Alice Wingo is an intuitive singer who commandeers a song the way Ella Fitzgerald does a Cole Porter melody. She is that rare talent who manages to give herself to an audience without compromise, and lose herself in the music without sacrifice.
—Tom Deutsch, music teacher
I am the reverend of a small Baptist church in New Rochelle, New York. I have known Alice Wingo since birth and have watched her grow into the beautiful person she is today. Alice has the heart of an angel and the voice of one, too. In my line of work, music is a window into the soul. God has blessed Alice Wingo’s voice and soul with beauty and purity. I believe it is His intent for her to share that gift with the world.
—Reverend Aloysius Klepper
What school, in its right mind, would turn down a student with a recommendation from God and Ella Fitzgerald? Not the New England Conservatory. Alice would start there in September. But first she had to live through the spring and summer of 1966.
On a Wednesday evening in May, she went downstairs to the music room to practice some songs. Dillard kept his pitch pipe on the shelf in the closet, and as she reached for it, she noticed the cigar box where he kept his personal stuff. Pieces of letters were sticking out, as if someone had recently rummaged through it and taken no time to put it back neatly.
When Alice pulled it out, envelopes addressed to Dillard dropped to the floor. A photograph fell next to her foot. The envelopes had no return address, but somehow Alice knew they were private and she ought not look inside them. But the picture that lay by her toes was a different story. She wasn’t that much of a saint.
She shoved the envelopes back into the box and placed it on the shelf. Then she knelt down and picked up the photograph. It was a black-and-white photograph of some strange man standing next to Dillard. The man was older and bigger and had an arm around Dillard’s shoulder. He was laughing, as if he’d just been told a wonderful joke, and Dillard was looking up at him, smiling. They were both dressed in T-shirts and shorts. Behind them was a lake, a floating dock, and people in bathing suits. The man appeared to be nice looking, though Alice couldn’t really tell. But she did notice his cap. It was tweed and the same flat cap style as Dillard always wore.
The date printed on the side of the photograph was August 1959, a little more than a year before Dillard showed up at the bakery. Alice studied the man’s face to see if he resembled Dillard. His father? Couldn’t be; Dillard’s father died years before that. An uncle? An old family friend? Something about the way the two men looked at each other made her think probably not. Her heart raced. Who was this man? Why hadn’t Dillard ever mentioned him? Dillard was everything to her; hadn’t they told each other all there was to tell about their lives? Well, she never did tell him about the men she’d followed and what really happened that night at the High Life. Maybe there were things he hadn’t told her. She felt scared, as if something irrevocable had just happened.
She sat in Dillard’s chair with the photograph propped up on her lap. Last night they’d worked out a jazz version of “A Taste of Honey.” The music was still swimming in her head: her voice, the filigree sounds of his flute. They were fine. He was fine. She was making too much of it. She put the picture away and tried to push it out of her mind.
On Friday night, she and Dillard practiced “A Taste of Honey”; on Saturday they worked side by side at the bakery. Dillard was the same as always. If anyone was different, it was Geraldine. Since Alberto, Alice thought her grandma had gone through a personality change. She was cheerful, even to Emilia Mae. Dillard and she had settled into their own embarrassing kind of banter, telling the other how beautiful or handsome they looked, with lots of “if only I were youngers” thrown in. Grandma had taken to chucking Alice under the chin and asking, “How’s my favorite grandchild today?” Alice always came back with the same answer: “I’m your only grandchild.” Grandma would laugh as if it were the funniest joke ever.
She and Alberto were always kissing and rubbing each other’s backs. When he said something that was clearly meant to be dirty, Geraldine would punch him on the arm and smile a fake smile that showed her gums. Like so many things, Alice found that embarrassing.
On Sundays, as they always did, she, Emilia Mae, and Dillard walked to church. After the service, Dillard would take his usual walk with Reverend Klepper, and Alice and Emilia Mae would go to Geraldine’s and help with lunch. Since Alberto, Sunday lunch with the Kleppers was no longer simply a roast and potatoes. It seemed that when Alberto moved in with Geraldine last fall, Julia Child came with him. Now they had canapés like celery-rave rémoulade or amuse-guele au Roquefort and things called bifteck sauté au beurre and coq au vin. None of them, including Geraldine and Alberto, spoke French, so no one ever knew what they were eating, except Alberto, who had followed Julia Child’s recipes to a T. He would lay elaborate food platters before them, try to pronounce their names in French, and then pile heaping portions on everyone’s plate. Geraldine would explain that Alberto was a gourmet cook. “That’s just one of his many talents,” she’d say, waggling her eyebrows.
On this particular Sunday, Alberto and Julia had gone to town: Foie de veau sauté, asperges, and riz á l’Indienne. Despite the pretty sound of it, and the sprigs of parsley adorning it, there was no escaping that the glistening piece of brown meat on everyone’s plate was liver. Alice cut the liver into tiny pieces and hid them under the riz á L’indienne, which despite its fancy name, she knew to be steamed rice. Reverend Klepper gamely shoved pieces of it in his mouth, followed by gulps of whatever fancy wine Alberto was serving. Dillard made some offhand comment about how he wished there was a big dog under the table, while Emilia Mae poured lots of salt and pepper on the meat and ate it all.
When Alberto came to serve Cora, she put her hands over her plate and said, “Sorry, my friend, no can do. But I’m happy to have some ritz and asper-gees, however you say it.”
Geraldine looked horrified. “Cora! Alberto is a genius cook. He worked all morning on this. You might give it a try.”
Alberto walked over to Geraldine and put his hand on her shoulder. “You are sweet, but not everyone has a palate for this sort of thing.”
“I have a palate for hamburgers,” said Dillard.
Everyone except Geraldine laughed.
“Mmm, hamburgers,” said Emilia Mae. “With American cheese and french fries on the side.”
For a moment, the entire table fell into a silent reverie. When they came back to the business of liver, Cora pointed out to Geraldine that she had no meat on her plate.
Geraldine swirled her head around to look at Alberto. Her hair, now in a Shirley MacLaine pixie, sprang behind her. She stroked Alberto’s hand. “Alberto says that eating too much meat is the reason my pores are clogged. So, I’ll abstain. From the meat, anyway.” She flashed another of those smiles. When Alberto served tarte Normande aux pommes, Geraldine plopped a second helping onto her plate. Cora winked at Alice, and Alice studied Dillard. He was having a good time.
“Does Alberto worry about you getting fat from all that cake?” Cora asked.
Reverend Klepper’s eyes got larger than usual as he stared at his wife.
Geraldine answered, her mouth full of apples and crème fraiche: “Alberto doesn’t give a crap about my weight.”
Alberto, still standing behind Geraldine, kissed her on the cheek. “You have a marvelous way with words.”
In between all that, the image of Dillard and that man would catch Alice up short, as if someone had thrown a pebble at her window. She got it in her head to mention the photograph to Reverend Klepper and Cora, certain they would tell her it was no big deal. When lunch was finally over and the Kleppers readied to leave, she said, “Mind if I walk you home?”
“We’d be honored,” said Cora, lacing her arm through Alice’s.
Alice loved Cora. Even with age written on her freckled face, she was still a beauty. Her graying hair was closely cropped, giving emphasis to her wide green eyes. When she laughed, which she did often, Dillard said they blazed like a cat’s eyes in the dark.
Emilia Mae always said that Cora was the only grown-up she knew who never talked down to children, and Alice thought she was right. She remembered how Cora had explained to her why people snickered at the lyrics to “Louie Louie,” and how, when she was doubled over with cramps at a church picnic, Cora had given her a couple of Midol. The pills were too big for Alice to swallow, so Cora broke them into pieces, slipped a few drops of red wine into Alice’s Coke, and said, “Here, these should go down easy now.”
It was a beautiful May afternoon with a slight breeze coming off the Sound. The three of them small-talked about the church and some of the parishioners. Reverend Klepper allowed that he was preparing next week’s sermon on Vietnam and was unsure how far to take it.
“You take it as far as you can, Ally,” said Cora. “It all comes down to morality. This war is all about saving face and money. Morality doesn’t even enter into it. So, what’s the question?”
Reverend Klepper laughed. “It’s not as simple as that, Cora. Some of the parishioners have boys over there. I can’t simply swat away their purpose with high-mindedness.”
Cora stopped walking. “You’re not judging those boys. It’s the men who are sending them over there who need to be held accountable.”
“True, we have compassion for those who serve, but we have no compassion for those who do not serve yet send these young men off to war,” said Klepper in his stentorian sermon voice. He nodded. “Yup, that works.”
Alice took this conversation as her cue. “Speaking of compassion, can I ask you two a question?”
“Sure,” they both said.
“So, I found this picture the other day. It fell out of a box that Dillard keeps in our music room. I know it’s probably no big deal but…It’s a picture of a man. Older than Dillard. He’s got his arm around Dillard and he’s laughing. Dillard is looking up at him and smiling. The weird thing is, you know that cap that Dillard always wears? Well the man’s wearing the same one. In fact, it could be the exact same one.”
“Do you have any idea who the man is?” asked Reverend Klepper.
“Not at all.”
“A relative, perhaps?” asked Cora.
“No one he’s ever mentioned.”
“Ask him about it,” said Cora.
“You know, Dillard and I have told each other everything about ourselves. I’m sure it’s no big deal. I should probably just forget it.”
“You’ll find as you get older, Alice, that people are not always completely revealing about themselves,” said Reverend Klepper, glancing at Cora. “Even people who are very close. I have no doubt that Dillard loves you and would be unhappy to know you were troubled about this. Cora’s right, ask him who the man is.”
“Really? Just like that?”
“Yes,” he said. “If you don’t, then you become burdened by a secret, and you don’t want that. Trust me.”