Greatness in A Cold, Dark Room

“Mr. Gibson,” Thelma said, stepping closer. The principal didn’t stir from his slumber. “Mr. Gibson!” Thelma yelled. Then she nervously put the microphone in his lap and walked off the stage.

A few students were clapping, but most of the school before her was now snoozing, too. Thelma grabbed her book bag from the front row and walked as fast as she could without running to the bathroom. “Great? Yeah right,” Thelma said to herself. 

At church, Ms. June had excluded Thelma from the small choir; all her friends had made it. Thelma watched as they were called up to the front one-by-one to receive a plaque—everyone except her. At school, Thelma had made the choir, but she only got to play the tambourine and was told she didn’t need to sing. She got the point.

If only she was beautiful, or brilliant then she would be great. But she was tomboyish and average.

Cheerleading tryouts hadn’t gone much better. Her friends were trying out so Thelma did, too, but she didn’t understand the point of it. Did the football players even hear the cheers? Did it help them? Maybe, but the moves were confusing and Thelma got turned around. Her face flushed red and she didn’t feel like smiling. She wasn’t happy. 

So, Thelma went out for track, and she wasn’t fast, but thankfully her lack of speed didn’t mean getting cut from the team. But something funny happened when she jogged: her left ankle cracked at almost every step, and although it didn’t hurt, she felt embarrassed because people kept asking about the noise.

But how could she ever stand out if she couldn’t be a part of a group? This concerned her. Years ago, an old woman visiting Thelma’s church told the girl she’d be “great.” And that was all. Her mother was impressed. People said the woman was a prophetess. Thelma then tried to be great, but it left her feeling lost.

 It was around that time Thelma realized her gift—or curse. She sang to comfort herself after all her failures, but soon her mom was napping. The hamburger meat she was cooking would have burned to a crisp if Thelma hadn’t awoken her mom.

“It happens when she sings? Let me hear it, please,” Thelma’s doctor had said before grabbing a seat in the examination room and collapsing into a slumber. It didn’t matter what she sang, it just mattered that she sang. “Dr. Reed? Dr. Reed?” Thelma asked, gently shaking the woman—and her mom, who also nodded off.

Every week at school assembly, a student would sing to open the gathering. Thelma happened to be in the office when she overheard the secretary say that they needed someone that morning to sing. Thelma volunteered, but once again, Thelma put people to sleep with her song. She hadn’t said what happened when she sang, she simply said she could sing.

“Maybe she could sing at hospitals, to the sick,” her dad had suggested.

Thelma sighed in protest. She wanted to sing in the choir and one day be famous. Her dad likewise sighed in protest. “You’ll put everyone to sleep. Sing to those who need it.”

Thelma wore her heels and blue flowered dress with the lace collar, and walked with her mom to meet Wesley at the VA.

“Thank y’all for coming,” Wesley said, shaking their hands. “I admit I’m a little skeptical and want to hear this for myself.”

Taking that as a cue, Thelma immediately started singing, and Wesley widened his eyes and yawned, soon waving his hands in the air to stop her: “I gotcha. That’s good.”

Yellow sunlight filled the room past the blinds on the windows, casting mellow stripes on the white walls. Large circular tables were scattered around the big room where dozens of men sat. Some stared absentmindedly. Some were finishing their suppers with Styrofoam cups and trays before them. A man played hymns on a corner piano.

“That’s Joe in the corner,” Wesley said. “Do you care if he accompanies you?”

Thelma didn’t mind. In no time, after Wesley introduced her, microphone in hand, she sang to the men. But sometime strange happened: They began to clap. No one fell asleep. Was it the song? Thelma wondered. No, she sang about 10 songs and everyone was wide awake. Thelma looked questioningly at her mom who returned the glance while clapping, too. Maybe it was the piano.

“That’s the happiest I’ve felt in years,” one man said afterward, taking Thelma’s hand into his. “Thank you, little ma’am.”

“Beautiful!” said another man, who also greeted Thelma. “You have a happy voice.”

“Well, I thought you would put us to sleep, but you invigorated us,” Wesley said, also shaking her hand. “Thank you for being here. Say, do you mind singing just one more song?”

He said a soldier who recently saw combat was having a hard time. “He’s not slept in days,” Wesley said.

Thelma looked to her mom for permission then followed Wesley to a cold room. A large blonde man sat in a simple chair beside his bed, rocking in the darkened room. His light and TV were off and his blinds were closed.

“Henry?” Wesley asked, knocking on the partially closed door. “This young lady is here to sing to you.”

Henry glanced up and nodded but kept rocking in his stationary chair. Then Thelma started to sing. Wesley sleepily grabbed for the wall to lean on behind him, and Henry looked up questioningly.

Thelma kept singing and Henry dropped his head into his hands and began to cry. Thelma sang louder. Henry cried louder. He cried so loud that he woke up Wesley, who then motioned for Henry to lie down in his bed. Then Thelma sang again and Henry rolled over on his side facing the wall, and dozed off. He was snoring. Thelma helped Wesley pull the covers around Henry’s large shoulders.

Outside his room, Wesley gave Thelma a high five and jokingly asked if she could be on call. “A lot of these men have seen terrible things. Sleep is a gift. You have a gift. You are a gift, young lady,” Wesley said. “You’re great.”

Thelma got chills when Wesley said she was great. What of cheerleading and track and choir and beauty and grades? Thelma wondered. What did it matter? She wanted to sing to soldiers.

“Mom,” Thelma said on the way home, “Henry finally got some rest.”