by Sarah Black
"Thanks. It doesn't mean anything now, I guess. It's just ... I like to know. Sometimes, everybody's looking at you like you're wrong, you start to wonder. Those two cops came to see me. Macaren and Weaver. Macaren was so ticked off he said he was taking his kids to Disneyland and he might not come back.” And Weaver had asked him if he wanted to go for a beer sometime, but Deke didn't tell Mama Rose that.
Deke turned back to the little black and white TV in time to hear Mr. Cronkite's deep, solemn voice. “And tragedy on this Christmas night. There has been another shooting in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and it appears to be a revenge killing. Police are hoping to question members of the local Ku Klux Klan."
Blue Otis and Perry Faucett showed up while Mama Rose was on the long distance telephone to Hattiesburg, trying to find out what had happened. The phone circuits were overloaded with people trying to talk to their families at Christmas. Still no line, no information. They didn't know who'd been shot. Deke couldn't think a coherent thought, just no, no, no, no, running through his head.
Perry wrapped him up in a hug scented with whiskey and expensive Bay Rum aftershave, and he looked so much like Rafe that Deke had to choke back a cry and shove his hands in his pocket so he wouldn't punch him in the face.
Mama Rose dropped the heavy black phone. “Jesus, Jesus!” and Blue Otis grabbed the receiver. He looked up and met Deke's eyes, handed him the phone.
It was Rafe, and Deke sank to his knees, relief at hearing his voice turning his legs to water. “Deke, it was Uncle Jimmy. They shot Uncle Jimmy.” Deke didn't know what to say—Who cares, as long as it wasn't you? But Rafe cared, and he was crying. Deke remembered suddenly that proud old face, wearing his old fashioned glasses, telling Rafe he could drink beer if he wanted to sing rock-and-roll. Telling Deke about Porter James, and how he came to write his first blues.
"Rafe, I'll come. I'll start driving tonight, right now, and I can be there by..."
"No, Deke. No. I won't be here. I'm leaving. I've got to get out of here before anything else happens."
"Tell me where. I'll come and get you."
"Deke, you still have my drawer cleaned out?"
"Yes. Everything's ready for you. Rafe, please, come home to me. Let me come get you."
"No, it's too dangerous. It's dangerous for you, for everybody around me..."
"Stop it! Don't do this, Rafe."
"I got to go. I got to go. I'll see you when I see you."
"Rafe, please. Don't do this. Did I tell you I love you?"
"Tell me again."
"I love you. I love you.” And Deke was talking to a dial tone.
Deke pushed open the back door to the alley, felt cold, gritty rain slap him in the face. He reached into his pocket but couldn't find his keys, so he just started walking, up and down streets with beat up old houses warm with lights and laughter and people, their Christmas decorations wet and battered by the wind, like brave smiles and happiness in the hard times. And Deke was alone, like he knew he would be, like he'd always suspected he was going to be.
Christmas, 1968
Deke walked home from the Blues Angel late, and he had a Sweet Clementine and a letter from Captain Rafael Hurt, USMC, in his pocket. The letter had come a couple of days ago, but he only let himself read it once, so he could save it for Christmas night, curled up in his bed.
So many hearts had been broken in the last two years the whole country was singing the blues. But not his heart, and not Rafe's.
Three months after James had been murdered, Deke got a call from Mama Rose. Blue Otis was dead, found curled up with a blanket and a pillow on his wife's grave outside Hattiesburg. Perry fell to pieces, and he came down to the Blues Angel, crawled into Blue Otis’ bed and wouldn't leave. Mama Rose told Deke to come get that crazy white man out of her place. Deke sat next to the bed, drinking a bottle of Coke.
"I don't want you to think there was anything between me and Blue Otis like there is between you and Rafe,” Perry said, his voice muffled by the pillow. “It wasn't like that. But he was my best friend, and I loved him."
"I know."
"Are you still mad at me, young wolf?"
"Yes, I am. But I'm gonna take you down to Hattiesburg for Blue Otis’ funeral. I'm gonna make sure you don't drink too much and embarrass yourself, and you're going to..."
"What?” Perry sat up, his eyes narrowing. “I'm going to make sure Miss Anne Hurt doesn't eat you alive and spit out the bones."
"Right. Exactly."
And that's what they did. Anne was the most beautiful woman Deke had ever seen, reserved and elegant and quite scary. She stared into his eyes, his hand in hers, not speaking, and he blurted out, “I'll love him forever, I promise. I promise."
And she just nodded and turned away. Perry rolled his eyes. “My God. We should have practiced."
Mama Rose had fixed Christmas dinner for them at the club, because the churches were so full of sorrow and hate and talk of revenge, since the death of Dr. King. She said she couldn't stand to listen to the young ones talk about taking to the streets. Deke had fallen into the habit of spending Sundays with her, because she was getting on, and somehow he was family now. Rafe would have looked after her if he was here, but he was in Vietnam, and Tet had spilled blood across the world.
He'd only seen Rafe once since James had been killed, on the night before he left for Da Nang. His hair had been cut into a flat-top, and the scar on his forehead was as bright as a new penny. Rafe would see it every time he looked in the mirror, and Deke knew that's why he'd cut his hair so short. Punishment. Penance. Atonement. No one had ever been charged with James’ murder.
He'd only seen him once, but he talked to him every day in letters. And the letters had saved them both. He could feel when Rafe wasn't trying to kill himself anymore, had listened to him when he'd put aside the despair and started looking around at the world again. A couple of months ago Rafe said for the first time that he missed his music, and wished he had a guitar. And Deke had written it all down for him, The Lives of the Blues Angels, stories about Rafe's old men, stories that told the truth. He'd sent the first copy off the presses to Rafe in Vietnam. Perry helped him get it published.
It was a miserable wet December night, and Deke was nearly back to his apartment when he saw the man sitting on his steps, huddled in a thin denim jacket, a big old arch top guitar across his lap. Deke's heart took a great wild leap into his throat. Rafe looked older, stronger, and for a moment Deke was afraid that he didn't know this man anymore. He sat down next to him on the steps, his knees shaking. Rafe looked up from the guitar. “Hey."
"Hey yourself."
"I had to stop by Hattiesburg first and see my mama. I didn't know when I'd get here."
"That's okay."
Rafe leaned toward him, and his mouth tasted warm and wet and a little salty, like the sky was raining tears.
Deke reached into his pocket and pulled out the Sweet Clementine, started to peel it. His thigh was pressed against Rafe's, and he was already anticipating the warmth when they would lie together, still and quiet, skin to skin. He put a slice of orange in Rafe's mouth.
"Listen to this.” Rafe played for him, a sad Spanish love song, and they sat together on the cold stoop, warming each other.
Deke closed his eyes. “How long can you stay?” He could feel rain on his face, mixing with the tears.
"Forever. You can have me forever. And forever and forever."
* * * *
Vernon Dahmer, Sr. was murdered in Hattiesburg, MS on January 11, 1966. The Klan firebombed his house during the night, while his family was sleeping, after he announced that African Americans could register to vote and pay the poll tax at his store.
Sam Bowers was convicted in 1998, thirty-two years after Dahmer's murder. He died in prison November 5, 2006.
Note from the Author
I was born in 1960, and grew up watching Walter Cronkite on the evening news, watching pictures on the TV from Vietnam and Apollo, listeni
ng to Buffalo Springfield and The Animals and Janis Joplin. We moved to Pascagoula, Mississippi in 1972, for the big shipyard there, and it was a different world. But I still managed to grow up knowing nothing about the Civil Rights Movement that was happening right in my town, right in my back yard. I don't know why. But as an adult, I'm hungry to learn about the times I passed through, the beautiful state that nurtured me, and the people that shared those times, in that place.
Thank you for purchasing Sarah Black's Death of a Blues Angel. Sarah is one of many talented authors who write about the GBLT experience, in historical, contemporary, and futuristic settings.
Please stop by www.AspenMountainPress.com and read excerpts from these fine stories.
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