by Roscoe James
Jessie chuckled and took the phone. “Out of luck, Judy. Sold out. You can sneak in the stage entrance if you want.”
“I just wanted to congratulate you, Jessie. You done good and you did it your way. Break a leg, kid.”
“Thanks, Judy. We can talk later.”
Zoe wandered off with the phone, and Jessie recalled another call that came a few days after Nana's passing.
* * *
“Jessie?”
“Marci? Is that you? How've you been?”
“Good, Jessie. Good.” The brief silence before Marci went on was as comforting as knowing Marci had called at all. “Listen. I was really sorry to hear about your Nana.”
Jessie couldn't help it. She started crying and couldn't stop.
“Shhhh, Jessie. It's okay. Everything's going to—”
“But it's you. It's really you.” A sniff and Jessie added, “I've missed you so much.”
And with that Marci sobbed as well.
“I'm so sorry, Marci. I should have—”
“You came to Paris.” Marci whispered the words in wonder.
Jessie gave a nervous laugh. “You were great. I'd never seen anything so beautiful before in my life.”
“But you left.” Marci's words sounded more like a question than a statement. The silence drew out.
The decision to leave the opera house, to leave the city where Marci was so close, had been one of the most difficult decisions Jessie had made in her entire life. Sitting in the opulent surroundings rubbing elbows with Marci's fans had been an eye-opener. She'd decided Isabella di Rossetti had been right. Not that Jessie would never know how to love Marci. Just that what she wanted Marci to find wouldn't be found in a new dress and some fancy makeup. That she had to find herself before she could find Marci.
She'd written a note on hotel stationary and found the bellboy who had provided her with her ticket for the concert. She'd added a fifty-dollar bill and asked that he put the envelope right into mademoiselle Dionysius's hand. She'd left the rest to fate.
“I had to. I had to—”
“I know. I got your note.”
“I'm so glad.”
The awkward moment passed. There had been no further hesitations, no more holding back. They'd talked for more than an hour. Marci had returned triumphant from her tour and was much in demand.
Jessie talked about Cotton Mouth Lee, her studio work, and how messy life could be. They'd laughed and cried, teased and cajoled.
When their words finally waned, they'd been content to just listen to each other breathe. Jessie had been the first to say the words. They'd come easily and felt good as they'd filled the silence.
“I love you, Marci.”
There'd been a muffled choking sound through the phone line, and Marci had whispered back, “My Jessie. My beautiful, wonderful, crazy Jessie. I love you too.”
“Will you wait for me?” Jessie chanced the question, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer. The line stayed quiet, and the flock in her chest fluttered around.
“I've been waiting for you forever. Why would I stop now?”
They'd left their brief interlude at that. As surely as they knew each other's hearts, they knew each other's minds.
“Soon, Marci. Soon.” Jessie had whispered the words and placed the handset softly in its cradle.
* * *
“Ten minutes, Miss Butler. And your mother sent this back. She thought you might want it.”
Jessie took the neatly wrapped flat package and turned it over in her hands. She didn't have to open it to discover what was inside but she did anyway. She flipped the front cover and recalled another conversation with a woman in her life that was just as important as Marci.
* * *
“Can we talk, Mom?”
“Let me just set the timer, dear. I don't want that pie to burn. And how about some ice tea?”
“Sure, Mom.” Jessie took a place at the kitchen table and hoped her mother would do the same. Their time together since her return, for the most part, had been good. In spite of Jessie's occasional sad moments of reflection and moist-eyed recollection, her mother hadn't snooped. A glass of ice tea appeared, and they both finally settled.
“I'm so glad you've come home for a while. All that traveling and staying in hotels can't be good for you.”
“I know, Mom. You're right. Maybe that will change.” Jessie rolled her eyes. “But I want to talk about something else.” Jessie reached across the table and took her mother's hand in hers. Her mother started to say something, but Jessie rushed ahead.
“I want to say I'm sorry. Sorry for being mad at you all these years. I'm sorry for everything we didn't do together, for every time I—”
“Don't you worry about that, dear. You were just trying to find your way. That's what teenagers do. You always were a strong-willed young woman.”
Jessie squeezed her mother's hand and considered leaving things right there. It would be so easy to put the past behind them and move on. To chalk the last fifteen years of her life up to the growing pains of a rebellious teenager. But she knew her heart wouldn't rest until she'd said it all. “Maybe that was some of it, but I was mad at you, Mom. All these years I've been mad about something and I want us to be able to talk about it.”
“What on earth could you have been mad about for so long?” Her mother smiled and clucked maternal disapproval.
Jessie steeled herself for what would come.
“It's about Aunt Trudy.”
“Your Aunt Trudy. She'd be so proud of what you've done with your music.” Her mother sounded wistful. She pulled Jessie's hand up and spread her fingers. “You have her hands, you know. Such lovely hands. She played the piano. I didn't have any talent. Not like her. I was plain. But your Aunt Trudy… She was special.”
“Yes she was, Mom. Maybe that's why I didn't get it.” Jessie felt a pull at her heartstrings but forged ahead. “You didn't cry, Mom. Not a tear. You…you just seemed mad, and you've never said her name, not once, since her funeral. I guess I want to know why.”
The only sound in the big sunny country kitchen was the tick of the oven heating up and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Her mother squeezed Jessie's hand one last time, withdrew, and pushed up from the table. When she returned she was carrying a worn black ledger, the kind her father used to keep track of the Butler family business.
“You're right. I didn't.”
“But why, Mom?” Jessie's desperation surfaced. “She was your sister.”
When her mother answered it was with the force and fury of fifteen years of repressed emotion. “Because it was my fault! Because it was all my fault.” Her mother's wall of reserve crumbled. She sobbed, and her cheeks grew damp. Finally she sniffed and went on. “No. You aren't supposed to cry when it's your fault. That's what I was taught. You're supposed be strong, to say you're sorry…but I couldn't. It was too late. She was gone.”
Jessie sat, stupefied, and tried to find the logic. Her mother glanced up, produced a tissue from her cotton dress, wiped her eyes, and explained.
“You see, I said some things that night. Things I had no business sayin'. Trudy got mad, and that's why she was going too fast…”
“She had an accident, Mom. She hit a wet spot and hit a tree. That's not your—”
“She came to see you. If I'd just let her in. If we'd had some coffee. Anything… Maybe things would be different.”
The recollection conjured hurt. Jessie could still feel her aunt's hand ruffling her hair, hear her words of encouragement, and see her smile of approval. But her aunt was gone, and her mother was sitting in front of her twisting a tissue in her hands. Jessie reached across the table and covered her mother's hands.
“All I really want, Mom, is to hear you say you love her. All these years I thought you didn't. I thought you hated her, and I wanted to make you suffer.”
When her mother started crying, Jessie pushed up, circled the table, and hugged the frail shoulders of the woman who
had given her life. They talked quietly while the kitchen filled with the fragrance of hot cherry pie and the pastel colors of memories recalled. Finally her mother raised the old battered ledger and offered it to Jessie.
“What's this?”
“I couldn't talk to her, so six months after she died, I started writing to her. It's not much. Just notes. Silly things. I would sit here in the kitchen while your daddy was working and you girls were at school and… I guess I would talk to her in my way. I want you to have it.”
Jessie opened the ledger and found a column of dates, each with an entry. Some single sentences, others paragraphs in length, all in her mother's meticulous script. She leafed through the pages and found the ledger was almost full. The last entry was Kimmie's wedding. That entry was full of joy and pride and something else. The entire ledger made Jessie realize that her mother, the woman whose life she'd worked so hard to make miserable, was someone's sister, just like she was Kimmie's. Not only that, but the woman sitting across from her was also a daughter, a wife, and a grandmother.
That something else was a sister's love.
Jessie gently closed the ledger and hugged it to her chest. It would be a gift she would treasure for the rest of her life. She reached across the table and took her mother's hand again. “You remember that friend of Kimmie's? Marci?”
“I wonder what ever happened to her. Poor girl. I have to ask your sister—”
Jessie blurted the words out. “I'm in love, Mom.”
“You're kidding!” Her mother was genuinely surprised and sounded happy. “How wonderful, dear. You have to tell me all—”
“With Marci.”
“Somethin' sure smells good.” Her father picked that moment to come in from his morning at the barn. “Can I get some ice tea too?”
Her mother jumped up from the table to get another glass, and Jessie tried to read her face. The woman could have been making a grocery list in her head as far as Jessie could tell. Her father pulled out a chair across from Jessie, and her mother sat a glass of tea in front of him. After a peek in the oven, she finally settled, and Jessie's heart pounded while she waited.
“What are you two up to?” Her father smiled and took a long draw on his glass of tea.
“I was telling Mom—”
“You're gay. You're telling me you're gay.”
Her father was caught off guard, and Jessie considered how best to answer. She drew from the pool of tranquility her phone call with Marci had left her with and turned to her mother. “No, Mom, I'm telling you I'm in love. It's an important time for me, and I want to share that with you.”
Her mother pulled a tea towel across the table and twisted it in her hands. Her father took another sip of tea and said nothing.
“I…I…” Her mother was at a loss.
The rebellious child in Jessie was gone. She pushed up from the table and put her arms around her mother's neck a second time. A peck on her cheek and she implored, “Just tell me you're happy for me, Mom. That's all I need.”
They'd both been crying when her mother reached up and clutched Jessie's hand in hers. “Jessie, honey… I am. I am happy for you. I just… I really like Marci, but your life… It's all going to be so hard for you. I just want you to be happy.”
“I will, Mom. We will. And thanks, Mom. You don't know how much that means to me.”
* * *
Jessie turned the old black ledger over in her hands and turned to the last page with writing. A tear broke loose and rolled down her cheek when she found a new last entry.
Our beautiful, wonderful Jessie is in love. You'd be so proud of her, Sis. I miss you. I love you. I'm sorry.
Jessie chased the tear with the tip of her finger just as the announcer began.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Radio City Music Hall is proud to present…” A muffled timpani roll started, and the announcer went on, “The first lady of the blues, Miss Jessica Butler!”
The audience exploded in applause, the twenty-three-piece orchestra began, and Jessie basked in the moment for a few seconds. The stage manager smiled, and Jessie took the stage. For her opening number she wooed the audience with her rendition of the Billie Holiday classic “My Man Don't Love Me.”
She'd nurtured the seed that was planted the day her Nana had been laid to rest. Jessie had spent a month with a local group working up a show of sorts. Her debut had been in Chicago at the Booze and Blues. Bob had even put white linen on the tables and dressed up his waiters in cummerbunds and black bowties. He'd been all smiles when he saw her dressed up for the first time in something more fitting for the type of blues she was going to perform. He cat-whistled when Jessie took the stage in a platinum taffeta evening gown with a split from floor to hip that revealed her left leg.
From Chicago she'd made the rounds along the east coast and through the south. When she'd set out there had been no agenda, no goal, no hurried rush to make it all come together. For the first time in her life, Jessie did it just because she wanted to. Most of all she did it just because it made her happy.
Her first solo CD had released in November, and there'd been no looking back.
After thirty minutes she closed her Billie Holiday set with “Don't Explain.” Then she moved on to Julie London, Bessie Smith, and Ella Fitzgerald.
After another hour Jessie took a bow, left the stage for a costume change, and the house lights came up. Zoe came running up with the telephone open.
“Your father. He's calling from the lobby.”
Jessie grabbed the phone as she made her way to her dressing room. Zoe was pulling Jessie's evening gown off even as Jessie spoke with her father.
“Dad! How's it sound?”
“Great, honey. Your grandmother would be real proud. Listen, don't forget. We've got everything set up at the hotel.”
“I won't, Dad. Gotta run.”
The second half of the show was full of old standards. Songs about love and unchartered flights to the moon. At the end of Jessie's coming-out party, her first concert appearance in a large venue that didn't generate its income from liquor and food, she was kept on the stage for two encores.
She was exhausted, and there was only one song she had left unsung in her songbook. A song she was saving for a special night, a special moment, and a special person.
With a bouquet of red roses clutched against her chest, she stepped from the wings and took one final bow. That's when she noticed the small box with the gold bow among other bouquets of flowers at the edge of the stage.
She waved, walked to the edge of the stage, and picked the small box up, waved again, and quieted the audience.
“Thanks, New York!”
The applause continued, and she searched the front rows frantically. Finally she gave up.
“You've been great tonight. I think I might have one more song in me if anyone's interested.”
The applause swelled, and Jessie walked over to Walt. She whispered before turning to the audience.
The lights came down, and Jessie stood in a single spot center stage. She closed her eyes and sang the song that Nana had wooed her Jimmy with. When she finished she gave one last wave and left the stage. The reviews the following day would make “'Round Midnight” Jessica Butler's trademark song.
* * *
Jessie strode into the hotel lobby wrapped in her black cashmere cape, soft calfskin boots snug on her feet, riding the high of an appreciative audience.
Zoe was in a rush paying the taxi and telling her who might be at the party. She was flattered to find reporters and cameras waiting in the lobby. She chatted and smiled while pictures were taken. Finally she begged off and headed for the elevator.
“Hi, Miss Butler. Great show tonight.” Ted Willows from the Nashville Music Trade magazine appeared at her elbow with a big smile.
“Ted. Long way from home, aren't you?” She smiled back and shook the man's hand.
“They let me out of my cage for the important stuff. Mind if I ride up? I promise I won'
t crash the party.”
“Sure. Why not?”
Zoe punched a button while Ted leafed through his notepad.
“So how does it feel?” The man's hand was poised.
“Tell you what, Ted. If you promise to put that thing away, you can come to the party. I'll give you an interview tomorrow morning before I leave.”
The notepad disappeared, and Ted seemed genuinely happy. “Well, off the record, Miss Butler, you were great tonight. Just great.”
“Jessie, Ted. Call me Jessie. And I never got to thank you.”
“For?”
Zoe was rifling her purse and didn't seem to notice when Jessie leaned close to reply. “For being a gentleman. For the way you handled our last interview. Thanks.”
They were interrupted when the doors of the elevator dinged open. Zoe led the way and swung double doors at the end of the hallway wide. Her parents' suite was full to overflowing with family, friends, and people in the business, and Jessie was greeted with applause. She gave a few words. After getting a glass of wine and making the rounds in a rush, she wandered out to a small balcony to get some air.
The New York night was cloudless and full of stars. The air was chill, and she hugged herself for a moment. Then she reached in the pocket of her cape and pulled out the small box she'd found at the edge of the stage. The gold bow was crumpled and smashed, and she tried to straighten it out. One last look and she took the top off and smiled.
Jessie pulled the gold bracelet out and held it against her wrist. The same gold bracelet that had somehow tangled in her fingers when she'd run from Marci outside the restaurant and the same gold bracelet she'd left on the stage at the Palais Garnier the night of Marci's concert in Paris. Marci's name glistened in the faint light of the balcony.
Her heart fluttered and her fingers trembled as she turned the bracelet over. She was crestfallen that Marci hadn't made a show but consoled that she'd seen the concert. Just as Jessie resolved to put an end to their hiatus, the sound of the party leaked out when someone opened the door. She thought it was probably her father and turned to hide her tear-streaked face while she fussed with the clasp of the bracelet.
She shivered but didn't shy away from the warm crush against her back. The smell of spring flowers on the air made her heart shiver as well. A soft flutter of lips fell on her neck. Jessie closed her eyes and swayed. Slender arms encircled her waist, and Marci whispered, “I heard there was this two-bit blues singer playin' some dive in New York. I thought I'd come and throw rotten tomatoes.”
