The Reluctant Canary Sings

By Faith A. Colburn

Bobbi Bowen lives in Cleveland. It’s 1937 in the second dip of a double-dip depression. When she leaves the apartment, she passes the Holy Rosary soup kitchen, with its straggle of shuffling men and women in their bedraggled coats. Most days she hums the new swing tunes—Cream Puff or Sing, Sing, Sing— because it seems every time she turns the radio on, she hears about another dismembered body left lying around town. At home, she ducks her parents’ fights—sometimes ducking a flying plate or saucer. So when the bank cuts her mother’s hours, she’s got one chance to keep a roof over her family’s heads—to turn her voice, her most private pleasure, into a public commodity. At the end of her sophomore year, she forever gives up her dream of art school to spend her nights singing in nightclubs. Even though she’s able to make enough to support her family, security remains an illusion she can’t seem to capture no matter how hard she tries. Is she making herself bait? Will her father’s betrayal destroy her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Faith A. Colburn
• Release date: Jun 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780997267730

Faith A. Colburn

Faith Colburn is a sixth-generation Nebraskan with a master’s degree in creative writing from the University of Nebraska at Kearney. She holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism and political science and a master’s degree in journalism from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Her book, THRESHOLD: A MEMOIR, took the outstanding thesis in the College of Fine Arts and Humanities award at UNK for 2012 and she received UNK’s Outstanding Work in Fiction Award during its 2009 student conference and several awards from the Nebraska Federation of Press Women.Her short fiction has appeared in Kinesis magazine and The Platte Valley Review and her poetry has been published in The Reynolds Review. As a public information officer for the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, she wrote numerous articles for NEBRASKAland magazine, including copy for photo essays and historical articles. She also gained intimate knowledge of the landscape that often appears as a character/catalyst in her work.Ms. Colburn has spent several years gathering oral family histories and biographies, including a 100-year memoir of the Lincoln newspaper publishing family, with an emphasis on their use of production technology. During a stint with the University of Nebraska’s Research and Extension Center as a communication specialist, she focused some of her research efforts on the history of a farm family in western Nebraska that amassed 10,000 acres of land over several generations in drought-prone high plains region. As a communications specialist for a Lutheran social ministry organization, she spent five years telling the stories of people with developmental disabilities. Those efforts helped her learn about the glue that holds families and communities together and the wedges that drive them apart. She has drafted a fiction collection that mirrors the true experiences of people she’s known.

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THE RELUCTANT CANARY SINGS

by Faith A. Colburn

Copyright © 2017 Faith A. Colburn

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9972677-2-3

ISBN-10: 0-9972677-2-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017950144

PRAIRIE WIND PRESS, North Platte, Nebraska

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Part I: Cleveland, Ohio

Part II: Cleveland, Ohio

Part III: Cleveland, Ohio

Part IV: On the Road

Part V: Cleveland, Ohio

Reader's Guide

Author Bio

Other Works By This Author

DEDICATION

To my mother, a city girl who made a better farm wife than girls who grew up on farms. She never got to tell her story.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to thank my mother, Ella Mae Bobbie Bowen, for the gift of her voice. Few moments in my childhood existed without music. She sang when she did the dishes, she sang when she swept the floor, and she sang all the hours she walked behind that miserable round baler, tripping a lever that released the bale. Dementia kept her from telling me much about her life BF (Before Faith), but I’ve taken the tidbits—about five facts—and made up the rest.

Thanks also to the several layers of beta readers (you know who you are) who read this book and helped me shape it through round after round of revisions. If not for you, I would still be floundering. You’ve made me a better writer.

PROLOGUE

Along the north edge of Cleveland lies a beach that extends the length of the city. It’s a blank slate where waves from Lake Erie sculpt elevation lines marked by broken shells and debris. The morning of February 23, 1937, high wind coming off the water spit spray and raised thin curtains of stinging sand. Just outside Euclid Beach Park, a ragged pile of clothing that looked like it had washed up on the previous night’s incoming tide lay fluttering madly. Drag marks and deep footprints, coming and going, marked the sand.

The pile of rags hid the torso of an unidentified woman—the eighth human being murdered, dismembered, and left lying around Cleveland by The Butcher of Kingsbury Run. The murders had started with the so-called Lady of the Lake left along the shoreline in September, 1934, and showed no signs of stopping.

In December, 1935, Mayor Harold Burton had recruited Eliot Ness of Chicago fame as Cleveland Safety Director. The Butcher handed Ness one of his few defeats, as month after month, he kept killing and escaping detection. The new safety director had plenty of distractions. Cleveland’s rival gangs did not let-up with the repeal of Prohibition. Times were tough for everyone and the mafia intended to get its share.

With auto manufacturers closing their doors—at one time Cleveland factories produced 115 automobile makes—the good times had ended.

That day in 1937, during the second dip of a double-dip depression, the Holy Rosary Soup Kitchen in Little Italy provided a lot of hot meals but couldn’t begin to take up the slack. Torn newspapers, cigarette butts, and dirt swirled into the faces of silent people hunched, heads down against the gale, standing in line, bellies growling, waiting and hoping something would remain when they got to the head of the line. A few cars crept along the street like dry, drifting leaves, drivers bent over steering wheels. Unkempt apartment buildings, backed by the New York and Erie tracks, lined the west side of the street and railroad cars rumbled through to some unknown, unimportant destination.

This is the city where Bobbi Bowen sang for her supper. Beginning during that second downturn, she scratched her way up a ladder of notes, seeking security that eluded her, again and again.

PART I: CLEVELAND, OHIO

May 14, 1937

It all started with my friends trying to help me out. We were just kids then and we had no idea what dark, seedy places their help would take me. That spring day soon threw me into an adult world for which I only thought I was prepared.

I’d finished my shift making Humphrey’s Popcorn Balls at Euclid Beach Park, and I strode through the amusement park looking for my friends and thinking about my mother’s endless criticism of my plowhand stride. The air felt sticky with the sweet aroma of popcorn balls and full of sound—the grinding of the roller coaster and the screams of riders, the roar of other rides’ engines, the music of the merry-go-round, and voices—the raised voices of people trying to have fun.

Leaving the amusement park, I hurried off the bluff and down the ravine to the beach. I had three dollars in my pocket—my week’s wages—and a lot of hope. Maybe if Dad got the WPA job he’d applied for, I could get some paints and a canvas—or at least some colored pencils—so I could mess around with color during the summer. I hoped I could fit an art class into my schedule in the fall.

It took a few moments to find Mary, Kate, and Helen among a Saturday crowd bent on washing away the scum of our grimy, industrial city. I spotted Kate’s wide-brimmed hat, with its scarlet band, and honed in on it. As soon as I caught up with the others, I dragged my towel out of my bag, spread it on the sand, and peeled off my dress, leaving the swimsuit I’d worn underneath all day. I flopped on my towel next to Mary Teresa.

The moment I got settled, though, Mary started waving this piece of newspaper at me.

Look at this, she said.

What?

This. A singing contest. Next Saturday night at the Pavilion. You could be a big band canary.

Well, I took the paper and read, just to be polite, you know. Don’t they put canaries in cages? I asked as I scanned. Too bad, I said once I’d read the ad.

What’s wrong?

You have to be eighteen.

Kate rolled her eyes. So? You can pass for eighteen. How would they know?

I don’t know. I’m only fifteen. I’m not sure . . . .

It’s a hundred dollar prize, Mary interrupted.

Well, that was moderately interesting, although I just knew Dad would get that job. Then again, I could get into the contest and if I won, gosh, a hundred bucks would come in handy. Maybe I really could get that canvas and some paints. Jeez, I couldn’t make up my mind. I sang for myself and I liked it that way.

Anyway, Helen popped up from under the arm she had across her eyes. It’s a chance to sing with the new band playing at the Pavilion this summer.

I picked up the paper, smoothed it out, and read. New tunes and old standards—top two winners get cash prizes, one hundred dollars and fifty dollars.

"But I’d have to prove I’m eighteen to get the cash," I argued.

I wadded the paper up and tossed it, but you can never accuse my friends of lacking persistence. Helen grabbed it and smoothed it out again.

Maybe you won’t. Lotsa people don’t have birth certificates. You think your mom wouldn’t tell ‘em you’re eighteen?

She probably would, but what if . . . .

Helen frowned. When did you become a Nervous Nelly? You’ve got all kinds of talent.

You keep telling me that, but singing’s something I do. Getting up in front of a bunch of people and doing it would be like having people watch me breathe. I want to be an artist.

I know honey, but in times like these it’s a way to get some money. And nobody’s gonna fault you for helpin’ out your family. Your dad’s out of work, your mom’s barely holdin’ it together scrubbin’ floors at night. Think what you could do with a hundred bucks.

Now they had me thinking like a grown up.

Pay the rent for five months, I whispered, staring out at the waves. God I’m sick of moving.

See. You have to try it, Bobbi. The worst that can happen is you get beat out—and I don’t think you will.

Still not satisfied, I argued that I didn’t know if I’d have the money to get in to the Pavilion next Saturday. And I’d have to pay an extra streetcar fare. If Dad didn’t get that job, that quarter might be important. See how they do? By then they’d got me thinking the worst, not the best.

Listen, Kate said, rolling over and arranging her shawl to protect her reddening skin. I’ve got a quarter I can lend you. You put it in your shoe. And next Saturday you just don’t go home after your shift. Bring along something to wear for the contest and save a nickel out of your week’s pay so you can change in the bath house. We’ll all be right there with you to cheer you on.

I can’t take your money. You’re not any better off than I am.

Actually, I am, she said, grinning. My dad got a job Wednesday driving a garbage truck. There’ll always be garbage, won’t there?

Well, we all piled on with hugs, but that only provided a moment’s distraction. Still, I said.

Still what?

I can’t take your money. It’ll take a while for your family to catch up. How long’s your dad been out of work and your mom with all the kids?

We’ll be fine now. And it’s just a quarter. When you win, you can give me fifty cents.

And if I lose?

Then I’ve lost my bet. It’s no big deal.

I turned toward the water, listening to the waves surging up on the sand and sizzling back into the lake. I looked up the beach at a bunch of guys playing sand volleyball and then back at my friends, all sitting around on their towels, smiling encouragement.

I’m gonna go wash off the popcorn syrup, I said. I need to think.

As I stood, the game broke up and two of the boys came running over, collapsing next to Mary and Kate like a pair of trained seals, spraying sand all over them.

What’s going on? Ralph demanded.

For crying out loud, Mary shouted, jumping up and shaking sand out of her towel. What’s the matter with you? You got sand all over us!

Kate and Helen brushed off with disgusted glares. I grinned and started walking toward the water. Ralph and Ed will keep them busy, I thought—but I could hear them talking about me as I left.

Sorry, said Ed, but what is going on?

I heard Mary’s coy voice. Wouldn’t you like to know?

Aw, we’re trying to get Bobbi to enter that singing contest, said Kate.

I swam hard for the buoys at the edge of the swimming area where I could tread water away from everybody else. I wondered how I would ever finish high school if my dad couldn’t get work. Even my little pittance of a job would only last the summer.

Why does everybody think I ought to sing anyway? Sure I sing all the time. I don’t want to make it work. It’s mine and I don’t want to sing on demand with people watching me all the time.

I kept treading water, looking out at the horizon and thinking about the big lake. No wonder people used to think the world was flat and that it ended in a big waterfall. From here, it sure looks that way.

I shifted from thinking flat earth to what might happen if I didn’t do something about money. It appeared that, if Dad didn’t get that job, my parents would be helpless. My friends had gotten me all worked up, but they’d also got me thinking I could do something to stop the slow-moving apocalypse. I thought about how my parents couldn’t seem to earn enough to pay the rent—so we’d be out on the street probably. I tried not to imagine what living on the street might be like, but I’d seen enough street people to have a pretty good idea, and I did not want to be one.

But a big band canary? Really? Me?

I remembered starlets who used to come into the restaurant when my dad managed Mowrey’s. They’d retire to the restroom, pulling and tugging at their girdles or bras, or those corselette things.

I’d probably have to wear one of those itchy, rubber things, and high heels and stockings. That would just be miserable.

I couldn’t seem to follow a train of thought. Obsessing again about having someone’s eyes on me, I didn’t even hear a splash before another swimmer grabbed me from behind. Reacting by rote, just like Jack had taught me, I took a huge gulp of air and submerged, grabbing the drowning swimmer’s fingers with my left hand and ducking under his elbow as I shoved it over my head with my right. Within seconds, I had him from behind, underwater, feeling my way over his shoulder, reaching across his chest and under his arm. I lay over on my left side and headed for the beach, struggling for breath as the other swimmer dragged me under over and over. Sometime during my struggle for control, I recognized the supposedly drowning swimmer.

Jack, if you keep fighting me, I swear I’ll drown you!

Of course, he didn’t let up a bit. He kept thrashing around while I hung on, teeth gritted, until we reach the beach where I towed him up in the shallows and dumped him on his back.

Jeez! I said as I plopped down beside him, panting. You don’t have to sneak up on me.

Jack laughed, choked, and started coughing.

I suppose now you’re gonna make me give you artificial respiration, I grumbled, turning my head and peering at him.

No-o-o-o, he said between coughs.

We lay there for a while, like a pair of drowned seals, with the waves washing up underneath us. When Jack finally caught his breath, he rolled on his belly and propped himself on his elbows. I believe you’ve passed the course, Bobbi. That was perfect.

I looked at the sky, resting, letting the waves wash up on me and my heart settle back to normal. We could do that—just be quiet together.

When I caught my breath, though, I turned my head toward Jack. Long time, no see.

I’ve been in Chicago.

Doin’ what?

Goin’ to school.

Really? I rolled over to face him. College?

Yeah. Just finished my freshman year.

How was it?

Okay. Just general stuff.

We rested there in the sand and water, looking at each other. You’re a natural, Bobbi. You did great.

Thanks, Jack. I could never afford lessons.

You’re in the water so much you could save some of these people who get in over their heads. He paused for a moment. By the way, what were you singing on the way down from the popcorn stand?

What? Were you following me?

Nah, I was just coming out of the bath house when you came off the bluff.

"Cream Puff, I told him, I was humming Cream Puff. It’s a new Artie Shaw tune I heard the other day. Didn’t know I was humming out loud . . . . Say! Why don’t you join us? I’ll introduce you."

I don’t think so, sweetie. I’m the wrong flavor.

Because you’re Italian? They’re mostly Italian, too.

Won’t work, Jack said, wrong flavor.

And then he did his disappearing act. He stood and walked off, leaving me to sigh and watch his trim, athletic back as he disappeared up over the edge of the little bluff. Oh yeah, he was a looker, even to me and I didn’t usually notice boys. I stayed where I was for a while—at the far end of the beach from the girls—thinking about Jack. I didn’t get why he wouldn’t meet my friends. He didn’t seem shy. Heck, he’d just walked up to me, out of the blue, and asked if I wanted to learn lifesaving. Then he’d started teaching me—but always as though it was a state secret.

I got up and started back toward the girls still thinking about my lifeguard lessons. We’d met by accident as far as I knew. Most people don’t swim as early as I do—the lake’s too cold. So I’d been out there pretty much by myself. All my girlfriends had been chicken. They even thought it was too cold for sunbathing. Anyway, when I’d got out to warm up, Jack had come over almost immediately. Said he’d been watching me. That seemed a little weird—some guy out there on the beach just watching me swim—but people are weird, you know? Before I could get bent out of shape about it, though, he’d wondered if I’d had lifeguard training. I thought he must be recruiting lifeguards for the Humphreys folks. I’d noticed they seemed a little thin.

When I admitted I was the only person I knew how to save, he asked if I’d like to learn.

I can’t afford lessons, I told him. My father taught me to swim, but he doesn’t know how to save anyone.

I know, Jack said, and I’d like to teach you.

So it seemed weird again. I couldn’t figure out why this guy I’d never seen before would want to teach me.

But why?

I’ve been watching you. You’re a natural in the water.

So?

Jeez! You some kinda skeptic?"

I guess. I just don’t understand.

How ‘bout you don’t worry about it?

So we sat on the sand for a while. He seemed nice enough.

Do I have to keep a schedule?

Nah, I’ll just look for you when I come down and if you’re around I can show you some stuff.

Now, a year later, walking down the beach, I still knew nothing about him. By the time I got to my friends, Ralph and Ed had dragged their stuff over and joined the girls. Ralph started in on me as soon as I sat down on my towel.

You ought to, Bobbi. You ought to enter. You can win hands down. What’s the hold up?

I’m supposed to be eighteen.

Oh. You can just say you’re eighteen.

See? said Helen.

But, I’d have to get all dressed up and wear high heels and—stuff.

Kate cocked her head. Stuff? What kinda stuff?

You know. I paused looking for a word. I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Underneath.

Kate laughed. Like a girdle?

I could feel my face heat up. I couldn’t help it. Yeah.

So? What’s wrong with that?

I leaned over to the girls, shielding my mouth with my hand. They’re hot and rubbery and itchy.

The boys snickered.

It’s not funny.

Helen’s voice came from under the arm she had slung over her eyes. Maybe not, but what’re you gonna do?

Maybe dad’ll get that WPA job.

WPA?

Ralph turned to Helen. It’s one of those alphabet agencies Roosevelt thought up to give people jobs. Works Progress Administration.

Yeah, I said. Dad put in an application a couple of weeks ago.

Ralph took his arm from around Mary’s shoulders. But he might not get it and then the contest would be over. Hundreds of men are applying for those jobs.

Jeez you guys, could we have a little more doom and gloom? I was feeling pretty good when I got off work.

Bobbi. You’re not shy and you’re singing all the time, Ed said.

Well, you know, I don’t like people watching me. I really don’t. I prefer to swim or play volleyball—or even stickball with the kids on the street.

Kate snorted. You know the first thing she said when we gave her the flier?

I can hardly imagine, said Ralph.

Don’t they put canaries in cages?

Really?

Yup, said Mary with a disgusted glint in her eye.

Ed eyed me. I swear when he gave you the evil eye, you listened. A chance the rest of us would give our eye teeth for . . . .

She’s such a tomboy! Mary threw up her hands; she’s very Italian.

You got it, said Helen.

Ed turned to me frowning. Well, you’d better just do it. We’re all hangin’ on by our fingernails and toenails, but you could actually make it.

That’s what we told her, said Helen.

Sometimes those guys just made me feel like I was in the Spanish Inquisition. I wondered when they were going to drag me off and tie me to the rack, but Ralph picked up little piece of driftwood and began drawing in the sand.

Listen, you won’t be alone. He looked around at the group. Let’s think about how we can make sure she wins.

Ed lounged back on his elbows. Freddy says the judges always pay a lot of attention to how the crowd responds.

Ralph looked at his buddy. Freddy, who?

Freddy Carlone, fool.

Oh and you know Freddy Carlone, Kate said.

Well, yeah. He went to Central High too, just like us. A bunch of us used to noodle around in the music room after school—before he graduated.

Sure.

Well, we did.

So?

Ed grinned. So we should all be there next Saturday and whistle and whoop when Bobbi sings. They’ll love her.

See? You should do it, Bobbi, Helen said. Ed and Ralph agree. You have to take the chance.

Okay, okay, I’ll try it. I said. "And I won’t need Kate’s quarter. I get an occasional tip and I’ve been hiding them so I could save something. Just in case I needed it, ya know? I’ve been trying to forget it’s there so I won’t spend it on a whim—and I kinda forgot about it. I just hope I don’t get caught. But you know, if I would actually win it and get the job singing—I’m still only fifteen—Humphrey runs a ‘family’ park and I don’t suppose he wants trouble with the law."

Helen moved her arm and squinted at me. No law against it, Bobbi.

You sure? I heard something on the radio about this child labor law. You have to be eighteen.

Didn’t pass. I was worried I’d lose my job at Sterling-Linder.

But how will I finish high school?

It’s only for the summer, Bobbi. Besides, you’ll be a big star and you won’t need to finish school. You can hire people.

It’s just a little contest, Helen, and I don’t want to be a star. I want to draw.

Okay, so just win the contest. Take the hundred bucks and sing with the orchestra this summer. You can go back to school in the fall. If your dad gets the job, you can let the second place winner take the job if you want and sing part time.

Ya, you’re right. Kinda cocky of me to think I’m gonna win it anyway.

Helen put her arm back over her eyes. Oh, you’ll win it. You just don’t have to decide everything about it now.

You really think I have a chance?

Of course I do.

I don’t know. I think it’s a long shot, but here I am planning what to do with the money and worrying about taking a job where I could get fired before I start. Pretty dumb, isn’t it?

Kate leaned against Ed. Not so dumb. Just take it one thing at a time. You always want to run three innings ahead.

Okay. Okay. Might be a kick for the summer.

Then let’s go sign you up before you change your mind.

So we all trooped over to the Pavilion to get me registered. Then we ambled through the cool, sycamore-lined streets of the park until we hopped on the next streetcar for home, chattering about new dance moves and summer jobs and what I could do with the money when I won the contest—but that wasn’t any contest. I would pay the rent for as long as the money lasted. For the others, I think the contest took their minds off the dark, dingy apartments they were returning to—all of them cramped and crowded.

Back in my apartment building, I thought about the contest, trying to remember if the flier said anything about what the singers had to wear. I’d thought about telling my parents until I heard them fighting from three floors down. Even though I often heard yelling and thumping from other