Joplin's Ghost

by Tananarive Due

  “I know. I heard you playing.” But confusion came again. How had she heard him playing here when she had been somewhere else, somewhere far away?

  Suddenly, she knew: the piano. Phoenix didn’t want to look at the piano again—this was a piano that could be provoked, and curious things happened to her when she gazed on it, she remembered—but she felt as compelled by the piano as she did by Scott’s touch.

  The piano sat waiting for her, patient. It had looked new when she first saw Scott playing it in this clearing, but now it had aged by centuries, a scarred relic. It wore a dusty lizard’s skin, like before. This was the piano she knew and did not know, the one she had once touched. She couldn’t read the manufacturer’s proud label, because it had long ago faded away. The keys were stained dark brown, not white. The rest were covered in blood.

  Startled, Phoenix pulled Scott’s hands from her face to look at them. His palms, too, were caked in blood. Watery blood spattered his white shirt. She pulled his palm to her nose and sniffed it, and the barbed scent tore its way into her nostrils, as real as her own. She raised her fingers to her cheeks, where Scott had touched her, and her fingertips slid against the sticky dampness of it. Blood was everywhere.

  “I’m sorry, Freddie,” Scott said more loudly, his voice urgent. “I didn’t know.”

  Why does he keep calling me that? What’s my name? She combed her memory, seeking herself, and could find only a void.

  A monstrous racket made her look at the piano again, and the wood of its cabinet splintered along its scars, shards cracking, breaking apart. As she watched, the piano crumbled to dust; a silent mound, unrecognizable. The stoic low echo its last low C-sharp rumbled, resounding against Phoenix’s bones until they shook.

  “What have you done?” she said to Scott.

  “Stay with me,” he said, and leaned closer, his lips entreating hers. “Sing for me.”

  Her lips quivered, fervid for his lifeless touch.

  Phoenix? Are you listening to me? You don’t have to do this concert.”

  Carlos could be at the other end of the Holland Tunnel, he sounded so far from her, but Phoenix felt steady pressure as he squeezed her hand. She had to answer him, she remembered. Her long silence had wrought panic in his voice.

  “Yes. I do,” she said. It was mumbling, but she was almost sure she’d said it aloud.

  “She’s not hearing me,” Carlos’s apparition said again. Phoenix tried to see Carlos, but couldn’t quite make him out; everything was jellied and unfocused, shades of light and dark.

  “Yes, I hear you, Carlos. I have to.” She was still mumbling, but louder this time.

  Carlos cursed and muttered in Spanish, something he’d never done while talking to her. She must be remembering herself, she thought, because it pissed her off not to understand what Carlos was saying about her, even if she could comprehend his panic just fine. She didn’t blame him. If her head were more clear, she would be panicked, too.

  “Maybe she’s all right now,” Serena said.

  “Bullshit. She fainted. She never faints.” That was Gloria, who would know.

  “Maybe she’s just nervous. Shit, ya’ll, I know I am.”

  “She just gets diarrhea when she’s nervous,” Gloria said. “Something’s wrong with her.”

  Please stop talking about me like I’m not here, Phoenix thought, but since she couldn’t speak aloud without tiring herself, what if she wasn’t here? That thought triggered her mantra: I have a show at the Osiris. I’m going to sing “Party Patrol” and “Love the One You’re With.” I am not Freddie Alexander. I am Phoenix Smalls, and I am still alive. I am not dead.

  Her memory rebelled even as she spoke the words, making her forget their meaning. She might be awake, but she hadn’t escaped Scott. He had his own plans for her today.

  Sing for me.

  Phoenix’s nostrils and throat clogged with a harsh, piercing scent, and her head popped back hard against her headrest as she cried out. Was Scott stealing her away?

  “Calm down, cuz. It’s just smelling salts,” Gloria said.

  When Phoenix opened her eyes, she saw her cousin’s tanned, manicured hand in front of her face, holding a small vial. The late-afternoon light was bright, almost blinding, but suddenly she could see clearly, without the viscous, ethereal film. She was in the backseat of a Town Car with gray seats and tinted windows. She was in the middle, Carlos sat to her left, Gloria to her right. Serena was up front with the uniformed driver, her arm propped on the seat as she stared back at them. Phoenix saw a street sign marking Seventh Avenue. When she blinked, she saw the stately row of refurbished Victorian town houses on Strivers Row. What year was this?

  “Convince me you’re all right, or I’m calling Sarge at the theater to tell him we’re canceling,” Gloria said. “I’ll take you to a hospital, I swear.”

  “Eat me,” Phoenix said. “How’s that?”

  Gloria didn’t smile. “That’s not good enough. Tell me what you’ve been doing the last hour. Prove to me you’re not zoned out.”

  “The last two hours,” Carlos said. “She fainted in the bathroom once, too.”

  Much to Phoenix’s relief—and a little surprise—it was suddenly there, all of it, so she recited it for them: Carlos had thrown a cup of water in her face to wake her from her nap, explaining that she’d been talking in her sleep and wouldn’t open her eyes. She had taken a shower and fainted on the bathroom floor, which explained the throbbing knot on the side of her head. Then, while Serena was fixing her hair, she’d fainted again on the living room’s sofa. Both times, she’d come back to consciousness on her own. Now, they were on their way to the seven o’clock show at the Osiris Theater on Lenox Avenue and 138th Street. She threw in the address to impress them. “I haven’t fainted in an hour,” she finished. “I’m fine now. For real.”

  Three faces gazed at her in intent silence. Phoenix glanced at the rearview mirror, and the driver was watching her, too, his eyes smug with whatever he thought he knew. “Why don’t you watch where the fuck you’re going?” Phoenix said to the driver, and his eyes went back to the road. Phoenix never snapped at strangers, but she enjoyed it more than she wanted to. It had felt good to say what she was thinking. No wonder there are so many assholes.

  Gloria sighed, Carlos next. In the front seat, Serena looked uncertain, twirling her index finger in the curly, rust-colored weave she’d picked for herself. Phoenix wasn’t sure the hair’s shade worked for her sister’s skin tone, but Serena looked beautiful. Yesterday, Serena had bought a black formfitting dress on sale at Le Chateau that was forgiving in all the right places.

  “Carlos?” Gloria said, looking at him for his opinion.

  Carlos shook his head. “I’m not happy.”

  “Well, too damn bad—it’s not your decision. I have a show to do, and I’m doing it.”

  That brought silence. Carlos dropped his head against the seat, lips pursed, and Phoenix was glad he was quiet. If he said anything else, her next words would be dangerous. She suddenly resented Carlos’s presence. He wasn’t the one who should be with her. He wasn’t…

  He wasn’t who? Phoenix didn’t bring the name to consciousness, but she didn’t have to. Suddenly, the ache of missing Scott was the only thing about the day that didn’t feel dreamlike.

  My God, I’m really losing my fucking mind. Phoenix closed her eyes. I have a show at the Osiris. I’m going to sing “Party Patrol” and “Love the One You’re With.” I am not Freddie Alexander. I am Phoenix Smalls, and I am still alive. I am not dead.

  Carlos’s spicy cologne intensified as he brought his mouth against her ear, and the scent moored her to the car again. Carlos hadn’t had time to shave, and his day’s stubble brushed her earlobe, reminding her only of how much she preferred the smoothness of Scott’s face. “This stops now, Phee,” Carlos said, only loud enough for her. “I’m scared for you. I called Heather, and she’s asking her psychic friend in Seattle what we should do. It’s gone too far. Punto.
”

  Punto. Who did he think he was talking to, telling her what to do? Phoenix felt resentment stir again, but she had no choice but to nod. She gripped Carlos’s hand hard, and she didn’t stop clinging until the Town Car lurched to a stop.

  OSIRIS THEATER. The sky wasn’t yet dark, but the theater’s ageless neon sign was lit up in a magical white-gold that had glittered on Lenox Avenue for decades. Phoenix stared up at the marquee, mesmerized. The large red block letters posted against the lighted marquee were reserved for the biggest names, of course: Tyrese, Imani, Kamikaze and Bing Boyz. AND OTHER SPECIAL GUESTS, the sign promised. But in smaller letters that were still large enough to read for blocks, a new name blared out: PHOENIX.

  Someone had added her name as an afterthought, and Phoenix smiled, grateful. Yes, I am Phoenix Smalls, and I am alive. I am not dead.

  Phoenix noticed four security guards in the doorway of the grand white brick and limestone building, busily waving black wands up and down the arms, legs, backs and chests of every prospective attendee, searching for hidden weapons. They might have to spend all night out here, Phoenix thought. The line already stretched down the street as far as she could see.

  It’s showtime, folks, Phoenix thought.

  She wouldn’t let Scott take her time away from her.

  What’s this I hear about you fainting twice today?” Sarge said, handing her a water bottle.

  Phoenix could barely hear her father over the backstage bedlam, which felt like the fabled Grammy party Gloria had been fantasizing about since they were in high school. The rap music playing for the audience was loud back here, too, so muffled that the beats and vocals crashed into each other, incoherent against the sound of backstage laughter, conversation and inevitable arguing. Phoenix had never met most of the artists she shared the program with, so she was startled to see Tyrese stroll past her in a matching oversized denim jacket and jeans, trailed by a bodyguard. Tyrese’s casual dark chocolate majesty stalled her brain. How could this man look even better in person?

  “I’m talking to you, Phoenix,” Sarge said. “Did you faint today?”

  Phoenix took the bottle and swigged the frigid water. “Who told you that?” She had sworn Serena and Gloria to secrecy.

  “Your friend,” Sarge said, and swung his head toward Carlos, who lingered a few feet away, behind a stack of huge amplifiers. Carlos’s red backstage pass dangled from his neck, and in that instant, Phoenix wanted to revoke it.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Hold up. Let me look,” Sarge said, stooping. He studied her eyes the way an astronomer might look at an anomaly through his telescope, careful and lingering. Still, the worry lines in his forehead were softer than she remembered. The days off had been good for Sarge, she thought. Hopefully, his time with Mom in New York had been good, too.

  “I’m fine, Sarge. I’m ready to do this.”

  “Don’t do this to prove anything to me, Phoenix,” Sarge said. “I was wrong about the drugs, and that’s all I care about. I’m not pushing you, hear? If you’re sick, say so.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  That was another lie, one of too many she’d told her father. She was sick, or something worse than sick. Sarge’s concerned gaze made Phoenix long to cling to him. The longer she was alert, the more she felt convinced she needed protection—not Ronn’s kind of protection, with his armored car and army of guards, but something to stand between her and her own impulse to consort with the domain of the dead. Something inside of her kept dragging her back to Scott, even as she fought to stay away.

  Seventeen hundred people could hear me sing Treemonisha tonight. I have a platform.

  That thought pounded through her with every flush of blood from her heart, which was beating faster all the time. Where was the thought coming from? She’d believed she was obeying her own thoughts at Live at Night, but she knew better now. Had she really lost her own will? How had she let it come to that?

  Sarge hesitated, his lips parting. “I know you’re…bearing a burden, Phoenix.” Despite the bravery he’d shown in the hotel room, Sarge didn’t bring up Scott’s name.

  “I can handle two songs. I’m singing ‘Party Patrol’ and ‘Love the One You’re With,’ and I’m doing it because that’s what I want to do,” Phoenix said, speaking more to herself than to Sarge. “After that, I’ll take a break, see a doctor, whatever you want. I promise.”

  Sarge’s face yielded, venturing a smile. He was convinced. “That’s my girl,” he said, and kissed her forehead. “This stage has history. Billie Holiday, Jackie Wilson and James Brown have all been on this stage. Come with me to your dressing room. Someone wants to see you.”

  Phoenix waved good-bye to Carlos before she followed Sarge, and he blew a kiss in return, still watching her as if he expected her to break. One day, she vowed, she would find a way to make all the pieces of her world fit together, and she wouldn’t have to leave Carlos behind.

  As she and Sarge walked in the narrow white hallway, Phoenix saw her crew gathered like a tribe, and they reached out to hug her one by one; Arturo and the other two dancers, Rochelle and Monique, and her backup singers, Monisha and Danielle. She could smell their anxiety and excitement in their perspiration. Arturo’s hug was so enthusiastic that he lifted her from her feet with iron arms and swung her from side to side. “This is it, chica,” Arturo said. “The Osiris tonight, then the video next week. Let’s do this one for Jay.”

  “For Jay,” she said, and pecked his lips, her throat stinging.

  When Sarge opened her dressing room door, the strobe effect from flashing cameras dizzied Phoenix. The teenagers in bright purple choir robes were taking a flurry of pictures with their disposable cameras, but the cameras weren’t pointed toward her. Their frenzy stemmed from the center of their circle, so Phoenix guessed maybe Tyrese or one of the rappers from Kamikaze had stopped in to say hello to her kids. The room was crowded to capacity, between the kids, Serena, Gloria, Kai and another bodyguard Phoenix remembered from TSR. She looked for her mother, until she remembered Mom and Aunt Livvy wanted to get their seats early and watch the show from the audience, not from backstage.

  “I said one picture each. None of ya’ll can’t count to one?” Kai said, clapping his hands. “You need to hustle your little asses on out of here. Don’t make me mad. Go on, now.”

  The six boys and six girls obediently put their cameras away and began to scurry out of the room in a blur of shiny, newly pressed hair and cologne borrowed from their fathers’ bureaus, murmuring Hi, Phoenix as they passed. She gave each of them a hug, too, wishing them luck.

  As they cleared away, Phoenix recognized her visitor’s Hugo Boss black slacks and matching nylon shirt, the portrait of subdued celebrity. Ronn Jenkins leaned against her far wall, signing a last autograph for a starstruck young fan. No one had told her Ronn would be here. No wonder her kids were losing their minds.

  Phoenix felt a twinge from somewhere in her that wasn’t yet at rest. “I heard you were staying in L.A.” What she’d actually heard—what everybody knew—was that DJ Train had a price on Ronn’s head in New York. Why was he taking chances?

  “Couldn’t miss my girl’s big night,” Ronn said. He smiled and pulled her against his solid frame, a hug nearly as tight as Arturo’s. Phoenix knew Ronn was probably in New York for reasons that had nothing to do with her, but the words sounded nice.

  As always, guilt doused her. “Ronn, about Live at Night—”

  He shook his head, raising a finger to cut her off. “Manny says your set is off the chain.”

  “We’re trying.”

  “Then it’s all good. Go out there and do your thing.”

  “Why do you put up with me?” she said, resting her cheek against his shoulder. She heard Serena hiss, terrified that she was mussing her makeup.

  A wink was Ronn’s only answer, but she knew why he tolerated her: She was making him money. Punto. “Come hook up with me at the after-party at Anju, a’ight?”

 
; Carlos wouldn’t like her hooking up with Ronn anywhere tonight, but business was business. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to be hanging out in the clubs?” she said quietly, trying to reach the rattled man she’d seen the day someone tried to kill him.

  Ronn laughed at that, and his laugh would have sounded sincere if she were a stranger. Ronn ignored that question, too. “OK, I gotta move on, baby girl.” He gave her a handshake, not a kiss like he had in his car. He knew about Carlos, she realized. Kai might have told him.

  Ronn exchanged pleasantries with Serena and Gloria, kissing their cheeks. Next, he gave Sarge a warm embrace, and Phoenix watched the two men, transfixed. Her face lost all sensation as bleak intuition settled across her skin. Ronn would not make it to an after-party at Anju. Something would go wrong before.

  “Ronn…” she began. But no one heard her in the clamor as the door opened.

  Kai glanced outside of the dressing room, scoping the hallway, then he walked ahead of his boss, and the second bodyguard walked behind him. Then, Ronn was gone.

  “Phee, sit your behind down. Look what you did to your face,” Serena said.

  Her sister’s voice cut through her fears, setting Phoenix free.

  New York, New York—ARE YOU READY TO GET BUSY?”

  The MC’s voice screamed over the theater speakers, buttressed with frenetic bursts and scratches from his turntable. The hyped-up crowd met his challenge in a wave of booming cheers. The audience was almost loud enough to silence the presence nesting in Phoenix’s mind, the voice that was more restless with her every breath.

  Sing for me. Scott’s voice.

  Phoenix stood posed with her crew for “Party Patrol” on the dark stage. Phoenix silently drummed the keys of her Liberation, which was strapped across her shoulder, ready. She was so happy to be holding her keyboard, her fingertips were pulsing. She should have known how much she had missed playing music on the stage. Who had she been trying to fool?

  Sing, Freddie. Sing for me.