Wallflower at the Blue Lantern

No More Hiding in the Choir Joan Ellis left Briar Chapel with seventeen dollars, one cardboard suitcase, and the kind of shame that was not hers but had been wrapped around her so tightly by other people that she could hardly breathe without feeling it scrape against her ribs. Back home, she had been the solo singer in the church choir, the girl with the voice that made old women close their eyes and men clear their throats, the girl Pastor Bell used to point at on Sunday mornings and say, “Now that is a gift from God,” until the gift became inconvenient, until the wrong woman loved hearing it too much. Her name had been Eleanor Whitcomb, forty-two, white, rich, married to a man who owned half the feed mill and all the smiles in town, and Eleanor had first touched Joan’s hand in the church basement while Joan was folding hymn sheets. “You sing like somebody left heaven open,” Eleanor had whispered. Joan, foolish with loneliness, had smiled. That was the beginning. The end came six months later, when Eleanor’s husband found a letter, when Eleanor sobbed prettily in the parlor and said Joan had confused her, pressured her, tempted her, and when every woman in town who had ever envied Joan’s voice suddenly knew exactly what kind of girl Joan really was. Her mother would not look at her. The choir director told her it would be best if she “rested her voice for a while.” And Eleanor, who had once kissed Joan in the rain behind the fellowship hall and said, “I wish I had your courage,” stood behind lace curtains and watched Joan walk to the bus station without lifting a finger. So Joan went to the city, where nobody knew her name, which was a blessing, and nobody cared if she ate, which was not. The department store hired her for the holiday season because she had neat handwriting, a soft voice, and the kind of face managers assumed would not cause trouble if placed behind scarves, gloves, and perfume bottles. Her cardigan was too big, her skirt too long, her glasses unnecessary, and her hair was pinned so tightly at the back of her head that even her reflection looked apologetic. Then Alice Wong walked up to the counter. Alice was thirty-two, polished as black lacquer, beautiful in a way that did not ask permission, with a camel coat over a dark dress, red lipstick, calm eyes, and the posture of a woman who had once been underestimated and had made a religion of proving people wrong. “I need something for a woman who hates flowers,” Alice said, picking up a bottle of perfume and putting it down again with disapproval. Joan blinked. “Perfume?” “No, a shovel. Yes, perfume.” Joan almost laughed, but laughter still felt risky. “She hates flowers,” Joan said carefully, “or she hates smelling like somebody else’s idea of flowers?” Alice’s mouth curved. “That,” she said, pointing at Joan as though Joan had just passed a test. “Exactly that.” Joan showed her a darker perfume, amber and pepper and smoke, and Alice tried it on her wrist, then held it out. “Tell me the truth.” Joan leaned closer, meaning only to smell it, but Alice’s wrist was warm, and the scent rose between them like a secret. “It’s beautiful,” Joan said, too softly. Alice looked at her for one extra second. “So are you,” Alice said. Joan dropped the receipt book. For three nights after that, Joan could not sleep. She lay in her narrow rented room with the cracked ceiling and listened to the pipes cough in the walls, thinking of Alice Wong’s wrist, Alice Wong’s voice, Alice Wong’s eyes seeing through all that brown wool and fear as if Joan had been standing there in silk and candlelight. When Alice returned the following Thursday, Joan’s heart made such a wild leap that she nearly knocked over a display of scarves. “You again,” Alice said. “Yes, ma’am,” Joan whispered. “Ma’am?” Alice raised one eyebrow. “Do I look like a school principal?” “No.” “What do I look like?” Joan should have said customer. She should have said elegant. Instead, after one breath too many, she said, “Trouble.” Alice smiled slowly. “Good.” It happened at closing, when the last customers had gone and the escalators hummed like tired insects. Alice was buttoning her coat when Joan stepped out from behind the counter, pale with nerves beneath her brown skin. “Miss Wong?” “Alice,” Alice said. Joan swallowed. “Alice.” “Yes?” “I know I’m not—I mean, I know I look like this, and I know you probably have women asking you things all the time, women with lipstick and nice shoes and apartments with more than one chair, but I was wondering if maybe, if you were not busy, if it wouldn’t offend you terribly—” Alice stepped closer. “Joan.” Joan froze. “Yes?” “Are you asking me to dinner?” Joan shut her eyes. “I believe I am trying to.” “Then try less.” Alice’s gaze softened. “Ask me.” Joan opened her eyes and, with all the courage that had failed her at bus stations and church doors and boardinghouse mirrors, said, “Will you have dinner with me?” Alice smiled. “Yes.” At dinner, Joan ordered the cheapest soup and Alice ordered enough food for both of them without commenting on it. “You always look like you’re waiting for someone to scold you,” Alice said, pouring wine. Joan looked down. “Maybe I got used to it.” “That sounds like a story.” “It is.” “Do I get to hear it?” Joan stirred her soup. “Not yet.” Alice nodded once, not offended, only patient, and that patience unsettled Joan more than questions would have. They talked about little things first. Joan admitted she had never eaten oysters. Alice admitted she had once punched a man in an alley behind a club because he called her sister something filthy. Joan said, “You punched him?” Alice said, “Twice. The first one was for my sister. The second was for grammar.” By the time dinner ended, Joan had laughed more than she had laughed in a year. When Alice said, “Come home with me for one drink,” Joan knew she should say no, because safe women said no, because ruined women said yes, because every rule ever written for Joan had been written by people who wanted her small. But Alice was looking at her as if Joan were not ruined at all. So Joan said yes. Alice’s apartment was high above the city, all glass and velvet and brass lamps, with a piano by the window and orchids blooming in bowls as if flowers had been taught good manners there. Joan stood just inside the door, afraid to touch anything. “You live here?” she whispered. “When I’m not sleeping under my desk.” “You have a desk?” “I have several. Don’t look so frightened. They don’t bite.” Joan moved toward the window, where the city glittered like a spilled jewelry box. “What do you do?” she asked. Alice paused. “I own a club.” Joan turned. “A club?” “A nightclub.” Joan’s shoulders tightened. Alice saw it. “For women.” The room changed. Not because Alice said it with shame, but because she did not. She said it plainly, easily, almost proudly, and Joan suddenly felt the old town rise around her, the church whispers, Eleanor’s perfume, Eleanor’s husband’s red face, the choir loft emptying around her like she carried disease. “For women,” Joan repeated. “Yes.” “A place where women go to—” “To dance. Drink. sing, flirt, fall in love, make terrible decisions, make better ones, be left alone by men for five blessed minutes.” Joan backed toward the door. Alice’s face changed. “Joan?” “I can’t.” “You can’t have a drink?” “I can’t be seen in a place like that.” Alice’s voice cooled, but not cruelly. “A place like mine?” Joan’s eyes filled. “I’m sorry.” Then she ran. She did not sleep. She sat on the edge of her narrow bed all night in her boardinghouse room, still wearing the dress from dinner, and watched the city lights shiver through the dirty glass. By dawn, she hated herself for running. By noon, she hated herself for wanting to go back. By evening, she was standing outside Alice Wong’s apartment door with her hand raised and her courage failing by the inch. Before Joan could knock, the door opened. Alice stood there in a silk robe, hair loose, expression unreadable. “I thought you might be out here,” Alice said. Joan’s mouth trembled. “How?” “You stood outside for almost four minutes. The doorman called up because he thought you were either lost or planning a jewel theft.” “I’m sorry.” Alice stepped aside. “Come in before you apologize to the carpet.” Joan entered, and this time she did not stop at the doorway. She went straight to the sofa, sat down, covered her face, and broke. “It was a married woman,” she said through tears. “Back home. Eleanor. She said she loved me, and I believed her because I was lonely and stupid and because she looked at me like I was something holy, and then when her husband found out, she let them say I chased her, that I tempted her, that I ruined her, and they threw me out of the choir, Alice, they took my voice from me and called it mercy.” Alice sat beside her, not touching at first. Joan kept talking, words pouring out of her in jagged pieces. “My mother said I had brought sin into the house. The pastor said I needed humility. Eleanor sent money through a maid, can you imagine? Money. Like I was something she had rented and damaged.” Alice’s jaw tightened. “Joan,” she said quietly, “look at me.” Joan did. “You did not ruin that woman. You did not ruin that town. And you did not ruin yourself.” Joan gave a broken laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.” “No.” Alice reached for her hand. “I say it like it’s true.” Joan stared at their joined hands. “I wanted you so badly I couldn’t breathe,” she whispered. “And then I heard what you owned, and I thought, if I step into that world, I’ll be what they said I was.” Alice touched Joan’s cheek. “And what did they say?” “That I was hungry.” Alice leaned closer. “Are you?” Joan’s breath caught. “For you,” she said. Alice kissed her then, not like Eleanor had kissed her, not in shadows or behind doors or with one ear listening for footsteps, but slowly, openly, with the city burning beyond the windows and no apology in the room. Joan cried into the kiss because it felt too clean to be real. That night, Joan stayed. And when morning came, she woke in Alice’s bed with sunlight across her face, Alice’s arm around her waist, and no lie waiting in the corner. For the first time in her life, Joan did not feel hidden. Alice heard the singing while making coffee. At first she thought it was the radio, some old gospel record drifting from a neighbor’s apartment, but then the voice rose, full and bright and aching, filling the hallway with such power that Alice set the cup down too hard and spilled coffee across the counter. Joan was singing in the shower. Not humming. Singing. A gospel song, old and wounded and triumphant, her voice climbing from grief into glory as if it knew the road by heart. When Joan came out wrapped in a robe, hair damp, face scrubbed bare, she found Alice standing in the hallway with both hands on her hips. “What?” Joan asked, alarmed. “Was I too loud?” Alice stared at her. “You told me they threw you out of the choir.” Joan looked down. “They did.” “You did not tell me the choir must have collapsed afterward.” Despite herself, Joan smiled. “Alice.” “No, I’m serious.” Alice stepped closer, still astonished. “Joan, that was not church singing. That was walls-confessing-their-sins singing.” Joan’s smile faded into something shy and wounded. “I used to sing solos. Mostly gospel. Sometimes hymns. Sometimes whatever the choir director needed.” “You were the soloist?” Joan gave a small shrug. “For a while.” Alice shook her head slowly. “No. You were the choir.” Joan looked away, but this time there was a little warmth in it. “I used to be.” Alice touched her chin gently, asking her to look up. “No,” Alice said. “You still are.” Despite herself, Joan smiled. “I was in the choir. Alice—” “Can you sing jazz?” “I don’t know.” “Blues?” “Maybe.” “Standards?” “I can learn.” Alice stepped closer, eyes alive now with business and wonder. “Can you sing anything?” Joan, shy again, whispered, “Almost.” Alice grinned. “Then we are going to the Blue Lantern.” The Blue Lantern was hidden behind an unmarked blue door on a narrow street where taxis slowed and women in good coats stepped out as if entering a secret they were proud to keep. Inside, it was smoke and velvet, brass and low laughter, blue lamps glowing on little round tables, a bandstand at the back, and a room full of women who looked like they knew exactly who they were. Joan nearly turned around. Alice caught her elbow. “No running today.” “I’m not dressed for this.” “You’re dressed for the tryout.” “The piano player is laughing at me.” “The piano player laughs at tax notices. Ignore her.” The band did laugh a little when Joan climbed onto the stage in her cardigan and flat shoes, and Joan felt that laugh strike every bruise Briar Chapel had left. Then Alice called, “Whenever you’re ready.” Joan almost said she was not. Instead, she closed her eyes. The first note came out small. The second found its spine. By the third, the room had gone still. She sang “Stormy Weather” as if weather were not rain but memory, as if every woman who had ever waited by a window for a love that would not arrive was sitting in that room with a glass in her hand, and when she finished, the drummer whispered something unladylike under her breath. The pianist stared. Alice did not smile. She looked too moved for smiling. “You have a job,” Alice said. Joan stepped back from the microphone. “No.” Alice blinked. “No?” “I can’t do that every night. I can’t stand up there and have people look at me.” “They already look at you.” “No, they look at this.” Joan tugged at the cardigan. “It’s safer.” Alice climbed onto the stage and stood before her. “Then let me teach you how to be looked at without disappearing.” It took three nights. Alice taught Joan how to walk into a room without apologizing to the furniture. “Shoulders back,” Alice said. “I feel ridiculous.” “You feel visible. That is different.” She taught Joan how to hold the microphone, how to let silence work for her, how to accept applause without flinching, how to look at a woman in the front row and make her believe the song had been written five minutes ago for her alone. She bought Joan a black satin gown that made Joan stare at herself in the mirror as if another woman had stepped into the room. “That can’t be me,” Joan whispered. Alice stood behind her. “It has always been you.” Joan touched the fabric at her waist. “Back home they would say I look wicked.” Alice kissed her bare shoulder. “Then wicked suits you beautifully.” On the second night, Joan tried to give the dress back. On the third, after another night in Alice’s bed where tenderness was not borrowed, hidden, or stained with fear, Joan woke before dawn, looked at Alice sleeping beside her, and made the bravest decision of her life. At breakfast, she said, “I’ll sing.” Alice looked up from her coffee. Joan’s hands shook, but she kept going. “I’ll probably faint. I may vomit. I might forget every lyric ever written and embarrass you beyond repair.” Alice smiled. “That sounds manageable.” “But I’ll sing.” On the night of her first performance, Joan made it halfway to the stage, saw the packed room, and turned directly into a broom closet. Alice followed. Joan was standing among mops and cleaning buckets, breathing fast. “I can’t.” “Yes, you can.” “They’re all looking.” “Not yet. You’re in a closet.” “Alice.” Alice took both her hands. “Listen to me. You are not singing for Briar Chapel. You are not singing for Eleanor. You are not singing for every coward who needed you guilty so they could stay comfortable. You are singing because your voice belongs to you.” Joan shut her eyes. Alice lowered her voice. “And after tonight, it belongs to nobody else unless you decide to share it.” Joan opened her eyes. “Will you be there?” Alice smiled. “Front table. Looking smug.” “You do that well.” “I’ve practiced.” Joan laughed, and the laugh saved her. The first song stumbled. Her hand shook around the microphone, and for a terrible moment the old fear climbed into her throat and closed its fist. Then she saw Alice. Alice did not clap, did not mouth encouragement, did not make some theatrical gesture. She simply looked at Joan as if Joan had already won. So Joan sang. She sang the second verse like a confession, the bridge like a challenge, and the final chorus like a woman walking out of a burning town with her head high. When the song ended, there was one shocked second of silence. Then the Blue Lantern erupted. Women stood. Women shouted. The drummer threw both sticks into the air and missed catching one. Someone cried, “Again!” Then another voice called, “Encore!” Then three women near the front began arguing over who had loved Joan first, which made Alice lean back in her chair with dangerous amusement. Joan sang three encores. By midnight, women were sending her flowers, drinks, notes, invitations, and one hotel key that Alice intercepted with two fingers and a look that could have frozen champagne. “No,” Alice told the sender. Joan came offstage flushed and breathless. “I think they liked me.” Alice handed her a glass of champagne. “A little.” “I didn’t die.” “Also useful.” Joan looked out at the room, at the women still clapping, still calling her name, and then back at Alice. “I thought being seen would kill me,” she said. Alice touched her face. “No. Being hidden was killing you.” Later, in Alice’s apartment, with Joan’s gown draped over a chair and the city shining beyond the windows, Alice became strangely quiet. Joan, curled beside her on the sofa, asked, “What is it?” Alice took Joan’s hand. “Move in with me.” Joan sat up so fast she nearly knocked over her champagne. “What?” “You heard me.” “Alice, I’ve known you—” “Long enough to know you leave hairpins everywhere, sing when nervous, pretend not to like expensive coffee, and look at my club as if it were a church that finally learned mercy.” Joan’s eyes filled. Alice continued, softer now. “I’m not asking because you need a place. I’m asking because I want you here.” Joan tried to be sensible. She truly did. She opened her mouth to say they should think about it, that it was too fast, that women like her should be careful with happiness because happiness had a history of leaving. Instead, she said, “Yes.” Alice laughed. “That was quick.” “I can take it back and act difficult.” “Don’t you dare.” Joan leaned into her. “I love you.” Alice went still. Joan’s face changed. “Too quick?” Alice shook her head and kissed her knuckles. “No,” Alice said. “Just right.” Weeks later, the Blue Lantern had a new sign inside the dressing room door, painted in gold letters: MISS JOAN ELLIS — TWO SHOWS NIGHTLY. Joan learned gowns and contracts, lipstick and lighting, rhythm and command. Alice learned that love could soften her without weakening her. Together they discussed recordings, touring, private parties, radio spots, and one little office behind the club where Alice kept the books and Joan sat on the desk swinging one elegant heel while pretending to understand accounting. “You know,” Alice said one night, tapping a pencil against a ledger, “if we sell recordings, we’ll need a proper business arrangement.” Joan smiled from the desk. “Business?” “And royalties.” “Royalties sound nice.” “And partnership terms.” Joan tilted her head. “What kind of partners?” Alice looked up. “In business,” she said. Joan slid off the desk and crossed the room slowly, every step a lesson Alice had taught her and every smile something Joan had found for herself. “And in bed?” Joan asked. Alice set down the pencil. “That,” Alice said, pulling Joan close, “is the easiest contract I will ever sign.” Outside, the Blue Lantern glowed against the city night, and inside, Joan Ellis laughed without lowering her voice. For once, nobody shushed her. For once, nobody owned her song. And when she sang, women listened, Alice smiled, and the wallflower bloomed under blue light, exactly where she belonged. No More Hiding in the Choir A Story by Germaine Corbeau - Click here for links to all Germaine Corbeau Stories! Quick 👏 Guide: 0 = I got lost! - 1-4 = Nice font... nice images. - 5-9=Read a bit. Nice try!, 10-14=Okay... Pretty good!, 15-19=I actually enjoyed this! - 20=Absolutely legendary!