by Renée Rosen
“Leonard, we can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not? It’s the company’s money.”
“It’s their money.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna tell them their records are tanking.”
“They know their records are tanking. They see the charts. What are you gonna say when they ask where the money’s coming from?”
“I’ll tell them it’s from us.”
“So, what, we’re gonna rob Peter to pay Paul?” Phil scoffed as he leaned back in his chair.
“If that’s what it takes.”
“I don’t like this,” said Phil. “I say we pay ’em out of our own pockets—just take it out of the business.”
“It’s still money coming out of our business.”
Phil didn’t respond.
“Okay, then it’s settled. We’ll move some money around, spread it out and everyone’ll be taken care of.”
• • •
The day after the royalty checks were handed out Leonard and Phil went to see an office building that Phil had found. They parked on a side street and walked up South Michigan Avenue, passing by Vee-Jay and King and a half dozen other independent record labels that had recently moved to that area. The Tribune and other newspapers had already started referring to this stretch of the avenue as Record Row.
Toward the end of the block they came to 2120, a shoddy-looking building, long and narrow. The windows were soaped up and a handwritten sign hung on the front door: “For Sale—Mr. Griffin—BElmont 7310.”
“Jesus, Phil, you said you found a great space.”
“What, you think the Macamba Lounge was any better when you found that?”
Leonard peered through the window soap, his hands cupped about his eyes. “How old is this place?”
“Turn of the century or thereabouts. It needs work, I know,” Phil said, adjusting his hat, “but the price is right. We could have it for a steal.”
“And then what?”
“We gut it and build it out the way we want. No more paying for studio time. We’ll have our own recording facility. A real one this time.”
“You know I’ve always wanted everything under one roof. Offices, a studio, pressing plant. Everything. This isn’t gonna be big enough for that.”
“We’re not ready for that yet and you know it. You gotta be realistic. This space is good. And it’s right here on Record Row and that’s where we belong.”
Leonard planted his hands on his hips and eyed the building. He liked the sound of being on Record Row. The whole industry had moved down here: record pressers, distributors, promoters, studios and just about every record company in the city. Yeah, he’d be surrounded by the competition, but that way he could keep an eye on them, too. And he’d be the biggest label down there, so he wasn’t worried about his artists jumping ship. If anything, the other guys would be worried about losing their stars to Chess. Plus, they needed to have their own studio. It was time.
So they went to the pay phone on the corner and dialed Mr. Griffin’s number. It was a chilly fall day, and the winds coming off the lake were beating against the phone booth. Twenty minutes later an elderly man with a cane, used more as a pointer than for support, walked them through the building. It was three stories with lots of little rooms, but that could all be reworked. The place was growing on Leonard. He was beginning to see possibilities.
The next day they came back for a second look and this time they brought Jack Wiener with them. Jack was a sound engineer from Universal Recording.
“Well?” Leonard turned to him after they’d finished the walk-through and found themselves in the open space he was envisioning as the studio. “What do you think?”
“This isn’t suitable for a studio.” An ambulance went by and Jack winced. “You hear that? You can’t record with that kind of noise going on all day. You’d have to soundproof the living daylights out of the place. You’d have to block all the outside noise—without killing the natural reverberation in the studio. These parallel walls are gonna cause a problem with low frequencies; and with the acoustics in this room and the way sound waves move you’d have to—”
“I don’t give a shit about this technical crap,” Leonard said. “Just tell me if it’s doable. If you can turn this place into a recording studio.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“Good.”
Even though Jack Wiener insisted it wasn’t ideal, Griffin wanted to sell and was coming down on the price. The business was doing well. Sales from “Maybellene” alone would cover the costs of renovating the place. Before they got back to Cottage Grove, Leonard and Phil had made up their minds.
The next step was telling Revetta that he’d just bought a building.
He had recently moved his family to Glencoe. It was a milestone for Leonard, to be a suburbanite and give Revetta the home of her dreams. They had a swimming pool in the back and the kids all had their own bedrooms. It did something for him each time he made the drive from the city and pulled into their long driveway.
Revetta’s thirty-fifth birthday was in two days, but he figured now was the time to give her the jewelry. He’d bought it for her after he’d put in the offer on the new space. Gifts first and then he’d tell her about the 2120 building.
He walked her into the living room, which was bigger than their first apartment. He sat her down and handed her three gift-wrapped boxes.
“Leonard”—her face lit up—“what did you do?”
“I couldn’t wait till your birthday. Go on. Open ’em. This one first.” He tapped the long flat box on top.
She worked her way through the wrapping paper and looked at the lid. Leonard could be dense at times and he didn’t realize he’d made a mistake until her expression sagged when she saw that it came from Saks Fifth Avenue.
“So, I see you’ve been shopping again.” She raised an eyebrow as she lifted the lid. She didn’t say anything more as she fingered back the tissue paper and lifted up the necklace, letting the diamonds and gold chain shimmer, catching the light.
“Well,” he said, “what do you think?”
“It’s lovely.” But she wasn’t smiling as she set the necklace back inside the box.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“What are you talking about? It’s your birthday.”
“I meant you shouldn’t have done that.” She pointed to the top of the box.
Leonard sighed, planted his elbows on his knees.
“Besides, this is the last thing you should be spending money on. Especially right now. I talked to Sheva. I know about the building.”
He looked up. “Fuckin’ Phil. He tells her everything.”
“She’s his wife. He’s supposed to tell her everything. How could you have gone and bought that building without even discussing it with me first?”
“Why—so you could tell me not to do it, tell me it’s too much money, that we just bought this house and now’s not the right time?”
“You know, you could learn a thing or two from your kid brother.”
“Yeah, like what?”
“Like how to be a father, for one. He works plenty hard, but he’s still there for his family.”
“And I’m not?”
“Lenny, when was the last time you went on vacation with us? Phil takes us with his family down to Miami because you’re always working. When was the last time you spent any time with Susie? She’s starved for your attention. So is Elaine. And the only reason Marshall wants to work at the label is so he can be near you. And now you’re buying this new building and I can hear it already, you’re gonna have to work longer, harder because of your overhead. When does it stop, Leonard? When is enough enough?”
He dropped his head, his hands clasped behind hi
s neck. “I wanted to do something nice for you,” he said.
“You want to do something for me? Take these back to Saks. I don’t want them.” She got up and left the room. She didn’t even bother to unwrap the other two boxes.
Leonard would never return the jewelry. He couldn’t. What would Shirley think? He left them in the bottom drawer of his dresser and over time forgot they were even there.
FORTY
• • •
“The Sky Is Crying”
LEEBA
Leeba and Leonard walked through the new building at 2120 South Michigan Avenue. The workers were gone for the day and it was just the two of them inside. He showed her the first floor and took her up one of the two staircases that led to a bigger space on the second floor.
“Watch your step,” he said as they traversed the sawhorses and ladders, the toolboxes and piles of drywall stacked up in the middle of the floor. “And this is where the studio’s gonna go,” he said. “Well? What do you think?”
Nothing had been built out yet, but still Leeba could see the possibilities. “This is going to be wonderful.”
He walked over and put his arm around her. “Can you believe it?”
“You’ve come a long way, Leonard.” She rested her head on his shoulder and together they stood amidst the dust and the exposed wires and took it all in. Sometimes they got so caught up in the day-to-day of the business that their friendship got pushed to the side, but he was still the closest thing she’d ever had to a big brother. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “I really am.”
“Remember that day on Maxwell Street when I told you I bought a record company?”
“I thought you were crazy.” She laughed. “But look at you now.”
“Not too shabby for a little Jew boy putz from Poland, huh?”
“Not too shabby at all.”
They both grew quiet for a moment. Leeba was remembering the early days when it was just Leonard, Evelyn and herself. To think he didn’t even know what he was doing back then, and yet, along with Phil, they’d built this company by taking the sound of the Mississippi delta and electrifying it. Music would never be the same and in large part it was because of them.
“So let me ask you,” she said, “after all that you’ve accomplished, are you happy?”
“I’m tired is what I am.” He laughed. “C’mon, let’s get a cup of coffee.”
He locked up the building and they went across the street to Blatt’s Restaurant in the New Michigan Hotel. A big sign outside read “Next to Home It’s Blatt’s.”
“I have a feeling we’re gonna be spending a lot of time in here,” Leonard said as he slipped into a booth toward the back.
They each ordered a coffee and talked about Revetta and his parents. They talked about her family and she said how much she missed them.
“They’ll come around,” said Leonard. “Red’s a good man.” He shook a Lucky Strike from his pack and lit it. “He was a real talent, too. I still feel like shit about what happened.”
“You? What about me? It was my fault.” Leeba circled her hands around her coffee cup. “He’s still giving James guitar lessons and he never says a word—not one single word—about not being able to play anymore.” She thought about the two of them, her boys, and she smiled. “Red’s really great with James. And you should hear that boy play. I hope he gets a chance to do something with his music someday. Poor kid.”
She paused and took a long drink of coffee. “They just put him in a new foster home and I think it’s worse than the one before. Oh, and get this—he was complaining about a toothache so finally I took him to the dentist. Ten years old and he’d never been to a dentist. He had five cavities.” She shook her head. “He’s just getting bounced around the system and no one’s looking out for him. Red finally got him going to school every day. I’ve been helping him with his math homework and last week he got his first A.” She sighed happily, remembering how he’d rushed over to the apartment, waving his test paper.
A pained expression rose up on Leonard’s face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
He shook his head and lit another cigarette. “I was just thinking, I’ve never helped any of my kids with their homework. I hear you talk about this kid and I realize I don’t know my children at all.”
• • •
By the time Leeba and Leonard parted ways outside of Blatt’s, it had started drizzling and the temperature had dropped. She was wearing a heavy coat for the first time that fall and found a pair of gloves she’d thought she’d lost stuffed inside the pockets.
She rode the El home and before she reached the apartment the drizzle turned to rain. Out of habit she grimaced at the thought of walking Sophie in such weather. Then she remembered there was no Sophie anymore. She hated coming home to a quiet apartment, painfully aware each time she fit the key in the lock that Sophie wasn’t on the other side of the door, scratching, yelping, tail thwacking against the wall.
Red had another NAACP meeting that night and Leeba didn’t want to be alone. She called Aileen, but there was no answer. They used to talk every day; now it was more like once a week, if she was lucky.
She got herself a glass of wine and turned on the television set. The Jack Benny Program was rolling on a screen of static snow until she adjusted the rabbit ears and stabilized the picture. She curled up on the davenport and tucked her feet up beneath her.
It was pouring out now. Streaks of lightning lit up the sky outside the window as sheets of rain came down sideways. Leeba heard someone out in the hallway and her heart clenched. With Sophie gone she feared another threatening note would be slipped under the door, another rock would be thrown through their window. She rushed to the door and looked through the peephole. There was Golda, a puddle of rainwater collecting at her feet.
Golda! Leeba pulled open the door. “Are you all right? What are you doing here?”
Golda stepped inside, shaking off her umbrella and bringing the cold dampness in with her. It was the first time her sister had been to her place and Leeba watched her looking around, as if to say, So this is where you live, huh?
“What are you doing here?” Leeba asked again.
“It’s Mama,” she said and, with irritating nonchalance, added, “We thought you should know she’s in the hospital.”
“What?” A jolt shot through Leeba’s body. “What’s wrong with her?”
“It’s her knees.”
“Oh.” It was just her knees. Leeba relaxed some.
“She finally went to the doctor.”
“I told her he could give her something for the arthritis.”
Golda’s beautiful face turned brittle and suddenly the detached, blasé air she’d come in with was replaced with genuine anguish. “It’s not arthritis.”
“Bursitis? A pinched nerve?”
Golda shook her head and glanced up, her eyes now wet. She began to cry into her hands.
Leeba rubbed her sister’s back awkwardly. “It’s okay. Calm down.”
“It’s not okay. It’s cancer. Bone cancer. It’s metastasized. It’s spread everywhere.”
Leeba wasn’t sure she heard right. The lights began to pulse and her stomach dropped. She didn’t feel grounded to anything. “Is she dying?” Leeba heard her voice crack.
“She was getting better,” said Golda. “We thought she was improving, but—” She paused and shook her head. “She’s taken a turn. Aunt Sylvie thought you ought to at least know what’s going on.”
“How long have you all known about this?”
Golda shrugged, produced a handkerchief from her pocketbook. “About a month or so.”
Leeba’s eyes flashed wide. She’d spoken to her father and Aunt Sylvie several times and neither one had said a word. “And you’re just now telling me?”
“Mama didn’t want us t
o say anything to you.”
“And why is that?” Leeba felt kicked in the gut. “I’m still her daughter.”
Golda looked at her, cold and spiteful. “Why do you think? Mama wants nothing to do with you and your schwartze.”
“His name is Red. And he’s my husband.”
Golda dismissed that, waving it off. “Just tell me one thing—when did you become such a nigger lover?”
Leeba’s hand went up so fast she didn’t realize she’d slapped her sister until she felt the stinging in her palm.
Golda glared at her, stunned, a red print rising up on her cheek. “You have no idea what you did to Mama when you married that man. She’s sick over it. You’re the reason she got cancer.”
Now Leeba felt as if she were the one smacked across the face.
Her sister’s eyes narrowed with spite. “There—I said it. No one wanted to say it to your face, but it’s the truth. We all think so.” Golda grabbed her umbrella and yanked open the door. “And don’t bother going to the hospital. Mama doesn’t want you there.”
Before Leeba could even respond, Golda stormed out.
• • •
The next morning despite what Golda had said, Leeba went to Mount Sinai Hospital. The smell of antiseptic hit her as she stepped inside. Walking down the corridor searching for her mother’s room she caught glimpses of other patients in their beds, their ill-fitting hospital gowns exposing a shoulder, a buttocks, a thigh.
When she finally entered her mother’s room she had to stifle a gasp. There she was, the once fierce and mighty looking tiny and defenseless, eyes shut, sleeping in a railed bed, hooked up to tubes and machines that beeped, compressed, flashed.
Her family was there, looking just as shocked to see her. Her aunt and uncle were there, too. Aunt Sylvie was sitting up close to the bed; her father was seated on the opposite side. His chair screeched against the floor as he got up and came over to Leeba. She was numb and would later remember the tears in his eyes, the feel of his embrace.
Aunt Sylvie came to her side, too. “I’m sorry, honey,” was all she said as she squeezed Leeba’s hand.
