Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  “That song’s still at the top of the charts,” said Leonard.

  “That’s right. So why the hell did you send me a bill for seventeen dollars?”

  “That’s for Ike’s ticket home.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You don’t actually expect me to reimburse you for a seventeen-dollar bus ticket.”

  “Why not? Ike sent it to me by mistake. I’m just passing it along. It’s part of his touring expenses.”

  “Leonard, for God’s sake, I sold you the rights to that song for a pittance. You’ve made a killing on that record—and in part because I shelled out the money to tour them. And now you want to nickel-and-dime me on bus fare for Ike Turner? That’s really the way you want to do business?”

  “Hey, an expense is an expense.” Leonard took a long puff off his cigarette. He couldn’t understand why Sam was getting so hot under the collar.

  “So you’re saying you’re not going to pick up the cost of Ike’s bus ticket?”

  Leonard laughed and planted his feet back on the floor. “Why the hell should I?”

  “Because it’s the decent thing to do.”

  Leonard took one last drag and ground out his cigarette. “Look, Sam, Ike made a mistake and sent the bill to me. All I did was send it on to you. If Ike had sent the bill to you in the first place, would you have paid it?”

  “Of course I would have paid it. I paid all their touring expenses.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Leonard, this isn’t about the lousy seventeen dollars. This is the principle of the matter.”

  They went a few more rounds before Leonard said, “Bottom line is, I ain’t paying for that motherfucker’s bus ticket.”

  “All right. Fine—you win, you cheap son of a bitch. I’ll pay for Ike’s ticket. But from now on, don’t you dare send me any more of your petty bills.”

  Leonard shook his head after Sam slammed down the phone. There was a moment of stillness. Of utter quiet. And then drip plink, drip plink, drip plink. It was enough to drive him mad. He pushed himself away from his desk and stormed down the hall to the closet where they kept the toolbox.

  Five minutes later Leonard was on the kitchen floor, his legs sticking out from under the sink. Using a wrench, he took apart the P-trap and figured out what the problem was. Twenty minutes later, the leak was fixed. And that goddamn plumber wanted eight dollars.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  • • •

  “Tell Mama”

  LEEBA

  After being with Red for the past two years, Leeba’s family knew she was seeing someone. But this someone had no name, no face. As soon as she’d told her parents he wasn’t Jewish that was enough to render him invisible and insignificant in their eyes.

  Leeba listened to Red’s heart beating against her ear as she rested her head on his chest. His eyes were closed, his breathing rhythmical, musical itself. About a month back, Leeba had convinced Leonard and Phil to audition Red, but it hadn’t gone well. She was sure that he’d been crushed, but the rejection had rattled her more than him. Hearing no from Leonard only stoked Red’s drive. He began working on new songs, more determined than ever to get a record deal. When Leeba said she admired his resolve, Red told her he had no choice. “Music’s all I’ve got. It’s my whole life. If I don’t make it as a musician what am I gonna do?”

  Now Red stirred next to Leeba, tightening his arms about her. Someone was yelling out in the hallway and Leeba looked at the clock then at the spider-cracked walls and ceiling of Red’s kitchenette. There was a warm breeze coming through the window, fluttering the blinds. Leeba sat up on the side of the bed, her blue veins that he loved so much visible across her breasts and legs. She reached for her stockings, bunched up on the floor, and he rolled onto his side watching her, but saying nothing. They were always quiet when it came to this point. This was the hard part, leaving him, saying good-bye.

  “Don’t go yet,” he said softly.

  “I have to. It’s Shabbos, remember?” She buttoned her dress. “One of these days I’m bringing you home with me for dinner.”

  “C’mon, baby, you can’t take me home to meet your mama and daddy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they aren’t going to let their daughter go with a Negro. You know that.”

  “But I’ve heard stories about white men with colored women.”

  “That’s different. That’s been happening since the slave days, baby. But this—a white woman with a colored man—that’s a whole other matter. Nothing gets white folks riled up like seeing one of their women with a Negro. I told you, if we were in the South they’d lynch me for what I’m doing with you.”

  “But we’re not in the South.”

  “Yeah, you go tell your mama that.” He laughed sadly.

  She leaned across the bed and kissed him a long, soft good-bye, murmuring into his lips, “I miss you already.”

  She left Red’s tenement and waited almost fifteen minutes for the 14/16 bus. She was running late and should have already been home by now to help her mother get ready for Shabbos. During the bus ride to Lawndale, Leeba rested her head against the window, wishing Red was coming home with her. She loved this man and wanted everyone to know it, especially those closest to her.

  When Leeba keyed into the apartment she was surprised to find her mother sitting on the davenport with Aileen, who was holding an ice pack to her mother’s forehead. “It’s okay, Mrs. Groski,” Aileen was saying. “It’s not bleeding. You just got yourself a good bump is all.”

  “What happened?” Leeba chucked her pocketbook aside and went over to her mother, sitting down next to her.

  “Ikh arofakn,” her mother said. “Meyn niz, meyn niz. Meyn niz, meyn niz.”

  “Ah, she just took a little spill is all,” said Aileen. “I came by to see you before I start my Shabbos rounds and found her on the kitchen floor. She fell, bumped her head on the counter. You’d think she just ’bout died, the way she’s been babblin’ and pointin’ to her knees. I don’t know what the hell she’s sayin’.”

  “Watch it,” said Leeba with a grin. “I think she understands more than she lets on.” The look her mother gave her confirmed this to be true. Leeba inspected the bruise on her forehead, which was already swelling up. “You’ll be fine, Mama,” she said in Yiddish. “You’ll probably have a good headache later. You should take some aspirin.”

  “Di goy gat aspirin far mir.”

  Leeba turned to Aileen. “Thanks for giving her aspirin already.”

  After they made sure her mother was okay, Leeba and Aileen went back to Leeba’s bedroom. She barely got the door closed before Aileen launched into her latest tirade about Muddy. She was either madly in love with him or else just plain mad at him. It was the same with him. As a couple they couldn’t find their equilibrium.

  “I can’t trust nothin’ that man says. He was supposed to come by later tonight before his gig and now he’s sayin’ he’s gotta stay home with Geneva.”

  “Well,” said Leeba, searching through her closet, “she is his wife.”

  “Common-law wife.”

  “Still.” Leeba pulled out a green dress with a satin ribbon around the neckline. “I know you love him, but—”

  “I want him to leave that woman and come be with me. Just be happy Red ain’t living with some common-law wife.”

  “If only that was our biggest problem.” Leeba laughed as she worked her way into her dress. “What would you say if I told you I’m thinking about introducing him to my family?”

  Aileen raised her eyebrows. “I’d say you crazier than I am. You see the way your mama treats me. She still calls me her damn Shabbos Goy. I ain’t even sure she knows my real name. How you think she’s gonna react when you bring your colored boyfriend home?”

  Leeba knew it would be a shock at first. But she was sure they w
ould see that Red was more than just some colored man. He was Red Dupree and he was smart, charming, polite and charismatic. She’d seen the way people in the clubs fawned over him after watching him on stage.

  “If anyone could win them over,” said Leeba, “it’s Red.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure ’bout that.”

  • • •

  “Why?”

  That was her mother’s reaction when Leeba said she wanted to bring her boyfriend home to meet them.

  They were sitting at the kitchen table the next day after Shabbos had ended. The bump on her mother’s head was purple and yellow. She wasn’t concerned about her forehead, though, just her legs. Her mother’s housecoat was bunched up in her lap, exposing her bare freckled kneecaps so that Leeba could rub them with liniment oil. Her father was in the living room watching The Amos ’n Andy Show. It was sweltering inside and even with all the windows thrown open the mentholated scent of her mother’s ointment was overpowering.

  “Why don’t you have the doctor look at your knees?” Leeba asked.

  “Auch, it’s arthritis. There’s nothing he can do and don’t change the subject. I don’t see the point in meeting him,” her mother said as Leeba slathered more oil onto her knee.

  “Hear her out, Freyda.” Her father spoke up from the other room during a Pepsodent commercial. “It wouldn’t kill you to listen once in a while.”

  “Why should I hear her out?” her mother called back. “I don’t see the point of her bringing him here.”

  “Shah—” The commercial was over and her father couldn’t hear his program. Leeba didn’t care. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, went out to the living room and turned off the television set.

  “What?” Her father looked lost, something vital taken from him. “Leeba? What are you doing?”

  “I mean it. I want you both to meet him.” She went back to the kitchen, her father trailing behind her.

  “Is it serious with this young man?” he asked, as if the possibility had never occurred to him.

  “Auch.” Her mother raised her leg up and down, wincing with each movement. “How can it be serious? He’s not Jewish. She’s not going to marry him. We don’t even know his name.”

  “It’s Red. Red Dupree.”

  “What kind of a name is that?” her father asked.

  “It’s his stage name,” she explained. “He’s a musician. Like you, Papa. You’ll like him. I know you will.”

  Her mother grimaced as she took over massaging her own knees. “It’s a phase. She’s rebelling.”

  “Please don’t talk about me like I’m not here. And what’s this rebelling business? I’m not twelve years old. I’m a grown woman and I’ve met someone special.”

  “It wouldn’t kill us to meet the young man,” her father said.

  “You’re agreeing to this?” Her mother sat up straight and glared at him, slapping her palms down on the table.

  “Relax, Freyda. Like you said, she’s not going to marry him. And it won’t kill us to meet someone our daughter’s spending so much time with.”

  Leeba reached over and hugged her father, knowing what it took for him to stand up to his wife.

  “But he doesn’t speak Yiddish,” her mother said. “We won’t be able to talk to him.”

  “No,” said Leeba. “You won’t be able to talk to him. Everyone else can manage to speak English in this house for one night.”

  Her mother looked punched down like dough left to rise on the counter. She sighed, resigned, and Leeba didn’t know what to do with this victory. She wasn’t used to winning when it came to her mother. Suddenly she felt undeserving of getting her way and immediately began second-guessing her stand.

  “When?” her mother asked. “When do we have to do this?”

  • • •

  Leeba wrestled with herself, wondering if she should tell her family ahead of time that Red was colored. She feared that if they knew, they’d refuse to meet him. So instead she prepared herself for an awkward introduction and hoped that afterward they’d see him for the man he really was.

  The whole family had gathered that Sunday night to meet him: Aunt Sylvie, Uncle Moishe, even Golda, Ber and their two small children were there. When Leeba heard a knock at the door she jumped, but her father got there before she could. Leeba watched everyone huddle behind him, anxious to get a look at her beau. Her father opened the door and there he was, standing on the threshold in a dark suit and tie, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

  Her father turned back around, confused. “Is someone expecting a flower delivery?”

  “No, no,” Leeba said, breaking through them and reaching for Red’s hand. Her own was sweating, her heart pounding. “This is him, everyone. This is Red.”

  She didn’t imagine it—she heard a gasp. A gasp and then silence. She was afraid to look. The walls grew narrow around her, the lights began pulsing and the air turned thick with her mother’s cooking. She could not have anticipated just how bad a reception Red would get. You’d think she’d brought home a mass murderer. They did nothing to try to mask their shock and, in the case of her mother and sister, their disgust. Leeba led Red inside the foyer, all six foot four of him towering over her wide-eyed family. One by one she made the introductions. Stiff handshakes, bewildered stares, barely a welcome. It was Aunt Sylvie who eventually invited him to come have a seat and asked if he wanted something to drink.

  “Just water. That would be fine, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “Well, this is certainly a surprise,” Leeba’s father said, nonplussed. “Leeba didn’t tell us much about you.”

  “He’s a musician, Papa. I told you that.”

  “A musician, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. I play guitar. A little piano, too.” Red gestured to the upright, flush against the wall.

  “Hm.” Her father nodded and took a sudden interest in the area rug.

  The room fell silent again except for Aunt Sylvie translating for Leeba’s mother, who cocked her head to the side. Aunt Sylvie told her what he’d said and added in something else, hushed and private, that made Leeba’s mother smile. Not a big smile, but a smile just the same, a crack in her wall. That was what Leeba had been waiting for and in that moment the tension in her shoulders began giving way. Her mother had smiled. She smiled. Everything would be okay.

  But when it came time for dinner the awkwardness returned. Her family sat at the table, not talking to Red or to one another. Once again, it was Aunt Sylvie who broke the tension.

  “What do you do for work?” she asked.

  “I work in a brickyard, ma’am.”

  “Oh.”

  The others seemed to watch her “oh” floating by like a cloud of dandelion seeds. No one else said a thing.

  “But I’m hoping to start making records soon.”

  Another “oh.” And then nothing. It went like this off and on all evening. A burst of filler conversation followed by nothingness. Amazingly enough, her mother’s expression hadn’t changed. It was calm, tranquil. Leeba couldn’t believe it.

  But poor Red. He shifted anxiously in his seat, tried to smile and be polite. It was Leeba’s fault. She’d done this to him, put him in this predicament.

  While they were clearing the table, Leeba pulled Aunt Sylvie aside. “What did you say to Mama before dinner that made her smile?”

  Sylvie gave off a chuckle as she stacked a plate on the counter. “I just told her not to worry. It won’t last.”

  Leeba’s heart sank. This relationship was not a joke. Why couldn’t they see that she was serious about this man?

  When there was no more food to distract them and nothing left to say, it was time for Red to go. Leeba walked him out and as they stood beneath a streetlamp on Karlov Avenue, aware of her family watching them through the parting in the curtains, she could find no words to make
things better. She wanted to open her arms to him and apologize because this good man had been humiliated and it was her fault.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked back toward the four-flat. “You better get back in there. I don’t want to cause any more trouble than I already have.”

  Her heart ached as she watched him walk away. She listened to the hum of traffic on Thirteenth Street as she braced herself to go back inside. Everyone had moved away from the window and was back in their seats when she closed the door behind her. She’d expected a barrage of disapproval, but everyone was eerily quiet.

  After another moment she had to break the silence. “Well, what did you think?”

  This was where everyone shifted their attention toward her mother, who sat in her chair, hands folded in her lap, her jaw set. Leeba detected the rage seething beneath the surface, behind her eyes, under her skin. But surprisingly her mother was keeping her temper contained.

  “Mama?” She waited. “Mama? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “What would you have me say? As if it wasn’t bad enough that he’s not Jewish, but now I find out that the boyfriend is a schwartze, too.” Her mother’s voice remained even and calm as she stood up, went to the closet, pulled out her vacuum cleaner. No one else said a word. It was as if it were just the two of them in that room. “Tell me, Leeba, what would you like me to say?”

  “I realize he’s not what you were expecting, but once you get to know him, you—”

  “I’m not going to get to know him because you’re not going to see him again.”

  “Mama—”

  “I mean it.” She plugged the vacuum cord into the wall socket. “I forbid you to see him again.”

  Leeba laughed sarcastically. “You can’t forbid me to do anything. I’m not a child. And I’m not going to stop seeing him. The only reason you won’t give him a chance is because he’s a Negro and that’s just as bad as the way people treat Jews.”

  “Auch, it’s not the same.”

  “Yes, it is. And that makes you a hypocrite.”