“The door had closed?” Aunt Livvy said, snorting. “Please. Sweetie, I wish it was just the door had closed. No, when I turn around…”
“I remember you telling this part,” Mom said, nodding. “You were hysterical.”
“…The piano has moved. One second this ugly piano is in front of me, and the next second it’s behind me. How do I know it wasn’t there before? Because I can’t get around this damn thing, it’s so big. This piano is blocking the doorway. I can’t even see over it. I scream for Pop, but he doesn’t come. I am desperate to get out of this room. As scared as I am of this mean piano, I try to push it, but the thing weighs a ton. I climb on the keys, making a racket, but then I’m scared to try to jump off the top, it’s so tall. In my memory, this piano is fifty feet high. And I distinctly remember feeling like this piano would be glad if it hurt me.”
Phoenix had only taken one bite of her pizza, mostly to please Mom, but what little appetite she had fled. Serena sucked in her breath, and Malcolm was leaning closer so he could hear each word. Phoenix felt sure she knew what Aunt Livvy was going to say before she spoke.
“Leah, you talk about hysterical? I had a nervous breakdown. I climbed down off that piano and had a tantrum like never before, crying, my nose plugged, I can’t breathe. But then—and here’s the blessing of being four years old—I just curled there on the concrete floor and went to sleep. The next thing I know, I hear Pop calling for me from down the hall, and that piano was back where it was in the beginning. Like nothing had happened. And when I got home, none of the geniuses in my family would believe a word I said.”
“Livvy, you were four,” Mom said, as if she still was. “That’s such a wild story. How can you trust a memory from when you were that young?”
“Damn right I was four. And it’s because I was four that I’ll never forget it.”
“So, wait…” Serena said. “Is that the same piano that fell on Phee down the stairs? Because that’s what I remember. That was in 1991.” Serena had spent two weeks with her family the year Phoenix was in the hospital. That was when Phoenix and her sister had become friends, as Serena read her Bible verses and tried to make sure her soul was saved.
“It’s the same piano,” Phoenix said. She knew that now, if she hadn’t before.
Aunt Livvy shook her head. “When I think you had it in your home, Leah! I have no idea what was going through your mind.”
“Don’t blame me,” Mom said. “After that accident, I wanted nothing to do with it. Marcus is the one who brought it to our house.”
“Hey, now—hold up,” Sarge said. He was fully reclined in the room’s office chair, his sock feet propped on the desk near the window, where he had a panoramic view of midtown. He hadn’t said anything in so long, Phoenix had almost forgotten he was in the room. But that was Sarge. He chose his moments. “Wasn’t me. The thing was waiting for me on the porch.”
Mom turned to him, wide-eyed. “What are you saying? You didn’t bring it?”
“I figured you’d hired somebody yourself. It surprised me, but…”
“That isn’t funny, Marcus,” Mom said, her voice a warning. “I mean it.”
Sarge shrugged, refusing to retract his story. Phoenix’s goose bumps flared. She’d played a piano that had brought itself to her doorstep. That piano had bewitched her somehow.
“All of ya’ll need to stop fooling,” Serena said. “For real.”
“What happened that day the piano fell, Phoenix?” Sarge said. “Tell me the truth.”
“We told you the truth,” Gloria said. “We left the piano in the storeroom. When we came back, it was at the top of the stairs.”
“She’s right, Sarge,” Phoenix said. “We thought maybe Mr. Bell’s sons had moved it. But maybe not. Maybe it moved itself. Like…the way it got to our house.”
That idea would have blown her mind two weeks ago, Phoenix realized. Not today.
A long silence followed. Uncle Dave shook his head, disbelieving. Serena shivered, rubbing her elbows. Malcolm let out a whistle while he sat back and crossed his long legs, his ankle to his kneecap. His dress socks were bright white. “Dag. I would have chopped that piano up for firewood after all that,” Malcolm said.
“Shoot, I thought about it,” Sarge said. “But Phoenix was attached to it.”
“I still refuse to believe you didn’t bring it home, Marcus. You just don’t remember,” Mom said. “Believe me, it was the biggest eyesore you ever saw.”
“It was that, all right,” Sarge said. “But my memory is fine. Three in the afternoon, I show up at home, and there’s the piano. I wanted to cuss out the movers for leaving it outside.”
Everyone else could remember that piano better than she could, Phoenix thought. When she tried to visualize it, she could only see the ghostly piano that had appeared in Carlos’s bedroom, the one in her dream, not the real one she’d seen as a child. She remembered taking Gloria to the storeroom, the accident, having the piano at the house, everything except how it had looked, exactly, or why she’d wanted anything to do with it. The Queen Psychic was right: That piano had something to do with her connection to Joplin. If she found it again, she might be able to make their connection stronger.
“Mom, do you remember who bought that piano from you?” Phoenix said.
Mom sighed, planting her palm on her forehead. “Oh, wow, that’s been forever. Not off the top of my head. Marcus?” Sarge was already shaking his head. “Well, I’m my mother’s daughter, so I bet I have it in a file at home somewhere.”
Serena suddenly stood up. “Can we change the subject? I can’t stand scary stories. Phee, where’s the thermostat? This room is cold as hell.”
Serena was right, Phoenix realized. The room was so cold, the tips of her fingers were smarting, which she’d assumed before now was from the cold soda can. The others exchanged glances, realizing how suddenly the cold had come. Phoenix expelled a strong breath of air and saw the faintest trace of mist. Serena tried, too, puffing air into her palm. Then she looked at Phoenix, her eyes wild with questions.
“Nobody panic,” Phoenix said. “But I don’t think it’s the thermostat.”
As soon as she spoke, the lights in the room flared, then switched off abruptly. If not for the sunshine through the picture window, the living room would have gone dark.
“Phee, I don’t know who’s paying for this room, but somebody’s gettin’ played,” Malcolm said, just before her bedroom door behind them slammed shut. The sharp sound made Serena and Livvy scream. Gloria looked startled, her eyes casing the room. Even Uncle Dave’s face had gone gray. He yanked off his glasses, staring over his shoulder at the door.
“Who’s in there?” Gloria said.
“Nobody,” Phoenix and her mother said in unison. Mom stared at the door, but she also stared at the air around her, wondering if the source of the cold was something she could see. It was a winter’s day in the room, and they were dressed for summer.
Malcolm rubbed his hands together for heat. “What the hell’s goin’ on?”
“Cold spots and hot spots are evidence of ghost encounters,” Phoenix said. “I’ve had the same thing in my apartment. I know some of you have been thinking I’m out of my mind, but I’m not. These things are happening because of a ghost. It’s the ghost of Scott Joplin.”
“Oh, hell, no,” Serena said, reaching for her purse on the floor.
“Shhhhhhhh,” Phoenix said. “He’s not going to hurt anyone.”
“Cuz?” Gloria said, nearly a whimper, and Gloria was not one to whimper.
“Yeah, cuz?”
“I was wrong, and you were right.”
“This is so amazing,” Aunt Livvy said in a hushed voice, clutching her husband’s hand to her breast. “That’s the part I didn’t tell about that day with the piano. When Pop found me in the storeroom and took me out by the hand, something made me look over my shoulder, and there’s this black man standing at the other end of the hall.” She spoke more quickly, and Phoenix knew she was only
filling the room with chatter so she wouldn’t be afraid.
“He’s dressed up in a suit like a man would wear to temple, very nice. And this is during segregation, so you didn’t just see black people out of the blue. They had to have passes to work on Miami Beach, white and colored water fountains, everything. Disgusting. I’m four years old, so if I see a black man, I automatically think, Oh, he’s a musician. So I call out to him, ‘Are you going to play tonight?’ And I’ll never forget: He turns to look at me, and his face. Such sadness! ‘One day,’ he says to me. Now, Pop is already worried about me because I must have looked like I’d been crying for days. He kneels, and says, ‘Olivia, who are you talking to?’ And when I point, there’s nobody there, I swear. I’m talking to nobody. Just like the piano—there one second, gone the next. My God, do you think that’s who it was? Was it Scott Joplin?” She looked around as if she thought she might glimpse on old friend again.
And Scott was close to Aunt Livvy, Phoenix realized. The light glimmering on the wall behind the sofa looked like a reflection from chrome, but it was him. Be careful, Scott. You’re scaring them. Could he hear what she was thinking the way he knew her dreams?
Serena crouched with her purse, ready to get out of the room once she dared to move. “A ghost is in this room, Phee? Ya’ll are crazy, sitting in here like this!” she said.
Sarge was suddenly on his feet. He put his hands on his hips as he gazed toward the ceiling. “Well, I know one thing…” Sarge’s voice boomed, and he was not addressing the living. “I extend my deepest respect to Scott Joplin, because he was a great man, a very influential man, and I’m honored to be in his presence. But Scott Joplin has had his time. And if there’s a ghost in this room, that ghost better show Phoenix some respect, too. That ghost better not interfere with Phoenix’s concert Friday night, because both my girls are singing on that stage. Phoenix Smalls is living now, and she has her own work to do.”
Whatever spell Scott had woven was broken when Sarge spoke, as if Sarge were a shaman from an ancient culture who only now was revealing his power. Sarge’s words shot around the room.
A piercing shriek made them jump and gasp, but it was only a trumpet solo from the radio, suddenly back on at full volume. The lights came next, every single one; even the banker’s lamp on Sarge’s desk, a black torchiere lamp behind Phoenix and overhead spotlights that had not been on before. The temperature rose abruptly back to normal, killing the cold. The glimmering light behind the sofa was gone, too.
Phoenix hadn’t realized her ghost could be commanded. Even the psychics hadn’t been able to tell Scott what to do. Phoenix felt envious that Scott was so willing to heed Sarge’s spoken words, but what if Sarge had banished him somehow? Phoenix joined her family in staring at her father, speechless.
Sarge calmly straightened his shirt, then he rubbed the last of the cold out of his hands as he prepared to take his seat. After reclining again, Sarge picked up a half-eaten slice of pizza and took a bite. He took his time chewing.
Sarge gave a shrug. “Look, ya’ll, I’ve spent eight years in lockup and sixty-odd years as a black man,” Sarge said. “I guarantee you, like the song says, I ain’t scared of no damn ghost.”
It was after eight when Carlos got back, past dinnertime.
Phoenix had declined at least four invitations while she waited for him: Dinner at B. Smith’s with her parents, a pilgrimage to Radio City Music Hall with Arturo and the dancers, dancing at an Indian hip-hop club with Gloria, Serena and Malcolm, and drinks with an East Coast TSR rep who’d called Sarge’s cell phone only minutes ago, and Sarge had told her she should go. Carlos had been in such a hurry, he’d left his cell phone on the nightstand, so Phoenix hadn’t even had the satisfaction of calling him to tell him how pissed she was. Aside from two taped telephone interviews with local radio stations promoting the concert, Phoenix hadn’t done anything but wait since Scott chased her family away, and the wait was lonely.
Scott hadn’t come back since Sarge’s talk with him, either. Not yet.
Phoenix was half-asleep when she heard the door open. As soon as Carlos appeared with his satchel and two shopping bags, Phoenix knew they were going to have their first fight.
He sat beside her at the far end of the sofa, rubbing her bare feet. “Hey,” he said.
Hey? Groggy, Phoenix sat up and looked at her watch. Eight-fifteen. He’d been gone at least nine hours. “That’s it?”
“Sorry. I couldn’t stay, for the obvious reasons.” Despite Carlos’s apology, he didn’t seem apologetic. He was barely looking at her.
“I have a phone,” she said. She hated to sound like a cliché, but wasn’t she?
“I know. Sorry I didn’t call. I hooked up with some friends in Park Slope. Sorry.”
It was possible, Phoenix thought, that she’d never felt a ball of rage like the one that rolled across her chest as she stared at Carlos staring away from her. She could hear one of Mom’s old scripts with Sarge about to fly from her lips: So how hard would it be to tell me your plans? Do you always have to be gone so long?
“You’re good at apologizing,” she said.
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“So I better take it or leave it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What are you saying?”
He sighed, raising his arms in a resigned gesture. That’s all I’ve got for you.
Phoenix’s anger couldn’t possibly grow, so she felt it receding instead. Carlos was baiting her, even if he didn’t realize it. He had probably pulled the same crap with Heather. Carlos was used to running away, and who was she to judge? She had shamed Ronn in grand style, and Ronn had treated her with nothing but grace. Carlos deserved grace, too.
“Let me guess…” she said softly. “When you start sleeping with someone new, this is the time you start feeling like it’s not worth the risk. Cut your losses. Let’s be friends. Right?”
The stoniness melted from Carlos’s face, and he blinked. Her insight surprised him. “Sometimes now. Sometimes a little later.” He cleared his throat, ready to talk to her like a real person again. “Phoenix…this thing with your father is a problem, no?”
“I didn’t know my parents were coming like that today.”
“That’s not your fault. But it’s also not the issue. This won’t go away.”
“I’m going to talk to him,” she said.
“If I were him, a talk wouldn’t matter.”
“But it might. If it doesn’t, we’ll figure it out. Do you think I’m that easy to cut loose?”
A sad smile appeared on his face. “You’d have legions of others to choose from.”
“I don’t want them. I want you.”
The fight was already over. Carlos leaned over and kissed her, and his lips tasted like sweet rum. He really does love me, she thought, her heart thumping, and she wondered if she already loved him back.
Carlos pulled up one of the shopping bags. “I didn’t have it wrapped, but I got you something to say congratulations on Rising and the Osiris gig. This is a big deal, Phee.”
Phoenix crossed her arms. If he’d presented his gift and a better apology to start, she never would have felt that ball of anger. “You just want me to feel bad for getting pissed.”
He gave her the large bag, plain white plastic. “Go on. Look inside.”
Phoenix didn’t know Carlos well enough to guess what kind of gift he might buy her, except that it wouldn’t be trite. She hoped he hadn’t spent too much money. When she pulled out a thick black woolen bomber jacket with shiny leather sleeves and trim, her eyes went out of focus.
“It’s genuine, from the Rhythm Nation tour,” Carlos said. “It’s not signed or anything, but she probably wore it a few times. The guy who sold it was a roadie on a couple of her tours.”
Janet Jackson’s RHYTHM NATION 1990 World Tour was elaborately stitched in silver on back, but Phoenix had been unable to comprehend the words until Carlos said them aloud. This was a
like-new jacket from Janet’s tour, the one after Control that sealed her escape from Michael’s long shadow. Phoenix had seen Janet at the Miami Arena when she was nine, the reason she was singing, the reason she was here. How had Carlos seen through her to her memories? “But you don’t even like Janet Jackson,” she said. Carlos was biased toward musicians, not pop stars, so how could he understand what that concert had meant to her?
“I like her fine, but so what? You are a true fan. You talked about her long ago, and now here you are. Being a fan is something special, whenever and however it happens. Congratulations, Phee.”
While Carlos hugged her, Phoenix was still staring at her jacket, seeing it anew each time she blinked. The jacket made her remember swords of light stabbing the air from the stage below, the smoke bowing to Janet’s electrifying, mechanized movements with her corps of dancers. The jacket was alive, almost.
Suddenly, Phoenix felt like a fraud. “I’m so far from being Janet,” she said.
“You’re not supposed to be Janet. You’re Phoenix. You’re something else.”
Phoenix remembered to hug Carlos, wrapping both arms around him hard, pinning him in place. “This is the best gift anyone has ever given me. In my life. Ever.”
“You’re welcome.” While Carlos held her, she felt the heat from his neck tickle her cheek. He kissed her again, and her exhausted body tried to rouse itself.
Then, she remembered.
“The ghost was here.” They had both said it at once.
By the time they had exchanged their sighting stories, Phoenix and Carlos were stripped to their underwear and under the covers although it was only nine o’clock. Phoenix wanted to make love to Carlos tonight, but she was so tired, she could barely talk. So far, he had only wrapped himself around her, as if he sensed he would have to wait. Didn’t he always?
Carlos laughed when he heard how Sarge had sent Scott away, warning the ghost not to mess up her gig. “Sarge is a hell of a manager, all right,” Carlos said.
“It’s the thing he does best,” Phoenix said, but they wouldn’t talk about Sarge. She wanted to talk about Scott. She envied Carlos for his sighting in the hallway. Scott had never appeared to her face on when she was awake, not once. He hid himself from her, only revealing his face when she slept. “What did it feel like, Carlos? When he walked through you?”
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