“Listen, Manny, you never heard me sing, did you? I’m gonna sing a new piece I just got. Wanna hear it?”
She seated herself at the piano. She spread the sheets of music. The song was a ballad, a jumble of molasses-coated words, smirking though they meant to whimper. And her hands struck the wrong notes, they slipped off, she had to shake her head and begin all over again. Her voice uncertain, trembling. Still.... Emmanuel, listening to the girl, knew that this was the street returned. His mouth opened in amazement. His arm shook. Then:
“Etta!” he cried, cutting into the cracked notes of the piano. “You can sing!”
She didn’t seem to pay any attention to that. Again she started, false, tremulous. Emmanuel grasped her arm.
“Ouch, you’re hurting me!”
But he would not let her go on.
“Listen, Etta! You can sing. Don’t you understand me? You’ve got it in you. You ... well, you can sing, Etta! Not yet. You know what I mean. Not yet. But it’s in you. You can sing.”
“Yeah?” She was pleased. She brought her face closer to his as he stood there, bending over her.
“You’re going to study....”
“How can I? I got to go to work. I ain’t got time. You feel awful tired after taking dictation all day.”