ACT ONE
The “I Want” Song
Chapter One
The O’Hanlon farm was devoted mostly to pigs, with stalls for breeding and a large slaughterhouse on the west edge of the property. They also owned a horse barn, an apple orchard, a coop for chickens, and a field where they grew food for the animals. The farm was like a large body, clear yet relentless in its needs. While the animals’ appetites stayed consistent and the chores of the day never changed—only occasionally growing more difficult, due to weather or workers’ illness—Eleanor, who had spent nearly every day of her life on this farm, made mistakes. As often as she brushed the horses until they gleamed, she would also bring the chickens the wrong feed. She had a tendency to grow dreamy while picking apples and let too many wormy runts into the mix. She was not a stupid girl. But the place did not allow for a lack of attention, and though it had been her family’s farm since her grandfather bought it forty years earlier, Eleanor was never interested enough to learn its rhythms.
Still, while Eleanor dreaded all of her farm chores, she never once neglected to feed the pigs. On sterile winter mornings, she resisted the pull of her bedclothes and stepped onto the chilled floorboards. It was easier in summer, when she woke with the sheets sticking to her back.
On her twenty-first birthday, the June sun was hot. She carried heavy pails with rag-wrapped handles that wouldn’t cut into her palms. When the pigs noticed her approach, they swarmed the edge of the sty, their noises layering into a fugue of desperation.
It was early, and dew still shone on the soybeans in the neighboring fields to the east. The land was flat and pale green, the sun sending rays straight into her eyes. Pink, fatty bodies rammed her legs; snouts nudged her hands and pockets in search of food. She greeted them each by name and dumped feed into the trough, rubber boots sinking into the mud. Eleanor was the one in the family who’d named the pigs. The names were born from a desire to bait rather than sentiment. It enraged her father. She hated the sows most—gelatinous, sedentary bodies reserved for reproduction and consumption, bellies already resembling Christmas hams. When Eleanor saw them, her tongue rose with sharp nausea.
She slid out of the gate, using her thigh to keep the animals inside, and returned to the barn. A cat uncurled from its place on the supply shelf and darted away. The hay all around her was dry from the heat, which was good. Sometimes, on humid days, it was stuffy inside the barn. She closed the door so only a seam of light glowed through, inhaled, and began to sing.
Even surrounded by the muffling hay, Eleanor’s voice filled the space. She always warmed up with ascending scales. Her voice was a strong soprano with a persistent rasp, as if she had just woken up. She’d learned to sing in church, but despite her talent she was passed over for solos. Her mother said everyone was jealous; her best friend, Rosie, said it was because her voice was too sexy for Jesus.
As soon as Eleanor had gotten old enough to manage the morning chores alone, she’d started rushing through them to make sure she had time to sing before breakfast. Some days, her barn mornings were all the practice time she got. So even when she did not want to wake up, she did, because the only thing worse than rising at dawn to feed the pigs was a day without singing.
After her warm-up, she chose a song: “If I Were a Bell” from Guys and Dolls. It had opened on Broadway eight years earlier, and she’d memorized it off the record. It was a bright song, tipsy and fun, and reminded Eleanor of New York, where she had never been but burned to go. She loved to imagine what the actress might have looked like onstage—how could a woman make a song come to life with nothing but her body and voice? How would she move her fingers, her eyebrows, her shoulders? Eleanor pretended she was singing to a man, her scene partner, and stepped as far into the character as she could. For half an hour, she lost herself in the material. Alone, she performed.
Singing was innate to her, like walking, speaking, or sensing the temperature of the air. Her body had learned to sing before her mind caught on. Music was everywhere. Television jingles had enchanted her as a baby. Mass was fascinating—as long as the priest kept quiet. What was background noise to everyone else was a life-giving pulse to her. At parties, she had trouble keeping up in conversations, distracted by whatever record was spinning.
She sang in the barn until her parents would come looking for her. They knew she liked to sing but would be angry if she were distracted during chores. Her practicing was private; she didn’t allow herself to feel ashamed that she was performing for bales of hay. She knew she could never become a performer, but in the barn, she trained as if she had a real chance. She found dignity in the rigor of her practice. Through routine and dedication came improvement, which awarded a satisfaction otherwise absent for her on the farm. Every day she worked, and during those minutes, she allowed herself to imagine that practicing might lead somewhere. It was impossible to work so hard without wanting to sing for an audience, though such a desire was dangerous to encourage. The possibility for heartbreak was overwhelming, but the fantasy was irresistible. But when she sang, she imagined herself selected from a pool of girls to perform on Broadway. Today it was Guys and Dolls. Yesterday, The Music Man. And Gershwin, and Irving Berlin, Richard Rodgers, and Cole Porter. This time was hers.
Eleanor walked back toward the house, its paint peeling, the sun displaying the spots that needed repair. The family dog, Lou, galloped toward her and butted her with his head. She pushed him down. Normally singing energized her, but today she felt a heavy pall. Perhaps it was because she was another year older—and each day that passed was another spent in Wisconsin and one less she might spend in New York. Another day with the pigs. She had a desperate, breathless feeling in her chest that morning, as she realized that however young she might be, her life was progressing in place. The barn mornings were hers, but they were not enough. Eleanor faced the possibility that they might have to be.
She left her boots on the porch and opened the screen door, letting it slam behind her.
Her mother was at the stove, sleeves rolled up as she poured grease into a tin on the counter. Eleanor’s stomach turned; she hated bacon.
“There’s the birthday girl!”
Eleanor could have rested her chin on top of her mother’s head. Instead, she poured coffee.
“Rosie and I are going to the movies tonight.”
Her mother made a noise. “With anyone special? Might be nice to dress up.”
Eleanor pulled bread from the box and ignored her. Growing up, Eleanor’s mother had described her as “the marrying kind.” She was tall, with a solid figure softened by large breasts and bearing hips and reddish hair, the tone enhanced by her freckles and a tendency to blush. Her features were pretty but generic. Her appearance called to mind sensible girls rather than stunners. The only thing that distinguished her was her voice. It was low and husky, and made men turn around when she spoke in stores. When she was speaking, it was more interesting than average, enough to earn a double take. But when she sang, for all of her uncertainties, even Eleanor knew it was something.