Chapter 5

Saturday, June 3, 1893

Dear Miss Sissieretta Jones,

My name is Lorraine Williams. I am twelve years old. I heard you sing last week at the World’s Columbian Exposition. I was in the yellow dress. I think you maybe smiled at me. For the whole week, I have been thinking about that concert you put on.

Miss Jones, you have the prettiest voice in the world. I have not been around the world, only here in Chicago, but I still know it’s true. That was the first time I heard such a beautiful voice in the same room as me. It made the hairs on my neck stand up and my heart go fast. Some of the ladies in my church choir sing really big, but loud is not the same as powerful and beautiful. I know that now.

I am a Black girl like you, and I am also a singer. My dream is to go around the world singing for people, like you do. May I ask you some questions, please?

How can a Black lady like you sing that opera music so well? A nice man at your concert told me you were born in Virginia but you grew up in Rhode Island. What was that like? Did you go to a fancy school to learn singing? Were there other Black people at the school?

When you travel around, are they unfair or do you get treated well? Are white folks mean to you because of your dark skin? Or does your golden voice make everybody forget the troubles between the races, and they just stay quiet and listen to you? I hope you are always treated like a Queen of Music, because that is what you are.

Another question I have is why did you wear medals on your pretty lace dress? Are you a war hero? That would not surprise me. I think you can do anything.

Here is my last question. Miss Jones, will you please teach me to sing like you? I would be the best student, practice hard every day, and do everything you tell me. My papa doesn’t have any money for lessons, but I could work for you in trade. Take me on your tours around the world. I will make sure you have everything in your dressing room, all your favorite foods for dinner, and a nice hot bubble bath ready before bed. My second cousin Tess taught me to knit, so I could make you a warm muffler to keep your throat warm if you have to travel to a cold place, like Chicago in winter.

Please say yes, Miss Jones. You won’t regret it. I’m sorry this letter turned out so long.

Yours truly,

Lorraine Williams

While she pulled on her Sunday dress, Lorraine read her letter to Sissieretta Jones for the hundredth time. She’d written three drafts on paper she’d borrowed from Miss Kerry at school. “I need to write a very important letter,” she’d explained to her teacher.

Miss Kerry had been skeptical. “Is it to a boy? Paper is expensive, so maybe you could—”

“It’s not to a boy, no, Miss. It’s to a lady. I want to ask her for, um . . . I forget the word. Like when someone older has wisdom.”

“Advice?”

“Yes, Miss. I want to ask her for advice about something.”

At that, Miss Kerry had handed her three sheets from her only notebook. “That’s an excellent reason to write a letter, Lorraine. I hope she is able to help you. Use two sheets to practice the letter, and the last sheet to write the final draft.”

So, that’s what Lorraine had done. But with each try, it changed so much that she still had a few mistakes the third time through. And the letter went on forever. The part about knitting a scarf for Miss Jones seemed particularly embarrassing.

“Nooo,” she moaned and sat heavily on the bed. “This doesn’t sound right. She’s going to think I’m silly or foolish.” And the worst part was the fact that she’d probably never see Miss Jones again.

“Rainie, you ready?” Bobby called. “We’re leaving.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be right there.” She couldn’t take the risk that somebody would find that letter. While jamming her feet into her church shoes, she folded the letter and tucked it into her diary. As usual, she slid her diary under her mattress.

Distracted by thoughts of Miss Jones and her own prospects for becoming a famous singer, Lorraine wasn’t in the mood for dealing with her choir today. A man named Mr. Davis, who always sang flat, was butchering “I Need Thee Every Hour” when she walked into the church basement. Mr. Bibbs clasped his hands together and kept muttering “Mm-hmm” with his eyes closed, as if the good Lord above couldn’t tell out-of-tune singing when He heard it.

Mrs. Jacobs fanned herself with the day’s liturgy list and complained to another lady about how her husband wouldn’t take her to Marshall Field’s to shop for a gift for her poor old mother. Mr. Morris sat at the piano, glowering at a hymnal. It seemed to Lorraine like she was stuck with this sorry bunch forever, no matter how much she wanted to go out and sing for the world.

Feeling hopeless about her options in life, Lorraine took her purple robe from the chest where they were kept. She stepped away from the group to get a moment of quiet. That’s when she noticed Frances, already in her robe. Frances was curled up on a wooden chair in a corner, reading from a book with large pages. The gold-gilt lettering on the cover caught Lorraine’s eye.

“What are you reading?” Frances held the book up straight, and Lorraine read out loud, “A Guide to the World’s Columbian Exposition, June 1893 Edition. Is that . . . is that a list of the people performing at the fair?” Her breath came fast as she walked over to Frances with her hands out. “May I please look at that for a minute?”

“Time to go upstairs, ladies,” Mr. Morris called.

Frances hiked up her robe and tucked the book into the waistband of her skirt. “I’ll show you after,” Frances said and bounded up the stairs.

There had never been such a long service in the history of the Baptist Church. Of that, Lorraine was sure. Even the community announcements seemed to be three times longer than usual. Did everyone really care that Margaret Bennet’s uncle was visiting from North Carolina? Or who was bringing the potato salad for next week’s church picnic?

Finally, the last hymns were sung and people started filing from the church. Practically pushing Mrs. Jacobs out of the way, Lorraine ran to catch up with Frances before she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Could I see that book about the Expo now? Please? Just for a minute?”

Frances eyed her suspiciously for a few seconds and then shrugged. “All right, but don’t get it dirty,” she said, pulling the book out from under her robe.

Congregants were starting to cover the basement tables with bowls and trays of snacks for the after-church meeting, so Lorraine dropped to the floor and opened the book against her knees.

“That’s not very ladylike,” somebody said, but she ignored it. As fast as she could, she scanned the pages. Then she found what she was looking for.

“Three o’clock in the Palace of Fine Arts on Friday, June 16,” Lorraine said aloud. Then she repeated the information a few more times, hoping it would stay in her memory.

“What happens at three o’clock on Friday, June 16?” Bobby asked. Her brother had plopped down on the floor next to her, munching on a biscuit.

“Nothing.” She didn’t think Bobby would understand her obsession with Miss Jones. “I just like the sound of it. I have a feeling something amazing will happen on that day.”

“You’re strange,” said Bobby, and not for the first time.

“I know. Where’s Papa? I need to talk to him.”

Bobby pointed to their father, deep in conversation with Deacon Edders.

“Oh,” Lorraine said. “I’ll wait till we get home.”

That night, Papa was unusually quiet at dinner. Not that there was much on their plates—just a thin slice of pork roll and some stale Italian bread that Papa had been given by a friend who washed dishes at a bakery. Lorraine wished she’d eaten more at the church meeting.

She couldn’t figure out if her father was sad or angry or just tired. After a few minutes of awkward silence, Bobby got squirmy and started kicking her in the knee. “Stop it, you monster!” she yelled.

That snapped Papa out of his gloom. “Quiet, both of you. This is dinner on the Lord’s day. Behave yourselves.”

While she didn’t appreciate receiving half the blame, Lorraine was relieved to have the family meal back to normal. “Papa,” she ventured, “do you know who Sissieretta Jones is?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“The Black Patti.”

“The Black who, now?”

“She’s a singer, Papa. A Black singer. I heard her when I went to the fair with Mimi’s choir.”

He put a forkful of pork roll in his mouth. “Oh, so she’s in Mimi’s choir, huh?”

“No, no, she’s world famous, Papa. She sings opera and things. And she’s the best singer I ever heard.” Lorraine felt like her tongue had taken on a life of its own and wanted to sing Miss Jones’s praises nonstop. “I have to hear her again, Papa. I want to sing just like her. I want to be just like her. She’s singing again at the Expo a couple weeks from now. It may be my only chance to hear her sing again. This is the most important thing to me. So, I just wondered . . .” She trailed off, seeing the sad look on his face.

“I can’t,” he said quietly. “I can’t get a job that lasts more than a day. You know I’d give you money if I had it, but I don’t have it.”

Lorraine nodded. This was what she’d expected, and she wasn’t mad. She knew how hard her father tried to find work. “Don’t worry about it, Papa. It doesn’t mat—”

“I pay you and you do everything I say,” Bobby joked. He mimed sliding dollar bills from a big handful and stacking them in front of her. Then he started laughing hysterically. “Lorraine has to do what I say now!”

“Bobby, settle down,” said Papa.

But for once, Lorraine was glad her brother was goofing around. He’d given her an idea. “Papa, what if I can get the money? Then can I go?”

“How would you do that? Don’t you get in any trouble.”

She held up her right hand. “I swear I won’t steal anything or do anything illegal. But if I can get a whole dollar by two weeks from now, for the fair ticket and the elevated train, then can I go?”

Now it was Papa’s turn to laugh. “You think I’m gonna let my little girl go all by herself to the big fairgrounds? You listen to me. You get together enough money to take a grown-up with you. Somebody I know.”

“Like you?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“I got better things to do. Maybe somebody from church, like Mrs. Jacobs. You get two dollars together and Mrs. Jacobs or someone says they’ll take you, then you can go to the Expo.”

Lorraine sighed, picturing the extremely annoying Mrs. Jacobs weighing her down and talking to her while Sissieretta Jones was singing. But it was better than nothing. “It’s a deal,” she said.