“Baby!” He opened his arms wide and Leila dashed into his solid chest, reaching up to fling her arms around his neck.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe you’re really here!”
He held her at a distance as her hands settled on his wide lapels. His café-au-lait complexion took a bluish tinge in the streetlight and accentuated a few lines she hadn’t remembered seeing three years ago.
“Look at you. All grown up and so beautiful.” His voice resounded, deep and mellow.
“And look at you, all fancy. What did you have to hock to get these threads?”
“Baby, Europe has been good to me.”
She sunk her fingers into his Afro. “Are you getting gray hair, or is that just the streetlights?”
“Never mind that. Give me some more of that sugar.”
Leila hugged him again and then took him by the hand, leading him into Artie’s apartment.
“Let me fix you something to eat,” she said as he carried his luggage to Artie’s room.
“No.” He placed his bag on the bed. “I already ate.”
Leila came in behind him. He faced the bed and sniffed hard.
She moved to his side. “He was in his bed, like someone had laid him out, with his hands folded on his chest—very dignified in those nice silk pajamas you sent him.”
Joe nodded. “I’m sorry you had to find him.”
“I’m not. I’m glad it was me … I sat with him a long time.”
“Too bad it was on your birthday and everything.”
She shrugged. “You know how I feel about birthdays and holidays. Cancer sure had a way of sucking all the fun out of them. Seems like having some special day roll around is a sure-fire way to provoke the angry gods of tragedy.”
Joe turned to her and stroked the hair from her face. “You’re a good girl, Leila. You deserved a whole lot better.”
“Well, so did Artie. And you. And my dad. Life just doesn’t seem to dish out according to what’s deserved.”
“Baby, you’re too young to be saying stuff like that. Sounds like you been hanging around too many old blues musicians.”
“No doubt.” She moved toward Artie’s guitar, leaning in the corner. “C’mon, let’s go out in the living room.”
She grabbed the guitar and perched it in the chair opposite the sofa where they both sat. Strings poked out of its headstock like cat whiskers, and the finish on its body had worn through like old floorboards under a rocker.
They sat together on the sofa as Joe strummed the guitar. When he finished, closing his sad eyes, Leila said, “You play just like him, Joe. You really don’t know just how much you sound like him.”
Joe said, “You’re really going to miss him.”
“Yes. Won’t you?”
“Sure, I guess, in an odd sort of way. But he’s still here in his music, smiling at us from Heaven.”
“Is that really what you believe?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It just makes me happy to think he’s up there playing his guitar, him an old Mr. Johnson, hanging out, singing the blues together.”
“But why would they be singing the blues in heaven?”
“I don’t know. ’Cause that’s what made him happy, singing the blues.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Baby, you think too much. Don’t be worryin’ about that stuff. Live in the here and now. Just be a good person and hope for the best.”
Leila frowned. Since when had thinking too much become a crime? True, it would be nice to shut down the process at times, but it wasn’t that simple with so many unanswered questions. And did Joe actually follow his own advice, or had he found ways to quell his mind when he couldn’t make his thoughts quit?
Joe yawned. “You better go on up and get some sleep, or you won’t be able to get out of bed for school tomorrow.”
“I’m not going to school tomorrow. I’m going to hang out with you.”
“They’ll be no hangin’ out tomorrow. I am completely beat, and I won’t be getting’ out of bed till you get home from school. Then you can come on down and we’ll do some stuff.”
“Fine.”
~
When Leila pulled into the driveway after school, Joe’s Town car drove up to the curb after her. She dashed to his car door as he swung it wide open.
“You said you were going to wait for me.” She grabbed him by the arm and snuggled closer.
He drew in a long nasally sniff and took her by the waist. “It was just a bunch of funeral stuff. You sure didn’t need to be there for that.”
“Yeah, I guess.” They walked arm in arm to the house.
“What do you say I take you out for dinner? How would you like that? Eighteen is legal in New York, and I know a real nice little club in the Village.”
“But I have no club clothes.”
“Then first we’ll stop at the mall and do some shopping.”
She ended up with a sleek black dress, a pair of strappy sandals, and a cropped, black angora cardigan. She wore them like a Parisian model.
Nine o’clock found them seated in a smoky little offbeat joint whose reputation for innovative jazz had made its way to the Amsterdam night scene. While Joe seemed impressed with the club, the music, and musicians, to Leila it seemed like any other establishment they had ever played at. And the food wasn’t all that great. She ordered her first legal beer. She would have ordered a nice burgundy wine, but that was her thing with Clarence. After dinner, and when the band took their break, Joe leaned to her ear.
“You okay for a minute?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Gotta make a pit stop.” He came to his feet.
“Sure thing.”
He walked through the haze and entered a narrow corridor, then disappeared. She lifted her beer bottle and wiped a wet ring from the table as a swarthy man with gold chains wove his way through the crowd toward her; she pulled her sweater tighter around, folded her arms, and slumped back into the seat with a scowl. He threw up a hand and detoured to the bar. Anyone who looked as if he might even think of approaching warranted the same deterring grimace. By the time Joe reappeared fifteen minutes later, she had picked the label clean off her beer bottle.
She sat upright as he walked to the table, rubbing his nose. She knew what that meant.
She glared. “I guess you must have really had to go.”
“Yeah. Yeah, right.” He talked fast. “And I ran into the bassist—sorry I took so long. You been okay, right?”
“Yeah. I’m always okay,” she said, miffed.
When he settled back into his seat, apparently unaffected by her mood change, she asked, “So what time’s the funeral tomorrow?”
“Uh … right. Um, seven.”
“Is your mom coming?”
He blew out a long breath. “Don’t know. Said she’d try.”
“So, you’ve been talking to her?”
“Once in a while.”
“Do you even want her to come?”
“Don’t matter to me.”
“So, what was really the deal between Artie and her—how did they end up together?”
Joe’s hazel, almost green, eyes stared at her for a moment and sank further into his seat. He folded his arms to match hers. “Oh, I guess you’re old enough to hear about that.” He let out a quick exhale and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She was twenty-five and a beautiful, proper Southern white girl who didn’t like her daddy much. Best way to get even with a bigoted old rich man is to get tangled up with some older black dude who plays guitar for a living.”
“Did she love Artie?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Ol’ Artie sure thought so.”
“You didn’t see her much when you were growing up?”
“She passed me off to some fine Negro family in Delaware—came to see me every now and again. I didn’t really get that she was my mom till later. I started acting up around then. She moved me to Artie’s when I was 10.” Joe stared off, rapidly tapping t
he table. His watery eyes darted. Leila didn’t want to rake up bad memories.
“Is there as much prejudice in Europe?” she asked.
“Sure. But it’s way different. They don’t got the Southern issue we got here.”
“Makes me mad.”
A wide grin flashed across his face. “Don’t be mad, Baby. Life is good—life is real good.”
~
As Myles understood it, there would be neither sermon nor eulogy. Leila had explained that the service would be played out later, at Artie’s place, with his friends. The old man had only one last wish—that an angel scatter his ashes on the Mississippi Delta.
Myles stepped through the funeral home doorway. Leila stood beside a tall stranger in an expensive-looking suit. Not quite what he had expected of the typical down-and-out blues musician. Myles adjusted his own silk tie as he strode toward the couple in front of a large bouquet beside a plain alabaster urn. Leila smiled at him. He had promised he would be nice to Joe, and he was determined to follow through.
Joe extended his hand and greeted him first. “Mr. Myles, I’ve heard so much about you.”
Myles shook his hand. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Myles bent to kiss Leila’s cheek and squeezed her shoulder.
“This is new,” he said, looking her up and down. She appeared to have transformed from a girl into a woman.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s far different than I’m accustomed to. But yes, it’s lovely. You look lovely.”
Joe spoke up. “I understand you’re a jazz and blues aficionado.”
Myles nodded.
“I hope you’ll come by Artie’s place right after we’re done here.”
Myles was about to decline when Leila begged, “Oh, please come.”
“Perhaps for a few minutes.” He looked directly at Joe. “How long will you be staying in the States?”
“I leave a week from Monday, just long enough to go through Artie’s things and get the house on the market.” He glanced at Leila. “Of course I won’t set any closing dates till Leila has graduated.”
At that moment, a small group of old men, mostly black and Hispanic, entered and made their way toward Joe and Leila. Myles made to step aside, but Leila grabbed his hand, keeping him close. He didn’t mind the gesture, in fact the naturalness of it surprised him. She kept her hand in his as she introduced Buddy, Pedro, and Artie’s other regulars. Each offered their sympathies and huddled around the flowers. Shortly thereafter, Kyle entered with Micah and the Tailgate’s bassist, bringing a smile to Leila’s face. She introduced them to Joe, who extended the same invitation for afterward.
Myles remained quiet, scanning the room and its occupants. Might Ian show up? He supposed it didn’t matter—the school board’s prohibitions had little teeth at this point, and his own ambivalence toward Ian Brigham waned. Just the same, he stood guard, and when Ian appeared in the draped doorway, Myles moved closer to Leila.
Ian walked down the center aisle, his line of sight firmly set on Leila. She let go of Myles’ grip and stepped forward as Ian took her hand and whispered her name, keeping a respectable distance between them. Her chin quivered.
“I’m so sorry,” Ian said. “I know how much you cared for Artie.”
Myles passed Leila his handkerchief. Looking him in the eye, Ian extended his hand. “Myles.”
“Brigham.” Myles had difficulty rousing enough animosity to intensify his grip.
Joe stepped forward. Myles introduced the two men. Joe accepted Ian’s hand and offered the same invitation for later. Ian hesitated. Leila’s eyes begged yes.
“I’m honored,” Ian said. “Thank you.”
Myles shifted with annoyance as nearby Buddy talked loudly, recounting old tales. Pedro nudged the old codger, quieting him as all eyes turned toward the entryway. There paused a white-haired, fair-skinned woman. As she sauntered toward them, her swank navy-blue pantsuit played off her coral blouse. She tucked her bobbed hair behind her ear. The boys parted, making Joe and Leila more accessible. Standing before Joe, the woman clutched his hand in a lady-like manner. All were silent. Only Joe and Buddy seemed to know exactly who she was, though Myles had his suspicions.
Joe accepted a glancing kiss on the cheek. “Angela. I’m glad you came.”
“Hello, Joseph,” she said with a demure smile and dancing eyes.
She then turned to Buddy. “It’s been such a long time….” Her voice lilted with a distinctly Southern accent. “How are you, Preston?” Myles wondered at the unspoken affection between her and “Preston”—what was the history there?
“I’m just fine,” Buddy replied, “And you sure look fine, Miss Angela.”
Smiling with more ease than politeness dictated, she brushed his sleeve since he did not offer his hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Miss.”
“Angela,” Joe said, “this is Leila.”
She stepped in front of Leila and slowly looked her over.
“Leila, this is—my mother. Miss Angela Phillips.”
Leila grasped the woman’s extended hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
A brief smile passed over Miss Phillips’ face as she lingered with Leila’s hand in hers and crooned, “Hmm … you are lovely. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
As soon as Myles caught her eye, she turned her attention to him. “And who is this gentleman?”
Myles did not have to force a smile, though he felt the need to subdue it. Angela was quite lovely, perhaps not much older than he was. When she smiled, it was hard for him to take his eyes off her. Something in her reserved manner seemed to be suppressing a liveliness, which beamed from her eyes.
Leila spoke up. “Miss Phillips, this is Clarence Myles. My guardian.”
Myles took her hand—she placing hers on his in such a way that it would have been quite natural for him to bring her fingertips to his lips, but not under the circumstances. Just the same, Miss Phillips seemed pleased to allow her hand to linger in his.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Phillips,” he said, enjoying the twinkle in her eyes.
“Please. Do call me Angela.” She studied his face and then glanced back at Leila. “Your guardian?”
“Yes. It’s complicated.”
“Hmm … life can be that way,” she smiled wistfully and returned her gaze to Myles. A dimple appeared on each cheek. “I believe every girl should have a guardian—at least for a little while.”
She lingered in his sight and then returned her attention to Leila. “Please, dear, let’s sit.”
Taking Leila by the hand, Miss Phillips led her to the front row of chairs.
As Joe said, “Angela—my mother—has come to take Artie’s remains back to Natchez so they can be scattered by the Mississippi,” Myles, stood off to the side and eavesdropped while watching Leila and Angela. They sat symmetrically, facing each other. Their thighs tapered and met where each pair of hands neatly clasped their knees. The only gestures were in their corresponding facial expressions, each seeming to mimic the other, like matching bookends.
He looked at his watch. It was finally eight o’clock.
Joe picked up the urn and approached Angela. She rose to accept it.
“Thank you for coming, Angela. Are you sure you won’t come back to the house?”
“As much as I would love to—” she glanced at Myles, “I have an early flight and I’m terribly exhausted. But I’ll talk to you soon.”
Joe kissed her and took Leila by the arm. Myles, having caught the woman’s glance, came toward her.
“Allow me.” He took the urn and offered his arm.
“Why, thank you, Clarence.”
He did not mind her familiarity—he rather enjoyed it—and escorted her to the curb where she had parked a Mercedes Benz. She unlocked the front passenger door and stepped aside, allowing Clarence to open it.
“On the se
at, if you wouldn’t mind,” she said.
Having placed Artie’s remains as she wished, Myles pulled the seat belt to secure it. With an acknowledging nod to Artie Sparks—old Black & Bluesy—he closed the door and escorted Angela to the driver’s side. He assisted her from the curb to the street. Her blue eyes smiled before her lips curled and extended.
“Why, Mr. Myles,” she lilted, “I lament that I will not have the opportunity to know you better.”
Lamentable indeed! “It’s been a pleasure. Brief, but a pleasure nonetheless.” He took her hand, and, this time, with no onlookers, brought it to his lips with his eyes on her.
For the first time she offered a broad and beautiful smile that took him by surprise. They lingered a moment longer before he closed the door behind her. He wondered at the anomaly of emotion she evoked. As she drove off, he regretted the opportunity slipping away.
~
Surrounded by her people, Leila sat on the piano bench, her hands tucked beneath her thighs. Joe sat with Kyle and Buddy on the sofa, tuning his guitar. Micah and the Tailgate’s bassist talked music with Pedro and the other old men. Myles poised himself near the exit. Ian stood in the kitchen doorway, drawing Leila’s attention. Her cheeks burned.
Buddy had just finished adjusting the amp, the one Artie never got around to fixing. One of the boys rolled his fingers on the bongos as Joe looked at Ian, whose focus now shifted. Joe set his guitar aside and picked up Artie’s, inviting Ian to sit beside him and take up his own guitar. Ian joined him.
Joe played an initial riff. “You know Roberts’ ‘Cross Road Blues?’”
Ian nodded. “I do.”
It was “Crossroads” that had been playing from Ian’s Saab the day Leila and he first met. Had it not been that song at that moment, she surely would have refused Ian’s assistance. When he looked up at her, she knew he was remembering, too.
“One of Artie’s favorites—” Joe smiled wistfully, sniffed, and began again, singing the verses. He played solo for the first refrain and then Ian joined in. Before long, all were adding their bit, except Leila. She could not bring herself to play, she just listened and remembered the first time she sat like this, sketching Artie as he noodled and grinned with his big new teeth. That very sketch now sat framed atop the piano.
Portrait of a Girl Running Page 27
