is such a relief.”
The telephone rang, and Cassie said, “It’s probably the man upstairs again. Get it, will you?”
Margaret did.
As Cassie signed the check, she heard Margaret say, “I’ll tell her, ma’am.”
Cassie looked up. “A woman? Was it
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