Play, Louis, Play!*

by Muriel Harris Weinstein

  “Awww, May-ann!” Louis sighed. Usually he was the first one to give money or share it. Now he shifted from foot to foot. He felt he’d die if he didn’t get his horn. But he thought about it for a few more beats, and the music that flowed out of his mouth was, “Sure ’nuff, Mayann. Celebrating Mama Lucy’s birthday is what we’ve got to do. Here, take the money.”

  Louis’ heart cracked like an old clamshell. But he always liked making others happy, and he knew he’d feel worse if he turned Mayann down. His supper would never slide down his gullet if he nixed Mama Lucy’s birthday celebration. So he told himself, I’ll just wait a little bit longer. Then he broke into a big smile and hugged his momma.

  That night Little Louis couldn’t spoon enough jambalaya into his big mouth. He said it was the best jambalaya Mayann ever cooked up. He licked his chops all the way into dreamland.

  • • •

  Sometimes when Mayann had to clean a house a long distance away, she slept over there. And when Mayann slept over, she never allowed Louis and Mama Lucy to stay alone in the apartment.

  Mayann would call her brother, Ike Miles, and he’d come and get Louis and Mama Lucy. Louis and Mama Lucy were crazy about going to Uncle Ike’s. He had eight children, and when all ten kids got together, it was a happy ruckus. They’d bounce and jump, scramble around, roll over each other, and leap from bed to floor and from floor to bed again. There were so many of them on the bed that they sometimes fell off—and then they’d plop onto a floor mattress and fall asleep right there. Louis and Mama Lucy knew Mayann would never like the shenanigans going on.

  Sometimes Ike had to go back to the factory to work, and since he didn’t have a wife, the kids were all alone. Usually it was no problem—Louis would make supper and everybody helped clean up. But one night all ten of them were up the whole night, all twelve hours, rolling and bouncing on each other on the bed and on the floor. When morning came, Louis and Mama Lucy had sleep in their eyes and they couldn’t stop yawning. They couldn’t even lift their eyelids open. Their feet just shuffled along.

  Mayann was as mad as water boiling in a kettle. “Listen here!” she screamed. “You two can’t go to Uncle Ike’s ever again … no more! Not until Uncle Ike gets himself a wife.”

  Little Louis and Mama Lucy just smiled at each other because they knew it wouldn’t be long. Uncle Ike was always on the lookout for a wife.

  C H A P T E R 5

  Then How Did Little Louis

  Get His Horn?

  Every horn loves a parade. Lucky for me, no city had more parades than New Orleans. There was a parade every day, marching right past my window. And if there was a funeral, there might be more than one! There wasn’t a person in all of New Orleans, rich or poor, who wanted to die without a band at their funeral.

  I remember the day they buried old lady Fanton. On the way to the funeral, the horns moaned so low they sounded like weeping women. But the minute the body was lowered into the grave, the band struck up one of those good old tunes, “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and everyone left their worries behind. The music talked to their feet and their feet talked to the sidewalk. The spirit hit them as they sang and marched.

  When they marched into town, the music was so lively even the stores emptied. The band strutted and blew their horns, swaying from side to side. The brass horns, as bright as the sun, were mellow and full of honey. The drum hung from a wide ribbon around the drummer’s neck, and the big tuba tooted away. The players all marched in such a snappy rhythm that you forgot who they had buried and could think nothing but My feet wanna dance.

  Louis jumped into the second line of the funeral parade and made believe he was blowing a cornet. His feet stepped so lively, they burned the cement.

  That night when Louis got to the Karnofskys’, he couldn’t wait to tell them about the parade. And when he told how he made believe he blew a horn, Mrs. Karnofsky said that the music inside him was a gift. Mr. Karnofsky said that music had to be in his life. Their caring made Little Louis feel special.

  The following day, Louis and Alexander, one of the Karnofsky boys, went out in the cart to peddle old clothes and metal. Louis, as usual, blew on the toy horn. Only this time, he had taken off the tin piece at the top of the horn, and now he put his two fingers there instead. It worked! He blew so loud and clear that all the shopkeepers ran outside. Alexander applauded. “I can’t believe the tone you get out of that toy horn. If I weren’t sitting here, I’d bet it was a real horn.”

  Louis felt good. But what happened next made him feel even better. Alexander pulled two bucks and a fifty-cent piece from his hip pocket. Then Alexander said, “I don’t want you to waste your talent. Here, take this. It’s a loan. It’ll help you get your cornet faster.”

  Wow! I couldn’t believe it. It was for me, the five-dollar horn in the hock-shop window.

  Tears spilled out of Little Louis’ eyes. His hands shook like a pair of maracas as he held the money. “I’ll save fifty cents a week. Just watch me. In five weeks, just five weeks, I’ll have enough to buy the horn. Then I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

  In five weeks, true to his word, Louis’ savings added up to two bucks and fifty cents. He added Alexander’s two-fifty loan and raced to the hock shop, singing, “I’m gonna hold that horn to my lips, ooblee-loon-lee. I’m gonna blow that horn as I skip, ooblee-boom-bee.”

  Louis danced into the hock shop. But he skidded to a stop. There was another kid—and the kid was holding me, Louis’ horn!

  Oh no! Louis thought. He can’t buy it. I’ve been saving a long time. That horn ’n’ me, we belong to each other.

  Louis stood back a minute, watching, thinking. For a split second, he thought of butting in, telling the owner, “That horn’s been waitin’ for me … it’s MINE!” But Louis had a fair streak as wide as the Mississippi. With a broken heart, he told himself, If that kid came first, then he gets it. That’s the way life is.

  The kid was holding me, holding me up to the light. And me, well, I was near to turning blue from holding my breath. Never did I want to go with that kid.

  That’s when the kid saw the dent in my side. He put me down so quickly you’d think I had a disease! He told the pawnbroker, “This horn’s no good. I thought it was in better condition. Forget it!” And he was out the door.

  Louis wanted to jump through the roof. Everything inside him jiggled with joy. This proved that the horn was his … only his.

  And what a relief for me!

  Louis soft-shoed up to the counter. He put the five bucks down. When Louis picked me up, I wanted to blow so darn loud that all the horn players in New Orleans would cry, “Now, that’s what I call a horn.”

  Louis looked at my old, stained body and said he could shine me up so good I’d make everyone squint. Then—without ever reading a note, without ever taking a lesson—Little Louis picked me up, puckered his lips, and blew “Home, Sweet Home” as if it were born on his tongue.

  The owner, his helper, and a few people outside the store stopped what they were doing and just listened. A crowd gathered, as if it were a concert. The sound of that horn was like molasses pouring out, thick and sweet. The owner said, “That Little Louis, he must’ve come into this world blowing a horn.”

  C H A P T E R 6

  Why Was Louis Carrying a Gun?

  Little Louis never went anywhere without me, his horn. Every night I went with him to the honky-tonks to hear the great Joe Oliver. Louis admired him more than any other horn man. Joe Oliver played the cornet. And Louis wanted to play like him. Oliver played with Kid Ory and Bunk Johnson. Louis loved to listen to the cornets and trumpets sing out.

  Louis had a special gift—he could hear music only once and his brain recorded it note for note. He could play it back in his mind any time, even years later. How many musicians could do that? And how he blew! Long, sweet notes poured out, trembling in the air like honeysuckle on a vine, lingering in your ear long after he blew them.

  Well, time flew like a good
horn solo. It was 1913. Little Louis was about eleven now. He felt grown-up and couldn’t believe that New Year’s Eve had arrived. All the kids loved that holiday because New Orleans was like a merry-go-round filled with music, fireworks, torches, and Roman candles. Some guys loved noise so much that they brought guns. Of course, the bullets were blank. The police didn’t like them, but they weren’t against the law.

  Just a few days before, Louis had seen his mother’s boyfriend hide a gun in the bottom drawer of the dresser. So on New Year’s Eve, without asking his mother, Louis took the gun when he left the apartment. It was the first time he ever held one. He hid it in his hip pocket.

  As he walked, Little Louis felt strange. He really wasn’t comfortable with the gun. It was as if the gun didn’t belong in his pocket. But instead of putting it back, he kept it and patted his pocket, protecting it there.

  Well, on this day Louis’ quartet was singing on Perdido Street. Suddenly a guy on the opposite side of the street pulled a six-shooter from his pocket and fired a blank straight in Little Louis’ direction. So Big Nose Sydney said, “C’mon Louis, go get ’im.”

  Louis pulled out the gun and shot it straight up in the air. Even though the gun held blanks, it sounded exactly like real bullets, and the kid who had started it leaped into some alley faster than a grace note.

  Everyone ran for cover but Little Louis. He stood there, frozen, alone. The noise shocked him.

  The cops came running. “You’re under arrest, kid,” the big cop said, “for shooting bullets.”

  “They were blanks,” Louis said. “I didn’t hurt no one. Please, please don’t arrest me. You gotta let me go home to my momma. She’ll worry.”

  The police refused to let him go. In those days the police had a lot of power and the colored people had none, and the police were often mean, even if it was a kid they were arresting. They had also picked up Louis before, for stealing food. So they pushed him into the paddy wagon.

  Hunched over in a dark corner, all the way in the back, Louis’ body couldn’t stop trembling. He buried his fists in his eyes to stop the flood of tears. But his fists couldn’t hold them back. His shirt got so wet you’d think he was just baptized. Fear shook his body. Even his hands and legs were shaking. The police were taking him away, and he didn’t know when he’d come back.

  C H A P T E R 7

  How Did a Bad Thing

  Turn into a Good Thing?

  All his life, Louis had heard terrible stories about the Colored Waif’s Home for Boys. And now he was going there. Not only was he alone but, worse, he was without me … me, his horn. And how do you think I felt when I heard Louis would be taken away?

  The Colored Waif’s Home was out in the country, way out. The horses clopped on the gravel path in an easy rhythm. They knew the road blindfolded, but Louis told me later that he hoped they’d lose their way.

  When the wagon finally stopped and Louis jumped out, he couldn’t believe his eyes. There were acres and acres of grassy land. Huge trees spread their arms out as if to hug the Lord. Gardens surrounded the building; green was the only color he could see. Across the road was the biggest dairy farm around, where hundreds of cows, bulls, calves, and some horses lived. What a difference between this and the muddy streets and run-down shacks of the Battlefield.

  Louis kept sniffing. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Honeysuckle, child,” was the answer.

  “That smell’s gotta come from heaven,” Louis said. His nose sniffed the air like a bird dog’s. He had never smelled anything so good.

  The Home was a combination orphanage and reform school. It was an old building—but, oh, so clean. The boys there scoured and scrubbed and polished it till it shone. Louis had to wash the dishes, dry the dishes, scrub the floor, paint, and clean the toilets. Those boys dusted and polished every shelf, every table, every piece of furniture in that Home. Louis didn’t mind the hard work. He did everything expected of him; he even enjoyed it. Would you believe they also raised their fruits and vegetables in gardens surrounding the building? Yes sirree, they grew the food they ate.

  Louis settled into a ward of twelve or fifteen boys. Every morning a big warm breakfast was on his table and every night clean sheets were on his bed. Louis couldn’t believe it. He had never had this before.

  Now, everyone knew how Louis’ tongue loved to wag. Every thought in his head wiggled right down to his tongue. In the Home, without a special friend like me to listen to his thoughts, Louis discovered that he liked writing about his life on pads or in notebooks. That was the beginning of Louis’ journals. He loved to write—words and music.

  His mile-long smile and friendly ways won the hearts of the kids and the staff … except for Mr. Davis, the director of the band. He said any kid from the Battlefield was not to be trusted. He said Louis was trouble.

  Every day, without missing a beat, Louis hung around Mr. Davis’s band, his singing heart aching to join them. He loved listening to their rehearsals—and they rehearsed every single day, rain or shine. One morning Mr. Davis thought, This kid’s sticking to me like a fly to fly-paper. Maybe he’s really interested. So he asked Louis to try out.

  Little Louis jumped out of his skin. “Yesssssirrr. I’m dyin’ to try.”

  Louis expected a horn. Mr. Davis gave him a tambourine. Another kid would’ve turned down the tambourine. Not Little Louis. He shook that tambourine with such a bouncy rhythm that angels above wiggled their hips.

  Then Mr. Davis offered him the drums. Though Louis was still aching for a horn, he just smiled, took the drum, and slapped his fingers against its tight canvas skin as if they were drumsticks. Mr. Davis was impressed. When Louis sang along or hummed and drummed, he heard Louis’ perfect pitch and perfect timing. So he finally offered Louis a horn.

  Louis was so happy, he danced everywhere. He just plain forgot how to walk.

  How could he not like it there? He had his music morning, noon, ’n’ night. For the first time in his life, he never worried about his next meal. For the first time, he wore shoes and had clean clothes and his very own bed.

  Yet down down deep he longed for home, for his momma, for Mayann. True, she visited him weekly, but he still missed living with her. His dream was going back to his family and to his New Orleans, the city that talked to him, the city that sang to him.

  Mr. Davis’s band marched every week. They marched into all sections of New Orleans. And when they were to march into Louis’ old neighborhood, all the neighbors, all his friends, and even the musicians that played in honky-tonks took time off to see their Louis. They ran to Mayann shouting, “Louis is coming! Louis is coming!”

  The entire neighborhood turned out for the Colored Waif’s Home Band. They never expected to see Little Louis leading the band. But there he was. He strutted down the streets as if he were a five-star conductor and blew his horn with such a swinging tempo that all the honky-tonk cornetists cried, “Holy moly, I better practice!”

  Joy bubbled in Louis’ heart when he saw his town welcome him. He never expected this. People lined the streets as if he were a hero. Instead of the usual candy that people threw at parades, his neighbors and friends took up a collection of money just for their Louis. Coins and bills overflowed every hat that was passed. Mr. Davis’s eyes bulged when he saw how the town loved Little Louis. He counted the money twice. There was such a pile of coins and bills that Mr. Davis bought the band new instruments and new uniforms.

  Time passed as fast as a bee buzzing from one flower to another. Louis was in the Colored Waif’s Home for six months, twelve months, and before you knew it, it was a year ’n’ a half. His behavior was so good, Louis was allowed to leave. But Mayann didn’t make enough money to support Louis. The head of the Home said that if she wanted Louis back, she needed to make more money. Louis was stuck like a fly in a glue pot.

  C H A P T E R 8

  How Did Louis Get Out

  of the Colored Waif’s Home?

  Louis’ father, Willie, ne
ver gave two hoots for him. But one day, when Louis was about fourteen, Willie went to the Home to get him. His father said that he and his wife would be happy to support Louis. What Willie did not say was that he needed Louis to care for his two young sons. His dad had finally settled down, remarried, and had two other kids. Since Willie and his wife both worked, they needed Louis.

  Louis was not in tune with his dad’s idea. He would rather have stayed at the Home, playing his music and practicing with the band. He didn’t know his father. It was like going with a stranger.

  But like I said before, Louis didn’t sing any sour notes. He smiled and said he’d do his best. And he meant it.

  Louis cooked, cleaned, and scrubbed the apartment while caring for his half brothers. Those two were like a pair of prizefighters, not happy unless they were fighting.

  He had no time to play his music or even listen to it. But he had made a promise and Mayann always said, “A promise is a promise. You gotta keep it.”

  One day his father told Louis that Gertrude, his wife, would be having another baby. And without even a word of thanks, without the sound of caring in his voice, he said, “With the new baby coming any day, there’ll be no money for extra food. So, Louis, you’ll have to leave.”

  Louis’ father didn’t care where he went. He said he could go anywhere, even back to Mayann’s. When Louis heard that, his smile lit up like a three-hundred-watt bulb. He ran faster than a rabbit running from a hunter. He was free again! He could play his horn. He could sing. He could listen to his music. And he’d see Mayann, his wonderful momma. He was so excited that he raced all the way to Mayann’s place.

  When Louis walked in, you’d think it was the Fourth of July. Mama Lucy and Mayann kept laughing and hugging and kissing him. They were all so happy to see one another that their lips couldn’t stop curling into smiles.