Axeman's Jazz

by Tracy Daugherty

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hangover,” Grady says and plucks a flower. Bitter nods hello. With a kitchen knife he slices a catfish on the ground. He sets the knife down, dribbles fish blood on a pile of petals and stems, then rolls them into a ball in his hands. Some kind of gris-gris for the shakes? He doesn’t explain and I don’t bother asking.

  I tell him I’ll be eating out tonight, meeting Ariyeh and Reggie. Can I bring him anything?

  “We be fine. Mosey down the block here after while, get some chicken or something.”

  “I washed and folded your clothes.”

  “Saw that. Thank you, Seam.”

  “I noticed you’ve got one of Mama’s old quilts.”

  “Got two or three of ‘em somewheres in the house.”

  “Do you remember the song she used to sing while she sewed? Something about ‘Follow the gourd’? I’ve been trying to recall it.”

  He grins. “Sure,” he says and begins:

  The riva’s bank am a very good road,

  The dead trees show the way,

  Lef’ foot, peg foot going on,

  Foller the drinking gou’d.

  “That’s it!” I say. Grady sways in the grass, humming.

  The riva ends a-tween two hills,

  Foller the drinking gou’d;

  ‘Nother riva on the other side,

  Foller the drinking gou’d.

  Wha the little riva

  Meet the great big’un,

  The ol’ man waits—

  Grady grips his belly. “Whoa now,” Uncle says and squeezes his buddy’s arm. He picks up the fish, shakes blood from a gash beneath its gills. With narrowed eyes he signals me to go.

  I nod. “Thank you for the song,” I say. “You brought her back to me there for a minute.”

  He looks like he might cry. “Say hi to Ariyeh. Oh, Seam—you got some kinda ‘fficial-looking letter. Come today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kitchen table.”

  “Thanks.”

  It’s official, all right: Texas Department of Corrections. From the man I’d talked to on the phone. I’d told him I worked for Dallas’s mayor, and that seems to have done the trick. He informs me that Elias Woods has granted me a visit and I should call the prison to set up an appointment. No pencil, paper, tape recorders, or cameras. “TDC rules prohibit inmates from receiving any gifts.” Fine and dandy, I think, amazed at how easy this was. What did Uncle say about a waiting list? Mr. Woods must not get many guests.

  I wash up and change: plum-colored skirt, light yellow blouse. My job requires a few gallery-hopping outfits, and it’s become a habit with me to pack them whenever I travel. When I leave the house, Bitter is rocking Grady on the lawn, his hands around the fellow’s arms. “You gointer be fine,” he’s saying. “Let it go. Just let it all go.”

  The Brazos Fine Art Gallery sits between a rare book dealer and a Guatemalan weaving shop on Bissonnet Street just down the block from the Contemporary Arts Museum, whose sleek metallic walls reflect the setting pink sunlight. Caddies and Beamers crowd the small parking lot. The cars are newer and cleaner than the ones in Freedmen’s Town, but their purpose is the same, and I’m coming to recognize it has more to do with proclaiming power and prestige than with providing simple transportation. Claiming the highest ground of all, a bumper sticker on a gold LeBaron says, COMES THE RAPTURE/YOU CAN HAVE THIS CAR.

  Tinted green windows frame the gallery’s narrow front door. Red brick, white wooden trim. Inside, an aggressive odor of floor wax and blue cheese, grapes, expensive sweet perfume. A roomful of buppies. After a few days in Freedmen’s Town, among the Nikes and back-ass-ward baseball caps, the filthy shoes and shirts, it’s a shock to see blacks decked out in fine silk dresses and pearls, Ralph Lauren polo pants, and one or two wildly red and yellow Rush Limbaugh ties. I scold myself for typecasting my own folks.

  The man serving wine has the darkest skin in the room. Some things don’t change. I take a glass of merlot and squeeze into a corner between a pair of sharp metal sculptures. I don’t see Reggie or Ariyeh, but the room is packed and I don’t have the gumption yet to push through milling bodies. Thin fluorescent tubes—red, yellow, white, and blue—line the walls, spotlighting the ceiling, drawing it closer to the eye. A posted statement by the door says the tube sculpture is by Dan Flavin, a noted Minimalist who worked with mass-produced industrial materials to question the primacy of the arrist’s hand and to challenge traditional notions of art. I think of Kwako’s beer can birds and car bumper serpents, improvised using mass-produced materials, not to make a “statement,” but because that’s all he can afford to use. I wonder how this crowd feels about the art at the Row Houses—primitive, I’m sure, by the gallery’s standards. Quaint and naïve. But presumably these are a few of Reggie’s donors, Houston’s black upper class. They must have seen where their money goes.

  A glimpse of Ariyeh’s pretty smile. She’s in the back, next to a framed abstraction, green and white. Her bright blue dress nicely complements the painting. Reggie, beside her, appears to be displaying Natalie as though she were a rare carving. Her grin wavers, and her whole body lunges awkwardly whenever she reaches to shake someone’s hand. It will take me a few minutes to wend my way to them; from a table I snatch a cracker with some cheese, then begin my slide through the press of buttocks and backs, shoulders and arms.

  “… victimization,” someone behind me insists. “In the magazines, the movies. When’s the last time you saw a well-off black man in the media or on the news—aside from Bill Cosby or Michael Jordan?”

  “Telling you, man, the camera loves black ‘pathology.’”

  I slip by a big bearded man, accidentally smearing brie on his coat. He doesn’t notice and I can’t turn around, now, to tell him. I move on.

  “… things’ll play if Dubya makes it to Pennsylvania Avenue?”

  “Seems to me he’s been pretty fair on race.”

  “He’s been absent on race.”

  “Hey, ‘absent’ is fair, in my book.”

  “I don’t know. He likes having his picture taken eating tacos. That shows facial awareness.”

  Laughter. I clutch my cup.

  “… blab and blab all you want about the legacy of colonialism in Africa, but I’m sorry, you do «oí kill babies …”

  “… no, to me, Art is Romare Bearden …”

  “… afraid of the stock market? Why? You know what a million dollars is? It’s just a stack of pennies like your grandma used to save …”

  “God bless the child that’s got his own.”

  “No problem, kissing ass. That’s why God invented mouthwash!”

  “T, glad you could make it.” Ariyeh gives me a hug. Natalie nods hello. Reggie is deep in conversation with the tall, slender man I saw at the Row Houses today. “… on the Internet you have no skin,” Reggie insists, punching the air for emphasis. He bumps the painting.

  “Precisely. You can be whoever you want without fear of prejudice.”

  “So. Just so I’m straight on this. Six computers plus all the software—”

  “Whatever you need. And we can cover the initial hookup with AOL. Now, for us … should you make the arrangements, or shall I talk to her?”

  For the first time since I’ve met him, Reggie seems indecisive. He crosses his arms. The man turns to me. “Rufus Bowen,” he says, extending a hand.

  “Telisha is Ariyeh’s cousin,” Reggie says.

  “Is that right?”

  “A city planner in Dallas.”

  “Well now. Tell me. Is it too late to save Houston?”

  “No, no …”

  He laughs. “I run a small Internet firm here in town. Civic health is of great concern to me. What’s your guiding principle as a planner? The New Urbanism? Village neighborhoods?”

  Another smooth bastard. Gracious and poised. But he appears to offer a rare depth of attention that asks for a serious answer. Or maybe I just like rising to the challenge. I begin, slow
ly, “Aristotle? He said, ‘It’s most satisfactory to see any object whole, at a single glance, so that its unity can be understood.’ I agree. I favor buildings on a human scale.”

  Rufus Bowen smiles. “Understanding unity. A good rule for sizing up people as well, would you say?” The crowd nudges Natalie closer to us; Bowen reaches past me to shake her hand. “I’m sorry, please excuse us for a moment,” he tells me and pulls her aside. She looks like a doe in klieg lights. I want to tell Reggie, Get her out of here. He touches my shoulder. “So. I was telling Ariyeh about your little flare-up.”

  I take my eyes from Bowen. “It wasn’t a flare-up.”

  “I don’t blame you, honey,” Ariyeh says. “I would have felt the same. I used to admire Angela Davis, but she’s gotten too extreme.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I upset you. I don’t know what happened between you and your colleague, all right?” Reggie says. “I’m not making any judgments. I was just using Angela to point out that ‘black man’ and ‘rape’ are paper and fire—”

  I drain my wine. “Excuse me, Ariyeh, but I’ve got to say it. You are a prick,” I tell him. “You think I don’t know about racism—”

  “Hold on now—”

  “—and lynching? What do you think brought me back here, hm?”

  “Bravo, honey.” Ariyeh links her arm in his, teasing him with a grin. Reggie shrugs, an exaggerated surrender. “Okay, okay. But I got you to think, didn’t I?”

  “Jesus, Reggie.”

  “I’m quite capable of thinking on my own,” I say.

  “I see that. I’m glad.”

  “What’s going on over here?” Ariyeh asks him.

  Reggie glances at Natalie and Bowen. “A little discussion.”

  “She doesn’t look pleased.”

  To say the least. Her eyes flick back and forth but her jaw is fixed, puffing her cheeks. Her shoulders droop. The man looks taller in her presence, all upper arms and chest: an enormous held breath, ready to blow down the room. He’s Reggie without the attitude, Dwayne with Visa Gold, Rue Morgue on a higher evolutionary scale. Whatever arrangement is being made, a woman this uncertain has no business next to a man so assured. The power imbalance is as palpable as the cheese smell in the room. Nothing abstract here: hunter and prey, stark and real as hell. Is this how I looked in Dwayne’s cramped car, with his hands all over my tits? Is this how I carry my own vulnerability, an invitation like a bared neck? I turn away.

  Ariyeh tells me this little soiree will wind up soon; she and Reggie and a few of the donors he’s working will then head over to Blind Billy’s, a blues joint near the Ragin’ Cajun. “Come along. You and I can relax and chat.”

  Bowen squeezes Natalie’s arm, then swivels and shakes Reggie’s hand. “I’ll be in touch,” he says. He tells Ariyeh he was charmed to meet her. “Human scale.” He winks at me. “I’ll remember that.” Then he saunters through the crowd and out the door, earring flashing. Natalie slumps against the wall—hungering, I’ll wager, for Kibbles and Bits.

  “You understand, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Reggie tells her.

  “It’s a job, I guess.” She primps her hair and wipes some sweat from her chin. “Anyways. I gotta go pick up my daughter now. The babysitter needs to get home.”

  “Sure, sure.” Reggie fishes in his pocket.

  “It’s all right. I got bus fare.”

  We walk her to the door. The gathering is thinning, but still loud. “… let’s face it, the whole notion of prisoner rehabilitation is completely outdated …”

  “… culture of narcissism …”

  “… old Saturday Night Live skit? White crime: guy goes to work, shoots a dozen people, then himself. Black crime: guy runs from a liquor store with a six pack, trips, gets snatched by the cops.”

  In the doorway, Reggie kisses Natalie’s cheek. “We’ll figure it all out tomorrow, okay?” A bright Metro stops behind her, its doors sighing open. “Sleep well.” She nods.

  Then, while Ariyeh and I wait outside, he plays the room one last time, pumping hands, smiling, laughing, patting backs. “He’s good,” I say.

  “Yes.” Ariyeh rubs her eyes. “Too good. I don’t like the looks of this Bowen fellow.”

  “It’s really impressive, the way he moves between worlds. Comfy with the money in there, whereas this afternoon he was getting down with the neighborhood boys.”

  “He certainly doesn’t lack opinions, does he? I’m sorry about that book business. Sorry I ever mentioned—”

  I wave it off. I’m about to ask after the vanished schoolchildten when Reggie shows up saying he’s ready. An irresistible energy gust. Ariyeh tosses the rest of her wine, and I follow Reggie’s Honda down the street.

  Blind Billy’s green wooden walls are lined with black-and-white photos from the thirties, forties, and fifties: KCOH, Houston’s only all-black radio station, now defunct. The DJs, King Bee, Daddy Deepthroat, Mister El Toro, in suits and ties behind long boom mikes, grip fresh-pressed 45s—“race records” before they were labeled “rhythm and blues.” Emancipation Park, Shady’s Playhouse, Club Ebony, and the El Dorado: places from which the station broadcast during June-teenth celebrations.

  The long-gone DJs, encased behind glass, are among the few black faces in the place, and Blind Billy’s is a far cry from Club Ebony. The room is vast, with a dance floor, stage, and round plastic tables. Two hundred, three hundred people, young lawyers, investment advisors—well-educated, on-the-make professionals, the kind who pop in and out of the mayor’s office. Hart, Shaffner & Marx on his second pint of Guinness flirting with dainty, martini-soaked Talbot’s.

  Signs for Route 66, Texaco filling stations, hand soaps, and seductive colognes—the signs are carefully tarnished and pleasingly scratched so as to appear old and authentic. The room smells stale and sweaty, but sweetly so, a mix of White Shoulders and organic shampoos.

  The band, piano and brass, six lanky black men in gray suits, is tightly in synch: three-chord blues with no rough edges, measured, leveled, buzz-sawed to boring perfection. Between songs, the singer, Quo Vadis in wraparound shades, tries to hype the crowd. “And they say the blues is dead in Houston! Lemme tell you, tonight we all the way live!” But his voice is weary, his stage gestures lazy. The audience seems pleased, anyway, clapping, whistling, stomping.

  Ariyeh quarrels with Reggie at our corner table. Seems Rufus Bowen will provide Reggie with computers if Natalie will work for him as a gofer/hostess, entertaining his out-of-town clients. “It’s not right, and you know it,” Ariyeh says, stirring her Tom Collins with a lacquered fingernail. “She’s going to school, raising her kids—”

  “A job right now won’t hurt her. When her year at the Row Houses is up, she’ll need someplace to go.”

  “A year from now. Why rush it? I thought the whole idea was to give a young mother a break, some breathing space—anyway, anyway, why Natalie? Who is this guy?”

  “He’s a perfectly legitimate businessman, and one of the few black CEOs in the city. I don’t know—when he dropped by the other day, he took a shine to Natalie. Which, I have to tell you, I count as a personal success. She’s really turned herself around since coming to us. It’s not like he’s forcing her to prostitute herself or anything—”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Of course I am. He just wants her to keep some people company, escort them to restaurants, concerts … this could be a good, long-term thing for her, part of her recovery. He sees her potential. And he asked, honey. He doesn’t need our permission. Natalie’s an adult. But he asked. He wouldn’t dream of interfering with our program.”

  “Since when did the Row Houses become a vocational school for computer training? You said the project was about restoring neighborhood pride—”

  “Exactly, sugar! And pride begins with education.”

  Ariyeh shakes her head, sips her drink.

  Reggie turns to me. “You gonna lecture me, too? Another dispatch from the mayor
?”

  I spread my hands.

  “Yeah, but you thinking it.” He leans over and kisses Ariyeh’s cheek. “I gotta go sell myself to these wallets now.” He nods at a nearby table, where five or six men from the gallery laugh and pass around pitchers of Bud. “You may not like cutting deals, baby, but there’s honor in it if the goal is noble.”

  “I know that, Reggie.”

  “You used to be proud of me.”

  She strokes his face. “I still am, sweetie. But I worry about Natalie.”

  “So do I. I won’t let anything happen to her. Promise.”

  “Go schmooze.”

  “I love you, baby.”

  “Go, go.” She smiles.

  I reach over and squeeze her arm, the way I did when we were girls and Bitter had scared us with the Needle Men. We listen to the music, not speaking. She looks tired, and I don’t want to trouble her with questions about school or the missing kids. I want her to be able to depend on me, the way I’m counting on her, a self-possessed young woman, a confident, successful black woman who can show me how to be.

  There again: race. Always, and ever, race. How sick I am of it! Even now, the frat boys at the next table eye me up and down. They don’t know what to make of me. Am I white enough for you, frat boy? Look close, Charley, do you see a hint of yellow, the shadow of a shadow, a leaf-tip turning in early fall? Do you imagine me naked? What do you think? Do you suppose my nipples look more chocolate than strawberry? Do you think I don’t know you, don’t despise you, don’t want you?

  “Hey, honey.” Ariyeh pries her hand from mine. “Not so hard.”

  We order another round of drinks. The band takes a break, and when they return I’m surprised to see big Earl joining them onstage. Tonight he looks completely different from the way he does at Etta’s. The purple suit is gone; he’s wearing a tux. Hair slicked back. The energy I’ve seen him put into flirting is channeled now into flattering the crowd. “Y’all doing all right? Sure is good to see y’all.” Masking in front of the ofays. Watering it down for the mainstream. Just another imbecile Negro. Goddam.