I gasp. “No...” But she seemed so healthy, so alive last time I saw her.
“Yes, sir. They're scouting new in-house acts. Until they find one, they are booking other live entertainment.”
“I can't believe it.”
“It was sudden. None of us could believe it,” the waiter says, sliding my glass from the tray and setting it in front of me. “Would you like anything else before your dinner arrives?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
He disappears, and my eyes are fixed on the table. I really can’t believe she's gone. Her passing is the perfect testament to how suddenly life can be snatched away from you. Light jazz instrumental music pales in comparison to Ms. Mabel's spirited performances. No wonder the crowd is thin.
As the night carries on, the saxophonist plays his heart out. When he's finished, I'm bogged down by apathetic malaise. In the end, I am unenlightened.
I pay and leave. I don't think I'll be coming back until they find another singer. It will be a challenge to find someone who can follow Ms. Mabel.
(Carmen)
Pint of strawberry cheesecake ice-cream...check. Chinese food ordered...check. Chick-flick in the blu-ray player...check. I am ready to be a lazy, useless pile of fat. The worst part is—it's only noon.
The past few days have been rough. After my relapse into depression and Hilda's subsequent death, I haven't wanted to do a damn thing—least of all adhere to my diet and exercise regimen.
I scoop a spoonful of ice-cream into my mouth. Yup, any aspiration to stay fit has pretty much gone out the window. I hear the mailman lift the lid on my mailbox and drop a stack into it.
I groan. Probably all bills. Just thinking the word bills, gives me a headache, or it could be the ice-cream. I heft my ass off the couch, and go to the front door. Yanking the stack from the mailbox, I take it back to the couch.
Let's see here: power, utilities, car payment, car insurance, lawyer's office—lawyer's office? I narrow my eyes at the inscription on the front. I don't recognize the sender's name. I rip off the end and slide out the papers inside.
'Dear Ms. Andrews,
I am a lawyer with Stable and Sons. Our condolences are due to you for the loss of your friend, Mrs. Hilda Ferrell Washington. Being the executor of her will, it is incumbent upon me to convey her wishes to you and others in her life. Subsequently, your presence is requested at the reading of Mrs. Washington's last will and testament.
The reading will take place on Friday, the 27th, at 11:30am. We hope that you can make it.
Have a pleasant day,
Roger Stable, Esquire
Attorney at Law, Stable and Sons'
The reading is on Friday. What day is it? I check my phone. Today is Thursday.
Hilda left me something? What could it be? We've only known each other for two months, if that. True, that she's been one of the few people I can actually call a friend, but I had no idea I meant that much to her. Now, my curiosity is piqued. I can't help but wonder what tomorrow will bring.
It seems fitting to wear black to a will reading. I wouldn't know, as I've never been to one before. My parents left me everything they owned and I was too upset, at the time, to go to their reading. It's odd, how thinking of one death can summon memories of every other death in one's life.
I don't believe I'm normal. I imagine most people would think of their parents more often than I do of mine. I fully experienced the initial grief at the time of their deaths, but I confess that I don't know if I miss them as much as I should. I loved them, there's no mistaking that, but somehow I've always felt this disconnection from them, like I was adopted. I rely on photos to call up memories of them. I only have a few of my father, with his balding hair and busy beard. I have several pictures of my mother. I look nothing like her. She was a red-head, with blue eyes and heavy patches of freckles over her cheeks and nose. I inherited everything from my dad's set of genes, from my boring brown eyes and black hair to my muscular calves. I've never thought much of my looks, but I'm not ugly. If anything, I think I'm plain, which isn't anything a heavy layer of makeup can't remedy.
I inherited none of their hyper-intelligence, patience, or optimism. I was always average, save for my drive to dance and my hardheadedness. I've always wanted to do things my own way.
I enter the group and feel immediately singled out. I assume nobody at the reading knows me, until I spot Kyle on the far side of the lawyer's office. He waves to me and I wave back. He takes a seat in the front row and I sit beside him.
“Good afternoon,” says the middle-aged Mr. Stable. He slips on a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles and opens a packet of papers. He looks over then up from them. “I'm ready to begin if you all are.”
Nobody says a word against the idea, and he begins reading.
A few paragraphs into the proceedings, the door behind us opens and in walks Hilda's cousin, Reggie.
“Sorry, everybody. Sorry. Continue, please, sir,” Reggie says to the lawyer. He takes a seat in the back row. It warms my heart to see him, for some reason.
Mr. Stable continues, passing out packets to people as he comes across their respective names. Kyle receives his letter and holds it in his lap, smiling at it.
“To my new friend, Ms. Andrews—” My ears perk up. “—I leave a letter addressed to her, for her eyes only.” The attorney offers me a packet, which I take and turn in my hands. “I also leave—” Mr. Stable narrows his eyes, pushing his spectacles up his nose. He looks me over and, after a moment, turns his attention back to the document. “I also leave my record collection, record-player, my collection of literature related to music, including books and sheet music, the entire contents of my dressing room at The Royale, and the sum of five-thousand dollars.”
My eyes fly wide open. Holy crap on a cracker!
Kyle gives me the old 'I told you so' look. I am beyond floored. I would have been happy enough with a letter from her, let alone everything else! I can't help but tear up. I was special to her, just as much, if not more so, than she was to me. I'm amazed at how much this woman is giving, even after she has passed.
My mind blocks out the attorney's droning as I pry open the envelope and pull out the letter.
'Hey there child,
If you're reading this, it means I'm gone. I know you must be sore at me for not telling you I was sick. I tried to fight it off. I was afraid if I told a whole lot of people, they might keep me from singing. I also didn't want people worrying and fussing over me. That was the last thing I wanted.
Now, I left you some things and I want you to put them to good use. I gave Kyle some instructions in his letter, telling him to help you understand the situation. When I leave, there's going to be a big hole to fill. I trust you to do the job.
I know this is going to be hard. I know you don't talk and you probably don't sing, either. I know the thought of singing on stage in front of a bunch of people must terrify you, but ever since I first met you, I knew you were the one who would take over. You see, jazz is not only about singing, child. It's about living. It's about having lived. It's about taking the pain, and singing through it. Remember when I told you that singing is freedom? That was only half of the truth. Singing jazz and the blues is about dying gracefully.' Dying gracefully. Those words hit me hard. Since my first professional show, I've felt that way about dancing. How had she so easily been able to get inside my head? I moisten my lips, wipe my eyes and continue to read. 'I want you to take everything I've taught you about music, everything that has made you stop talking, and I want you to use it. People should hear what you're feeling; and you should give it away. Give the pain away. It won't do you no good staying in your soul.That's where it starts to rot.
And don't waste no time missing me. Believe you me, where I am is so much better than where I was. Know that I've always believed in you and I still do.
-Hilda'
After the meeting is over, Kyle and Reggie both meet me in the parking lot.
“Hey there, girl,” says Reggie, holding out his hand for a shake. Like before, my entire arm shakes from his boisterous greeting. “I heard that Hilda left you some things from her house. If you give me your address, I'll bring them by for you. I'm working with her sister to get her house cleaned out and all that.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “She must have really loved you.” He smiles. “And if Ms. Mabel loved you, that makes you family. That means anytime you need anything, you call me.”
He hands me a business card for a car-detailing business, his name and phone numbers are listed on the front. I take it, my heart swelling with gratitude and affection. What a totally unexpected turn of events. All because I was moved by her music, I met and got to know Hilda. From that, I've gained a new set of friends. Now Reggie is calling me family. It's been years since I've been a part of one.
I want to say something, but I can't quite figure out the words that would convey what I'm feeling. He pulls me into a deep bear hug.
That is all we need. That is enough. He smiles as he draws back.
“I've got to get going now, girl. Remember, you call me if you need anything.” I nod in response. He waves as he takes big strides away from us toward a large SUV.
“What a guy,” says Kyle, grinning. “Let's see what Hilda has left for me,” he says. “No point in waiting.” He opens his letter and his eyes rove over her pretty flowing script. It takes him a few minutes, but he finally folds up the pages and tucks them back in the envelope. “She wants me to let you audition for the club owner to be the main act.”
I knew from my own letter that it was coming, but hearing it from him doesn't ease my anxiety. How does Hilda expect me to sing—in front of people? I can't even hum without my throat hurting, though the pain has lessened lately.
He breathes heavily, thumbing his chin. “This is a problem,” he says.
You're telling me.
“I gathered this for myself, but she says in the letter that you don't talk. Does that mean you don't talk at all? To anybody?”
I shift uncomfortably and nod at him.
“Can you talk?”
I give the universal signal for “sort of”, rotating my flattened hand at the wrist.
“Do you want to sing?”
I bite at the dry skin on my lips. What an insanely hard question to answer in the middle of a cold parking lot. Hilda wanted me to. She believed I could, but do I believe I can? Does it matter if I believe I can? If Hilda's right, then I'm more than equipped to “give the pain away” as she put it. I guess the least I can do is try.
I nod slowly.
“Practice. Get as good as you can. We're auditioning for the next two weeks, but at the end of that, the club owner will be making a decision.”
I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack. Two weeks!? Learn to sing in two weeks? I can't help but feel like I'm going to look like an idiot by the time this is over.
“Don't worry so much,” Kyle says, putting a hand on my shoulder. Is my panic that obvious? “There's a reason she gave you everything she owns that has to do with singing. Her records give you a perfect set-list. The guys know all the songs. Just pick one and keep at it 'till you feel comfortable with it. Take it one song at a time.”
Frank Sinatra. Chris Connor. Julie London. One song at a time, Carmen. One song at a time. Nina Simone. Mahalia Jackson. Aretha Franklin. My fingers skip through the record collection, which is suddenly mine. I've been given permission to come and go as needed, seeing as there's no star to occupy the dressing room yet. Every second that passes, I wish harder than the last that she was here. I was ready to tell her everything about myself; from the deaths of my parents, to my passion for dance, to the abduction. Now that she's gone, I feel her loss more than I could have ever guessed.
For the past few days, I've been watching performances, reading tutorials and listening to live shows. Hilda also left me a few books that describe the importance of proper diaphragmatic support and breathing when singing. Luckily, dancing has provided me with a strong core. An outsider would be surprised to learn just how much muscle control it takes to do a tight turn with any level of precision. I'm in generally good shape, too, which means my lung capacity is high.
While all this is well and good, I need to choose a song for the audition. The number of songs at my disposal makes me dizzy. I never knew there were so many jazz and blues songs, until I took the time to look at the lists of them that were released between 1900 and now. As I flip through, I feel a sharp pain and yank my hand back.
Fuck!
Blood seeps from an ugly paper-cut on my index finger. I close my lips around the cut, pressing my tongue against it to stem the flow. I investigate the vinyl sleeve that caused the injury.
I Put a Spell on You / Nina Simone read the orange letters on the black cover. Nina's imposing face looks out into a crowd over a mic. If I had half of her talent and courage, I could knock out this audition with no problem.
I stick my finger in a balled-up tissue and slide the vinyl out, laying it on the turntable.
I close my eyes, hoping to absorb something from the music osmotically. Warm horns and strings fill the room, transforming it from a dressing room into a jazz cathedral. It drowns out everything else in my life, every voice that tells me I can't do this, every voice that tells me to walk away and never turn back.
“I put a spell on you / 'Cause you're mine / You better stop the things you do / I ain't lyin', no, I ain't lyin' / You know I can't stand it / Your runnin' around / You know better, daddy / I can't stand it 'cause you put me down, yeah yeah / I put a spell on you / Because you're mine / You're mine / I love ya, I love you / I love you, I love you anyhow / And I don't care if you don't want me / I'm yours right now / You hear me, I put a spell on you / Because you're mine.”
I'm amazed at how sexual the song is, but there's pain in it, too. It's not just about being jealous of the other women her lover is sleeping with. It's about possession, and being willing to go to any lengths to keep the man she loves. A spell. The instrumentation in itself is brilliant, the saxophone entrancing. I move the arm off the player and sit back, taking a deep breath. My cut finger stings and I squeeze the tissue tight in my hand.
Okay, Hilda. Okay.
I play the song again. And again. And again. The twentieth time around, I hear a knock at the door. Kyle steps in and I quickly lift the arm off the record.
“Practicing?” he asks.
In a matter of speaking.
I give him the 'kind of' gesture.
“That's a good song. One of my favorites,” he says. “I think I've got a recording of Hilda singing it, if you want it.”
I nod zealously.
Kyle laughs. “Okay, I'll get that to you.” His reservoir of questions seems to run dry. When I expect him to duck out, he instead pipes up, “Is that what you're singing for the audition?”
I nod. “I've got to go, but hey, when you're ready, let me know. I'll listen and tell you what I think.” He steps out and is gone before I realize it.
I breathe deep and set the needle back on the record; time for listen number twenty-one.
(Jacob)
After dressing my coffee, I take it back to my desk and sit down to prepare for my session with Ms. Andrews. Time has made it easier for me to face her. Today makes two weeks since we viewed the video. The fact that she's coming back is testament enough that I didn't screw up too badly. Even more now than ever before, I'm determined to help her. I want to do it the right way.
There's a knock at the door. That must be her.
“Come in!”
The door opens slowly and in steps a heavy-set gentleman in a trench coat.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I was expecting... someone else,” I say, rising from my desk and coming around from behind it.
“Good afternoon. Are you Dr. Jacob Weller?” he asks.
“Yes, I am. Is there something I can do to help you?”
“I'm Detective Helms with the WCPD.” He flashes me a b
adge. “If you have time, I'd like to speak with you about the murder of Janelle Stewart.”
A pang of anxiety hits me right in the chest. They don't think I killed her, do they?
“Sure, come right in.” I usher him to the seat in front of my desk.
I take my own seat. “I know you're probably restricted when it comes to what you can reveal about the case. I want to know as much as possible, so I can help bring down the bastard that did this to her.”
“First, I have to ask where you were on October 6th at approximately 3pm.”
“I was here with a patient.” With Ms. Andrews, in fact.
“Is your patient of sound mind and body and able to testify to that affect in a court of law?” he asks, his furry eyebrows falling over his slate eyes.
“I'm a doctor of speech therapy, mostly. My patients don't have any outstanding mental issues that would prevent them from testifying in a court of law.” He gives me an uncertain look. “Yes, they are,” I add. He pulls out a small notebook and scratches out a few notes. “Please, sir. I'm not a murderer. I hadn't seen Janelle in over a year when I found out she died.”
“Don't worry. You're not really a suspect. At this stage, we're just gathering information and evidence.” He stops scribbling. “I think it's fair to warn you, if you do anything suspicious, we will question you further. I'm willing to bet you know that, though.”
Aaand I'm terrified.
“Yes, sir.” Suddenly I feel like I'm in grade-school. I interrupt his pen's scratching. “Is there anything you can tell me about her death? Anything at all?”
He heaves a sigh, clicks his pen and tucks it back into the interior pocket of his coat with the notepad.
“Ms. Stewart went into cardiac arrest in her apartment on October 6th. Toxicology reports indicate she was poisoned with a lethal dose of atropine.”
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