Even though she had assured him that it was unnecessary, Richmond seemed determined to demonstrate to her that he had become more caring and enlightened. It was sweet, she supposed. But she had grown tired of wading through Richmond’s deluge of chitchat and embraces to get to the thing he was truly good at. If she wanted scintillating conversation and hugs, she could call Barbara Jean or Odette.
After giving it a rest for more than a year, Richmond had begun pestering her about moving in with him again. Just last week, he’d hinted that the two of them should renew their marriage vows on the occasion of their upcoming wedding anniversary. “It would be like a fresh start,” he had said.
Twice during the past month, Richmond had unexpectedly dropped to one knee in front of her and then looked up at her as if he were about to say something. The first time, she had silenced him with a passionate kiss that developed into a breathless encounter on the piano bench. The second time, she had interrupted him to express her admiration for the flexibility he had gained since the knee replacement surgeries he’d had a year earlier, dwelling on the more gruesome details of his operations until the last vestiges of romance had been excised from the situation.
Thinking about marriage made Clarice feel even more jittery. She climbed into the bed alongside Richmond. Though she didn’t always want him around for the entire night, it was convenient to have him available for sunrise relaxation. Any amount of morning physical contact tended to put ideas in his mind, and she was eager to get those thoughts in place before he felt the need to show her how modern he had become by inquiring about her mood or pulling her into a platonic hug. She rested her right hand on Richmond’s hip. Without opening his eyes, he stretched and yawned. Then he rolled over and grunted.
Now that he was on his back, Clarice placed her hand on his flat belly. Richmond, a true morning man, responded to the invitation of the hand on his stomach as she had hoped he would. He snuggled in close to her and pressed his lips against her neck. He mumbled, “Good morning, baby,” and moved a hand beneath the T-shirt she had worn to bed. Richmond flashed his dimples and whitened teeth at her, then began kissing her along her collarbone.
It’s so cute when he thinks he’s seducing me.
CHAPTER 9
The two women in the photograph posed in front of a jukebox. Bodies in profile, faces turned toward the camera, they stood with their backs arched and with their hands on their hips, parodying fashion models. Because the picture was in black and white, Barbara Jean couldn’t tell the color of the tight dresses Loretta and Lily wore. But she could see that the dresses were sequined from the tiny stars of light created by the reflection of the flash of the camera.
Barbara Jean said, “Loretta always liked her clothes loud and shiny. When we went shopping together, everything we brought home looked like it had been pulled out of a comic book. She wanted to know that every eye was on her, and she brought me up to be the same way. To tell the truth, I kind of miss those loud clothes. It made dressing up fun.”
El, who was sitting up in his bed facing Barbara Jean, agreed. “The poorer the kid, the more they want to shine. Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter. Saturday night at the Pink Slipper back then was a sight to see—all of us broke-ass kids, wearing our finest. It just about blinded you to look around the room.”
“Were Loretta and Lily close?”
“All of us kids from the foster home were tight for a while. Harold was my main runnin’ buddy for a long time, and Loretta and Lily were like twins. Your mother was a good friend to have. She wouldn’t back down to anybody. If there was serious trouble, Loretta was somebody you wanted on your side.”
Barbara Jean laughed. “If there was serious trouble, Loretta probably caused it.”
“You might be right about that,” El said. “But your mother was good to Lily. Loretta looked after her like a big sister. It was hard not to be that way about Lily. She was cute and sweet-natured. Looked like a grown up doll-baby. Loretta and me both tried to look out for her. But before long, I was puttin’ that shit in my veins and couldn’t look after anybody.”
“And Loretta became a drunk,” Barbara Jean added.
“Like I told you before, none of us made it out of Mrs. Taylor’s house okay.”
El let out a groan, and Barbara Jean offered to fetch the two untouched painkillers that sat on the table next to his bed. He declined the pills but accepted a cup of water.
He said, “Lily couldn’t stand to be alone, and that kept gettin’ her in trouble. Did Loretta ever tell you the story about her and Lily in Louisville?”
“She never mentioned Lily at all, not that I remember.”
“That’s hard to believe, the way the two of ’em hung together in the old days.”
“What happened in Louisville?” Barbara Jean asked.
El took another sip of water and said, “About a year after we left the foster home, Lily met this man at the Pink Slipper. He bought her some jewelry and took her shoppin’. She’d never had a man spend any real money on her before, so she decided she was in love. Of course, this guy was trouble. He used to mess with another girl your mama ran with, and he slapped that girl around so bad she moved halfway across the state to get away from him. Everybody warned Lily. But she was stubborn. She told us all to kiss her ass, and she took off for Louisville with that lowlife. Not even a week later, we heard that this dude had beat her bloody when she figured out he was a pimp and tried to leave him.
“I still remember how Loretta carried on when she found out what had happened. She cussed and screamed and spat like she’d lost her mind. Forrest Payne told her to calm down and let the police deal with it, but Loretta wasn’t havin’ it. She said she was gonna take care of it herself. She took off for Louisville that same day, with a tough woman who was one of the regulars at the club for backup. They were in Plainview with Lily before the Pink Slipper closed that night. Lily was bruised and bandaged, but she got up onstage and sang our second set with us.
“None of ’em would talk about what happened in Kentucky, but pretty soon word got around that the guy who’d beat up Lily had been found inside a corner mailbox. Three-hundred-pound man, jammed into a mailbox. He lived, but he was majorly screwed up. It was a year before he could talk again and another six months before he could walk.
“One night when we were all drinkin’ at the club, I asked your mama about it. I said, ‘Loretta, I gotta know. How the hell did you get that fat man in that box? That’s gotta be against some laws of physics.’
“Loretta took a long drag off her cigarette and said, ‘I’m not admittin’ to anything, but I will tell you that there ain’t a force on this earth strong enough to overcome two truly pissed-off women if they’ve got a couple crowbars and enough time to put ’em to proper use.”
Barbara Jean laughed so hard that tears came to her eyes. “My mother being a good friend to anyone is news to me. But the crowbar part, that sounds like Loretta.”
Barbara Jean pulled a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her cheeks. Then she set the photograph of Loretta and Lily on the bedspread and said, “Look, El, your doctor wanted me to talk to you about something. He told me that you’re refusing to have the surgery he needs to perform.”
El said, “I see. They got you on their side and sent you in to do their dirty work.”
“I’m on your side, El. I just think you should get the operation. He said it won’t be nearly as invasive as that first surgery. They just need to clean things up.”
“That’s what they say. But I’ve seen it before with the sugar. They start cuttin’ and cuttin’. Next thing you know, there’s hardly anything left of you. They took a couple toes a year back and half my foot two weeks ago.”
“Your doctor says if you don’t do it, you’ll get sicker, and maybe even die.” She twisted her monogrammed handkerchief between her fingers and then put it away inside her purse. She said, “We haven’t known each other long, but I think of you as a friend. So I want you to be healthy. I’m
also being selfish. I want you to live long enough to show me more pictures.”
She picked up the photo of Loretta and Lily again and turned it toward El. “I’m an alcoholic, like my mother. I haven’t had a drink in years, but it’s still a part of me. When I’m with you, talking about Loretta, I don’t want to drink. And that’s amazing, because I always want to drink. So I want you to stay alive because it helps me.” The corners of her mouth turned upward slightly. “Listen. I’ve got a deal for you. Loretta never told me about Lily and Louisville. She did tell me how to shove a big man into a little mailbox, though. You have the surgery and I’ll clue you in.”
“That’s the trouble with you fine women. You turn those pretty eyes on a man and make promises and the next thing he knows, he can’t think for himself anymore.”
“So you’ll have the surgery?”
“Hell, why not?”
Barbara Jean leaned forward and kissed the center of his forehead, leaving a blood-red lip print behind. She said, “You’re doing the right thing.”
“And you don’t play fair,” he said. “Just like your mama.”
Barbara Jean was astounded to hear herself say, “Thank you.”
CHAPTER 10
After the young surgeon who would be operating on him left his room, El lay with his eyes closed. He thought about music and tried to block out the rest of the world. Maybe there was a song in all of this, his very last one. If “The Happy Heartache Blues” had brought them to tears, wait till folks heard the one about the lame old man.
The doctor had said, “I’m almost certain I’ll be able to save a significant portion of the foot,” congratulating himself in advance for his fine work. It was clear to El that the surgeon believed he was doing El a great favor. But the truth was, half a foot, no foot, no leg—it was all the same.
While he’d had the club gig in New Orleans, El had been able to take a long break from the heavy lifting that was a regular feature of his younger life. But the hurricane had stripped away the blues club and his little house. Then he’d gone back on the road again, hauling his guitar, his satchel of clothes, the arrangements for the other musicians, and his bulky, ancient amplifier from job to job.
He was too old for life as a traveling man. His arms, legs, and back had let him know about it every day. Even with all of his possessions inside luggage on wheels or strapped to lightweight carts, he had needed the assistance of helpful strangers. At first, he’d resented the offers of aid. Do they think I’m decrepit? But by his second week of traveling, his aching body had announced its limits, and El had been reduced to standing helplessly at bus stations and on train platforms, waiting for someone to offer to assist him. And that was when he still had two feet.
When Forrest had called and offered the wedding gig and two weeks of work, El had allowed himself to fantasize that he could slip into a small corner of his old life and then escape again. As an old man, he would return to where it had all begun and launch a new, final chapter. With his pockets full, he might even get back to Europe, where a good blues man could still find work and respect. But Plainview had slapped him down again. No Paris. No London. No Berlin. Instead, an indefinite sentence here in this bed for his ancient crimes.
El had wanted to tell that smug doctor that he wouldn’t just be slicing on a man. He would be operating on a performing pack mule. The man couldn’t exist without the beast of burden. Now that the mule had been hobbled, the remaining piece could only wither away.
It had been Ruthie—his wife, not his guitar—who had first called him a pack mule. El was still with her then; he hadn’t blown that all to hell yet. He was still acting the part of a decent man. The band had their first tour. Well, they’d called it a tour. It was a weekend in Indianapolis followed by one night in Memphis. He had waddled into the living room loaded down with over a hundred pounds of what he thought were the bare necessities.
Ruthie had taken in the sight of him, both hands full, bags hanging from his shoulders, guitar strapped to his back. She’d clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud and waking James, who was asleep on her lap, and said, “Good Lord, you look like my grandmama’s pack mule.” For the rest of their time together, she would send him off to gigs by swatting his hip and saying, “Giddyup, old boy.”
The night it all fell apart with Ruthie, El had ended up on a barstool at the Pink Slipper talking to Marjorie Davis, the club’s unofficial security guard. It had been late, and Marjorie had finished helping Forrest clear out the last of the patrons. Forrest was an imposing presence on his own, but Marjorie was scarier. When she informed a nuisance customer that he had overstayed his welcome, he was wise to leave immediately. If he didn’t, she would tell him he had till the count of five to start moving toward the door. Then she’d begin to count out loud.
No one ever heard her get to five. On four, she would grab the troublemaker by his neck and lift him a few inches in the air with one of her muscular arms, and jerk him from side to side as the toes of his shoes skidded across the floor. That move came to be known as “the Marjorie shake.”
She was a kind woman most of the time, and she was known to have a friendly and unshockable ear. But she also had an old-fashioned Baptist’s clear-cut sense of morality. And she was comfortable with the role of protector of the weak. If El hadn’t been so drunk and so high, he would never have chosen Marjorie as a confidante. But between gulps of whiskey, El had shown her the bloodstain on the arm of his white cotton shirt and confessed what he had done to James earlier that night.
Marjorie toyed with the whiskers on her chin and sloshed a heavy gulp of whiskey around in her mouth. He’d half-expected her to grab him by the throat, but she didn’t. She looked at him then and said, “I always felt sorry for you, ’cause I know you kids didn’t have it easy with that crazy bitch Taylor. Even after you started shootin’ that mess in your arm, I believed you might turn out all right. But you don’t get forgiven for some things—not by me. And I think you understand that no matter how many times you wash that shirt, there ain’t a man or woman in this place who’s gonna look at you the same after today.
“Right now, I’m tryin’ to think about how much I love your music, so I don’t kill you. But my goodwill ain’t gonna last forever. I’m gonna do you a favor and think about that sweet blues of yours for the next few minutes. You’d be smart to be out the door when I’m done thinkin’.”
Marjorie closed her eyes and started to sing in her crackling, coyote-howl voice: “Come back to me and break it, love. Break my happy heart.” El stood then and staggered out of the Pink Slipper for what he thought would be the final time.
CHAPTER 11
Audrey Crawford quietly played “At Seventeen” as she spoke to her audience. “I got kicked out of the house two weeks before the end of my senior year. I came in from school and heard Daddy and my big sister, Cherokee—yes, that’s her real name—talking upstairs. I couldn’t understand every word they said, but I could make out that I was the topic of their conversation and that Daddy was cussing like a maniac. Hearing Daddy going off like that threw a fright into me, because that wasn’t his way. Even though my father had a temper that sent people running in the opposite direction, he couldn’t abide foul language. If he caught one of his kids whispering so much as a gosh darnit, we’d get a slap that shut us up quick. But that day, I decided that I’d had enough of being scared of my old man. So I marched up the stairs and into battle.”
Audrey pounded through the opening bars of “The Marines’ Hymn” as an inebriated woman at a rear table howled out, “From the Halls of Montezuma!”
“Daddy and Cherokee were in my bedroom. Daddy was pulling clothes out of my closet while Cherokee paced in front of my dresser. She waved her arms in the air and said, ‘See, I told you what you’d find if you looked in there. This is why I can’t get anywhere. I can hardly show my face in this town, the way people talk about him.’
“They saw me when I walked in the room, but neithe
r of them missed a beat. Cherokee kept wailing about what an embarrassment I was, and Daddy went searching through my closet for the dresses I’d made on Mom’s sewing machine.
“When he was done, Daddy turned my way, and I saw that he was crying. He said, ‘All I done for you … all I done for you, and you turn out like this.’”
Audrey traveled the length of the keyboard with a glissando and launched into a bit of “Cry Me a River.”
Had she said too much? After all, there were always a few people in each crowd who didn’t know that Audrey was also Terry. Even her boss, who’d met her in what Audrey thought were her male clothes, didn’t figure things out until she’d been working at the theater for a week.
Audrey had spent over an hour on the phone with her old friend Odette Henry that morning. As soon as they’d exchanged hellos, Odette had said, “Terry, your father’s in the hospital.” After an afternoon and an evening spent thinking about her childhood and those final, ugly days in the Robinson home, Audrey hadn’t been able to muster much concern for images and illusions. What was it Odette had said to Terry during one of their backyard talks all those years ago? “It’s your truth. Go on and speak it.”
“Daddy called me a punk and a few other choice names,” Audrey told her audience. “Then he took two quick steps in my direction and raised his fist like he was going to hit me. I wasn’t worried, though. My friend Odette had taught me to fight by then. And she’d done a good job. I might not have looked it, but I was the toughest sissy in southern Indiana. Daddy backed down when he saw my Odette Henry stare.”
Audrey furrowed her brow and curled her upper lip, giving the crowd a taste of the fierce look that had made her father step away that day. “Instead of trying anything with me, Daddy took his anger out on my clothes. One by one, he picked up blouses and dresses and used his hands to rip them into shreds.
The Supremes Sing the Happy Heartache Blues Page 9
