Dreamland Burning

by Jennifer Latham

  He couldn’t get the words out. I smiled and kept quiet, which was always Pop’s strategy with nervous customers. It worked, too, because pretty soon the boy said, “I’m interested in purchasing a Victrola.”

  I glanced inside to see what Pop was up to. Between the paper in front of him and the music from the demo machine, he didn’t seem to have noticed I’d gone out. Of course, normally neither Pop nor I would have given the time of day to someone like the boy in front of me. But I was hungry to make my first sale. Maybe just a small one, but a sale nonetheless. So I said, “Well, you’ve come to the right place. How about you follow that alley over there around to our back door and I’ll meet you?”

  “Now?” he asked. To which I replied there was no time like the present, though it would probably be best if he took his bike with him to make it appear to be a delivery. He looked at his basket and shook his head, saying, “But I haven’t got any packages.”

  I checked the street again to make sure no one was watching. Said, “You’d best hurry, then, before someone notices.” And he scurried off, turning into the alley jackrabbit quick.

  As for myself, I was most of the way into the shop when a clacking sound spun me about. It came from a small boy in overalls flying past on metal roller skates. He took the corner into the alley so sharp I was sure he’d lose traction and spill. When he didn’t, it put me on edge bad enough that I could barely keep from running through the showroom on my way to the back. The only thing stopping me was having to pause and crank the demo machine to keep Mamie Smith singing.

  There’s a change in the ocean

  Change in the deep blue sea, my baby

  I’ll tell you folks there ain’t no change in me

  “Back shelves need dusting,” Pop said without glancing up. I yes sirred him, kept moving, and closed the storeroom door tight behind me. My heart thumped so hard it near beat through my chest, but I was too flush with ambition to stop, thinking how surprised Pop would be if I sold a Victrola all on my own. This was a chance to prove myself, and though the boy waiting in our alley might have been no more able to afford a phonograph than he could a first-class ticket on the Mauretania, the fact that he had a delivery job made me hopeful enough that I smoothed my hair, steadied my breath, and put on my best imitation of Pop’s salesman smile. It may have been just a pudgy-faced delivery boy waiting for me outside the back door, but as far as I was concerned, he was as important as the King of England himself.

  “I’m Joseph Goodhope,” he said. There was no sign of the roller skater.

  I offered my hand. Said, “William Tillman. Good to know you, Joseph.” Joseph hesitated only an instant before he took it. I’d never shaken a Negro’s hand before. His grip felt like any other.

  “Please come in,” I said. “Things are pretty busy up front, but honestly, we keep all our best deals back here anyway.”

  I knew Joseph would peg that for a lie, but he only said that was fine by him and came inside. Quick as a flash, the little boy was standing next to him, skates slung over his shoulder.

  “Go on, now!” Joseph said. He gave the boy a shove. “I told you to get home.”

  The boy shook his head and skittered sideways out of Joseph’s reach. Said, “I’ll tell Mama where you been if you don’t let me stay!” Then he stuck his tongue out and scooted further away.

  Joseph gave me a look like he was asking if I minded the boy being there. I was so hell-bent on making a sale that I wouldn’t have minded if Lucifer himself had been in attendance.

  “I haven’t got a brother of my own,” I said. “Seems to me they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Joseph sighed at that and said, “Sisters are worse.” Which pinched at the raw corner of my heart where Nell’s memory lived, and made the little boy go indignant, shaking his head back and forth so hard his cap fell off. “I ain’t no boy!” he said, as two little braids wiggled over his ears.

  Joseph said, “I’m not a boy. Talk right, Ruby.”

  The kid just about busted up laughing at that, saying, “I know you ain’t, you big sissy!” And Joseph scowled at her so mean it scared me. Then the boy who was really a girl stuck her tongue out at him and hopped up to sit on a packing crate like she meant to stay.

  Joseph looked all kinds of embarrassed. “I apologize, William,” he said. “Mama’s tried everything, but she can’t even whup the rotten out of that girl.”

  Ruby crossed her thin arms over her chest and stomped her foot, muttering, “Ain’t never gonna, neither.”

  The two of them together were like a bad vaudeville act, and so loud I figured Pop would hear them and storm in any second. “It doesn’t bother me if she stays,” I said, which was a lie on several counts. “But we have to be quiet.”

  Joseph gave Ruby a nasty look that was a little bit relieved all the same, and told her to hush. Ruby smooshed her face into a mean look. She piped down, though, which I took as my cue to start.

  “So,” I said. “You want to bring music into your life? Well, we’ve got the biggest stock in town of the finest Victrolas available. Maybe you can give me an idea what you’re looking to spend so I can steer you towards the model that’ll best suit your needs.”

  It was Pop’s favorite sales pitch, word for word, and it rolled off my tongue easy as you please.

  “I want to know about the one in the window,” Joseph said.

  I launched back in, sticking to Pop’s script. “You’ve got a good eye, Joseph. She’s a grand machine. A Model 110, brand-new to the Victrola lineup this year. We’ve got two in stock at the moment: the mahogany beaut you mentioned and an oak version at the back of our sales floor. We can order it in walnut if you like, though to my mind, nothing beats mahogany. Of course, since the showroom’s not available just now, I can’t demonstrate how true her sound is or how long she’ll play. But believe me, there’s no surpassing the Victor Talking Machine Company when it comes to quality or reliability, either one.”

  The lopsided smile played across Joseph’s lips again. It tripped me up. Made me forget what I was supposed to say next. Didn’t matter, though, for he had something to say himself.

  “I’ve heard it’s a fine machine…”

  He stopped midsentence, looking past me. Then he made himself serious again, saying, “Just as fine as the Model 14 they sold right up till this year.”

  “Well, I don’t know…,” I mumbled, trying to hide the fact that I truly didn’t.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Joseph said. “I believe the Model 14 sold for two hundred dollars before they changed its number and raised the price to two twenty-five. Or perhaps I’m mistaken?”

  That’s when I felt the deal starting to slip through my fingers. Felt it so deep that I didn’t even hear Pop come in. But Ruby did, and her little body jerked straight as a pole.

  “What the devil’s going on back here?” Pop barked.

  I froze, helpless as a landed catfish sucking air. Ruby hopped off her crate and made ready to dash. Joseph stood firm. And Pop said, “William Edward Tillman, you tell me what’s going on this instant or I’ll tan your hide!”

  Shame bubbled hot in my belly and raced up to my face. Pop hadn’t threatened to whup me in years, never mind in front of strangers. I coughed to clear the embarrassment from my throat and said how Joseph was interested in the Model 110 in the front window.

  Pop narrowed his eyes, first at me, then at Joseph, and asked him if that was true. Joseph said, “Yes, sir. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. It’s just that William here happened to be out on the sidewalk in front of your establishment and noticed me admiring your display.”

  Wary as Pop was, the prospect of a sale kept him from throwing Joseph and Ruby out on their ears.

  “How old are you, Joseph?” he asked.

  “Eighteen, sir,” Joseph replied.

  “And who’s that?” Pop pointed to Ruby.

  “My sister, Ruby. She’s ten.”

  Pop studied them both. Asked if they had money. Joseph
said, “Yes, sir. Cash. I deliver for Rex’s Drugstore after school and on weekends, and summers I help frame houses.”

  That piqued Pop’s interest.

  “Where are you a student?” he asked.

  “Booker T. Washington High School,” Joseph said proudly. “I graduate this year.”

  “Well, Victrolas are expensive, son,” Pop said.

  Joseph nodded, serious as all get out, and replied, “I know, sir. I’ve been saving a long time.”

  Pop pondered that, no doubt thinking of all the colored folks he’d made money off of in the past. Finally, he said, “Well, Joseph, as you know, shops in this part of town can’t sell to Negroes.”

  Joseph appeared neither surprised nor bothered by that. “Yes, sir,” he said. “But I’ve heard tell you understand how difficult it can be for a person such as myself to procure a Victrola in Tulsa, there being no shop yet in the Negro quarter. They say you’re the kind of man who believes every home should be filled with music.”

  Pop liked that, I could tell. I could also tell Joseph wasn’t just some baby-faced delivery boy. Then Pop asked, “Folks say that, do they?” And Joseph replied, “Yes, sir. So I brought my money with me. And I’m prepared to spend it.”

  Pop took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “William,” he said, “go up front and mind the shop. Help any customers looking for records. If they’re interested in Victrolas, tell them I’ll be available shortly.”

  It wasn’t hard holding my tongue as I slunk away, weighted down as it was with humiliation. There wasn’t a soul on the sales floor, either, which suited me fine. For it let me leave the storeroom door cracked open enough to hear Pop start the negotiations, saying, “Well, Joseph, what kind of budget do you have in mind?” And Joseph didn’t hesitate any in telling him one hundred and thirty dollars.

  Pop repeated the sum aloud. Said, “I have a nice walnut table model that goes for an even hundred. Would that suit you?”

  “No, sir,” Joseph replied.

  I figured Pop would lose his temper. Instead, he asked exactly what it was Joseph wanted.

  “That Model 14 over there,” Joseph said.

  Then came silence. A long, long silence that lasted until Pop muttered something too quiet for me to make out. But I heard perfectly well when Joseph responded, “I understand, sir. Only I read how once the company brings out a new model, dealers are supposed to sell the old ones fast. I also read that if they can’t get rid of those old machines, they’re supposed to return them to the factory for less than they paid in the first place.”

  I would have given just about anything to see Pop’s face at that moment, so long as he didn’t know it.

  “What else did you read, Joseph?” Pop asked. And Joseph replied that he knew dealers paid a hundred and fifty wholesale for the Model 14, but only got one twenty-five back when they returned them. Which meant that if Pop were to let him have the machine for one thirty, he’d cut his losses by five dollars. More, if you included the cost of freight.

  Three men stopped out front to look in the shop window. I willed them to keep walking, which they did. And by the time they’d moved on, Pop had worked his way around to saying he couldn’t do what Joseph was asking.

  More silence.

  Then, miracle though it seemed, Pop said, “I can’t sell it to you for less than one forty-five, plus ten dollars delivery.”

  My left leg had gone numb underneath me. I didn’t dare move to get blood back into it.

  “You raised your delivery price?” Joseph asked.

  He was patient. Clever, too. And I realized that he must have had things figured out long before he ever slowed his bike down outside the shop. I wondered how he knew about the Victor Talking Machine Company’s pricing policy, how many days he’d waited to approach us. And I felt a curious mix of jealousy and admiration stir inside me for the boy who’d marched into Pop’s shop and taken him on, fearless as you please.

  Then Pop said, “My delivery price goes up when I’m handing out deals this good.” And Joseph came right back, saying, “If you can see your way clear to charge me one forty plus the standard five-dollar delivery fee, sir, we can do business.”

  Now, even though I couldn’t see Pop, I knew he’d have said no straight off if he wasn’t thinking about agreeing. I knew he was tapping his finger against his cheek like he always did near the end of a negotiation. And I was right. For at long last he said, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  I drew a relieved breath. Then Joseph said, “Thank you, sir. Now, can we discuss terms?” And Pop’s voice came curt, saying, “You told me you had cash in hand.” To which Joseph replied, “Yes, sir. One hundred dollars. That’s a substantial down payment, I believe.”

  There was an uneasy stretch of silence after that, when I imagined Joseph pulling bills from his pocket and Pop eyeing them, deciding where his druthers lay. Seeing that much money in a white man’s hands would have been enough to make my father accept weekly payments for the balance, no question. But Joseph was young. He was colored. And even more than that, he’d just managed to sweet-talk Stanley Tillman into selling him a brand-new Victrola for ten dollars under wholesale. The way I figured it, terms were an ask too far.

  Only they weren’t.

  Pop agreed to take the balance in nine payments of five dollars each, plus a tenth payment of two dollars and fifty cents as a finance fee. Each payment was due by closing time on Friday. “And I won’t deliver the machine until you’ve paid in full,” Pop said. “Understand?”

  Joseph said that was fine, thank you very much, and Pop told him it was to be a good-faith arrangement; he couldn’t give a contract or a receipt to a Negro, for if such a thing were to fall into the wrong hands, there’d be hell to pay.

  Which upset Joseph, I could tell. The words but sir had barely left his mouth when Pop interrupted, saying, “No buts. Take it or leave it. And should you miss a payment or come in late, even by a day, you’ll be in default. That means I keep every cent you’ve paid to that point, and the Victrola, too.”

  Joseph didn’t protest. The terms were harsh, but just as surely as Pop had been caught flat-footed on the price, Joseph knew he was lucky to get them at all.

  “That’s fine,” Joseph said. “Thank you, sir.” And Pop replied that he’d expect the next payment in exactly one week, on the first of April.

  Then Joseph told Ruby it was time to go home. I scooted fast to the front of the store and leaned against the lacquered Chinese cabinet of our most expensive model. When Pop came out, he snapped like an old alligator turtle, telling me not to scratch the finish. Then he picked up his newspaper, yanked it open, and set to reading.

  I put a fresh record on the demo machine, casual as could be, and asked how things had gone. Pop would have none of it. He ignored my question and told me to go put a sheet over the Model 14 in the back. But there was no sting in his reproach. Not that time. For I knew I’d gotten the sale rolling. I knew that if it weren’t for me, the Model 14 would have been going back to the factory at a twenty-five-dollar loss, plus freight. I knew Pop knew it. And those thoughts put together went a long way towards making up for the humiliation I’d suffered in the company of Joseph and Ruby Goodhope.

  Rowan

  The raspy singing came from the exam room next door.

  I can’t get no-o

  Sa-tis-fak-shun

  Even before it started, I’d been having trouble concentrating on the ultra-boring, never-ending tutorial about patient confidentiality, sexual harassment policy, and emergency procedures that Tru had left me to watch. There was a tax form on the desk that I didn’t know how to fill out. I was hot from sitting in a tiny space with an ancient computer. And I wasn’t quite sure what I’d gotten myself into.

  The Rolling Stones serenade didn’t help.

  But then the words faded away, and deep, hard coughs took over. It sounded like they hurt. And they went on and on and on.

  I paused the tutorial and stood
outside the exam room door. It was open just a crack, so my knock was careful.

  “Hello?” I said. “Are you okay?”

  The person inside fought to quiet himself. Even before I heard him tell me to come in, I knew who it was.

  “Hey there, darlin’,” said the old man from the waiting room. His shoes were off and against the wall, socks tucked inside them.

  “I just heard you from the room next door,” I said. “And…”

  A big grin lit up his face. “And you wanted to check on me! I knew you were a sweetie soon as I saw you. I got a nose for that sort of thing, you know. It’s a gift.”

  He looked so pleased with the whole situation that I couldn’t help smiling back.

  “Would you like me to get you a glass of water?” I asked. “There’s a cooler in the break room.”

  “It’s kind of you to offer, darlin’, but I got my own right here.” He held up an old plastic water bottle that had been reused nearly to death. “Name’s Arvin. What’s yours?”

  I told him. Then he offered me his hand, and without stopping to think, I took two quick steps inside and shook it.

  “Always a pleasure to meet a pretty young lady, ’specially when she’s kindhearted to boot,” he said. “I bet Doc Woods was a lot like you once. I just bet she was.”

  I stepped back, not quite sure if I was supposed to be there with him at all. Arvin coughed again, only that time he unscrewed the lid of his water bottle and took a long swallow.

  Afterwards, he looked at me with a wicked twinkle in his eye and said, “Say, Rowan, you got a smoke I could bum?”

  Before I could tell him no, the door pushed wider behind me and Arvin’s face lifted into a high-eyebrowed imitation of innocence.

  “Hello there, Miss Julie,” he said.

  The nurse behind me was not amused.

  “It’s a good thing I’m not Dr. Woods,” she said. “You know she’ll rip you a new one if she finds out you’re smoking.”

  Arvin grinned again, and that time the innocence seemed real.