Last Night at the Blue Angel

by Rebecca Rotert

  See for yourself, said the woman.

  I got up and faced him, tried to stand straight and to breathe, but I felt strange, like I was standing on a stage and the curtains began to close.

  Ragamuffin? he said. The last thing I remember was him walking toward me as the curtains closed all the way.

  A few minutes later I opened my eyes to find myself looking up at David and the beautiful woman, both squatting beside me.

  Don’t know exactly what happened . . . the woman was saying.

  My first thought was, What happened?, and my second thought was, David doesn’t know yet. About Laura. About home. I sat up. Why would he?

  Take it easy there, doll, he said.

  I’m okay.

  He kept his arm around me. So what are you doing on my floor?

  It’s a long story, I told him.

  Would you mind taking her upstairs, Miss Elaine? Give her something to eat, set her up on the davenport?

  They helped me to my feet. I followed Miss Elaine. She stopped, turned around, and said to David, So how’d we do last night?

  David shook his head, like last night was bad news.

  God damn it, she said to herself as we climbed a dark narrow staircase near the back of the bar.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened to a long room with windows on either end. A woman in a silk robe was pinning dollar bills to a laundry line strung from one end of the apartment to the other. The room smelled of mildew and smoke. The woman took the cigarette out of her mouth and said, What on earth?! Elaine!

  Don’t shoot the messenger, Elaine said, her hands raised. She’s some friend of Davie’s. And she needs a little rest. Sit down here, sugar, she said, patting the davenport. I sat.

  She’s all yours, Elaine said, walking to the door.

  The blonde walked to me, her heels tapping. She studied me, held her cigarette close to her red lips as she brushed a wave of long hair away from her face.

  You from Soldier?

  Yes, ma’am, I said.

  Ooooh. Not that. Name’s Caroline, she said, extending her hand, her red nails pointing at me.

  Naomi. I couldn’t help but glance at the dollar bills drying on the line and the old plaid suitcase sitting on the card table.

  This is . . . she began, pointing at the bills and tilting her head. This can be explained. You hungry?

  I nodded again. She went to the little kitchen area, took a few dinner rolls out of the bread box, and brought them to me with a glass of water before she sat beside me.

  Honey, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I need to ask you something and you’ll go on and tell me the truth. Are you and David . . . She looked at me, expecting me to fill in the sentence on my own.

  No. Oh, heavens no, I said with my mouth full.

  She leaned back. I didn’t think so, she said, waving her fingers once over my dress. But God knows with that man.

  I felt my face redden, flattered that she might see me as an actual grown love interest, as a woman at all. David walked in then and sat in front of me, folding his long fingers prayerlike. Caroline went back to the money.

  So what are you doing here? he asked.

  You said we could come visit anytime, I told him. Laura and I. That day at the house? Remember?

  Caroline looked over her shoulder at us, grinned, and clipped another dollar bill.

  David leaned back in his chair. Well, sure, kid, yeah, a fella says “come on by” but then to just show up out of the blue, well . . .

  I thought he was going to ask me to leave the way he was staring at me, waiting for me to say something that might make sense.

  Something happened, I said.

  Caroline stopped with the money and turned to look at me with her hand on her hip.

  I need to tell you privately, I said, glancing at Caroline.

  I’ll go help Elaine, she said, irritated.

  I told David almost everything. That we borrowed his records. That we were just going to listen to music and then—I watched his face change as the story went on. He winced at the part about his mother.

  Laura. The perfect child. He shook his head and leaned forward. Our pretty little goddamned saint. Christ.

  I would like to talk to her.

  Why? he said. Honestly.

  I looked at the ceiling. Because I loved her. And because I needed her to either come to me or tell me she didn’t love me. Once I was certain, I could proceed with becoming someone new.

  To make it right.

  He shook his head. Now, kid, this is a mess here. And Pop? He means business. You don’t want to test him. I sure as hell don’t. I mean, what was your plan, doll?

  I felt my stomach quiver. Be bigger, I told myself.

  What about your folks? They know where you are, even?

  It had only been a few days and I was trying not to let the sight of them enter my mind, the thought of Papa’s coffee cup, Murielle’s freckled forearms, the quilt on our bed. It was all too much.

  I straightened my back but it didn’t work. My throat tightened and the tears came up.

  He moved next to me and put his arm around me. I cried on the shoulder of his navy suit. The more I tried not to cry, the more I cried. With my face against his lapel, I realized I’d never been this close to a man before and breathed in deep, trying to identify the smells—smoke and women’s perfume, starch and sweat, and something else, something entirely his. His smell was like wind in the house, throwing one door open and slamming another.

  Maybe you help me out downstairs. A few weeks tops. You can stay up here. Make a buck or two.

  That would be real nice of you, I said.

  And you gotta call your folks, let them know you’re safe.

  I nodded.

  But you can’t stay here forever. You got to move on. All right?

  I know.

  Got enough stray cats around here, he said, pinching my chin, trying to make me smile.

  And you’ll help me talk to Laura? I asked. Maybe you call home, get her on the line, and I could talk to her?

  He let go of my chin and stood up, shaking his head. And then what?

  Maybe she could come here, too? We could . . . I tried to imagine her here with me but I could only see her back home. She was stitched into the fabric of Soldier. She could not be cut out.

  There are things I need to know, I told him.

  He smiled weakly. Well, sometimes there are things we don’t get to know.

  I looked at the money hanging on the line, at the makeshift curtain—a square blue tablecloth with cherries on it tacked over the window—and something inside me shifted. Like when Sister and I would be listening to music and the music, all the parts of it, suddenly moved as a whole. She would say, Did you hear that? It’s called a key change. In that moment, I felt a key change inside me.

  PART FOUR

  Stormy Weather

  Sophia

  CHAPTER 19

  CHICAGO, 1965

  IT’S CLOUDY THE morning Elizabeth is to visit and I wake up late. I run into the kitchen to see what time it is. Eight. I run down the hall to wake Mother but she’s not there. Her bed and floor are covered with clothes and the drawers of her bureau are open. I open the bathroom door—nothing. So I call Jim’s apartment. No answer. I put my shoes on, pull my coat over my nightgown, and head for the elevator.

  I find Jim with Mother in the lobby. Sal stands near them, his back extra straight, and Jim is talking to Mother on a small settee. She has changed into the blue dress and half of her hair has fallen out of its twist. When she stands up she wavers. Jim reaches for her but she weaves out of his reach and steps onto the end table by the settee.

  A little song for my friends, she says. Then she sees me and clasps her hands together. Kitten! You came! I was just about to sing! Jim reaches for her. She swipes at him and he ducks. He lifts her by the waist and she struggles on her way down, kicking so we can all see the tops of her stockings and that she’s not wearing panties.
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  Come on, says Jim, forcing her to walk with him toward the elevator. Peanut, he says to me, and points to the floor by the couch. Box of donuts. Grab them, will you?

  I pick up the box, telling myself not to look at any of the people standing around, but then I do. I can’t help it and I wish I hadn’t.

  Mother and Jim get in the elevator and the door begins to close. Jim stops it with his hand and I slip in fast. I’m always afraid the doors are going to close on me, today especially.

  In the elevator, Mother leans on Jim. The thing is, she says. I do love you. I really, really do. I sometimes think we’ll end up together. You know, once I get better.

  Jim watches the elevator dial arch from left to right. Get better how? What’s that supposed to mean?

  Someday I’ll stop wanting what I can’t have. You’re right what you said.

  She tries to hold herself up and pitches a little. Got any tips? she asks. ’Cuz I’m all ears. Wait, don’t tell me. Pick the good guy. Pick Jim.

  She reaches for Jim, takes his face like she might kiss him. He turns his head. The door opens and he ushers us both out.

  You’re no fun, she says.

  You have enough fun for all of us, says Jim.

  He takes her back to her bedroom. To me he says, Why don’t you red up the place.

  I straighten up the living room and wish I had never invited Elizabeth. Mother and Jim walk from the bedroom to the bathroom, where he runs a bath. In the kitchen he starts coffee and puts the donuts on a plate. When he comes into the living room, he takes the bottles and clothes from my hands. Go get dressed, he says, and then, Hey, everything’s going to be fine.

  I run into my room to change. I wish he hadn’t said that because now I want to cry. The mess I made covers my floor still, so I shove it all under my bed and then put on the cleanest clothes I can find.

  Jim takes a coffee to Mother in the bath. When he comes back, I catch him looking at the clock. We can hear Mother singing in the bathroom, her voice sounds tired. Jim puts the donuts on a tray and sets out a pitcher of juice.

  I head for the bathroom. C’mon, doll, let’s just leave her be, he calls after me.

  I open the door. Mother is in the bath, her eyes closed, singing to herself. Usually, her beauty interrupts what I feel, but not today.

  Please don’t ruin this, I say. She’s my only friend.

  She lifts her head from the edge of the tub and looks at me for what seems like a long time. Your eyes get so green when you’re mad, she says.

  I leave. She calls out behind me, I’ll be good, kitten. Good!

  Sal stops Elizabeth and her father in the lobby. He rings the apartment and Jim answers the phone with a happy hello. But then his voice lowers into a quiet shout as he says, He said they are here to see us, they are here to see us! And then he snaps again—I don’t think careful is what you’re being.

  Jim apologizes to Mr. LaFontaine as he answers the door. Mr. LaFontaine says, You must know that being Negro is reason enough to be stopped in a motel lobby. Anywhere, for that matter. He is short with a graying beard and a happy face. Jim apologizes again as he welcomes them, offering donuts, coffee, and juice. They talk while I show Elizabeth our home, especially my window seat and the little kitchen.

  Mother comes down the hall in the white dress with apples on it, an apron, her hair up, only the slightest hint around her eyes of having been up all night, of not yet being entirely collected.

  Eugene LaFontaine, says Elizabeth’s father, standing and offering his hand. If you don’t mind my saying, I am a fan. It’s an honor, Miss Hill.

  Mind? Why, don’t stop! Welcome to our home. Mother shakes his hand and then sits down quickly. She’s pale and sweating a little bit. I met Mrs. LaFontaine at school. She strikes me as a woman who runs a tight ship.

  Mr. LaFontaine laughs. Oh my. And how. You have an artist’s intuition, I can see that.

  Jim refills Mother’s coffee and brings it to her.

  Mr. LaFontaine says, I was going to bring your album. To have you sign it. But my bride asked me not to embarrass myself. Where would I be without her?

  The people who love us, Mother says, sighing and shaking her head.

  Elizabeth whispers to me, Will you show me the hotel?

  In a minute. I so want to run off with her but I’m afraid to leave Mother. As though me watching her is making her behave.

  Sister told me you were involved with the boycotts? She tells me the school conditions in your part of town are frightful. So was your boycott successful? You’ll have to forgive me for not being up on the news.

  Elizabeth’s father laughs. Well, if you WERE the news, you would probably be very interested.

  Well, now, that is the God’s truth, says Mother.

  I’m afraid so, he says, and they laugh.

  Is it true you’re the first Negro to receive tenure at the university? Mother asks.

  Jim and Mr. LaFontaine look startled. Even Elizabeth is suddenly listening.

  She continues. Your people must be enormously proud.

  Perhaps. My people, he says in a funny way, are many things right now.

  I came here from Kansas City. I sang there. Whites and Negroes alike in the joint. We all just got on swimmingly. Of course we all loved the same thing—music—and dancing. And gin, she says, winking.

  Humans do tend to love the same things, which suggests we are more alike than not, says Mr. LaFontaine. Of course this idea is troublesome to some.

  White people, says Mother. The stiff ones at least.

  Perhaps, says Elizabeth’s father.

  Mother sighs. Whatsoever will we do?

  Make the kids do their homework, for starters, says Jim.

  Your husband has the right idea, says Mr. LaFontaine.

  Mother tilts her head. I beg your pardon?

  What time will you be back? asks Jim.

  One o’clock? says Mr. LaFontaine.

  Perfect, says Jim. We’ll be right here.

  Elizabeth and I go to my room. We sit down on my floor and Elizabeth flips through my records. When she comes upon Mother’s record, she smiles. When Mama and Papa were fighting about me coming over here, my mama called her “provocative,” says Elizabeth, studying Mother’s face.

  I don’t know what that means.

  Me neither, she says. I asked Papa and he said, “Look it up.” Look it up, look it up, look it up. It’s all he ever says.

  Why were they fighting? I ask, suddenly back in touch with the pit in my stomach.

  Mama doesn’t think we should be mixing so much. Papa does. He thinks it’s the answer.

  The answer to what? I ask.

  How am I supposed to know? she says.

  I open my tablet and add record player to the list.

  Hey, what’s that? says Elizabeth, sidling up to me.

  Nothing, I say, closing the tablet.

  Is it your diary? she says, excited. Because I have a diary. It’s dark green with a lock on it and my grandmam gave it to me. She said I was supposed to write down everything I could about the places I’ve been, because she’s never even once been out of Georgia, and she wants me to come back and share the world with her, that’s what she said.

  So what do you write in your diary? I ask.

  Names of places I’ve been to. What’s in yours?

  Promise not to tell, I say.

  Is it about your mother?

  Not this first part, I say. You didn’t promise.

  I promise!

  You know the civil defense drills at school?

  Yes, says Elizabeth, frowning.

  Paul says that if a nuclear bomb hits us, everything will be destroyed. I wait for her to understand what this means.

  I don’t get it, she says.

  Everything will have to be invented all over again. I show her the list. I mean, this isn’t everything, it’s just a start.

  Elizabeth looks at the list and starts to laugh. Yeah, there’s lots of stuff missing here.
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  She studies the list, flicking her barrette with her fingernail.

  Do you understand that if everything gets destroyed, YOU get destroyed, too? she says.

  I put my hand on her shoulder to calm her down. No, listen. This hotel burned down once a really, really long time ago and the men who rebuilt it built it so good that nothing could ever, ever destroy it. Plus there are secret passages underground.

  Who told you this?

  Sal, I tell her.

  Who the heck is Sal?

  The manager.

  Oh, says Elizabeth, The guy downstairs who tried to make us leave.

  I nod. Suddenly wondering if I want to believe what Sal says anymore.

  We hear Jim and Mother having words in the living room and trying to keep it down. Elizabeth looks at me.

  Does everybody have a bee in their bonnet today? she asks.

  Jim knocks on the door. Can I come in? He opens it. I’m going to go take some photos. You be okay for a bit?

  I jump up. Take us with you!

  Yeah, take us with you, says Elizabeth.

  Not today, he says, heading for the kitchen.

  Please! Please! we say, following him.

  You’re supposed to be studying.

  The capitals, says Elizabeth, putting her hands on her hips.

  The capitals are important, says Jim as he opens the fridge and pulls out several boxes of film.

  Name a state, says Elizabeth.

  Jim shoves the film in his pockets. North Dakota.

  Bismarck, says Elizabeth.

  Florida.

  Tallahassee.

  The phone rings.

  West Virginia, says Jim.

  Charleston, says Elizabeth.

  Jim points at her. Delaware.

  Dover, she says. Easy.

  I’ll have to ask your mother, he says to me.

  Mother is sitting in a chair, talking on the phone. She holds the receiver like it’s a little kitten and says, Now is good. Come over now.

  Jim looks at us. Fine. But we need to hustle. Get your coats on. And hats. I want you both in hats and I’m not going to argue about it.

  I show Elizabeth my two hats and let her choose one.

  Jim tells Mother that he’s taking us to the record store.

  She nods, uninterested. Have fun, darlings.