by Maxine Clair
“What joker?”
“The one who did you wrong. Four, five years ago you said he was your big mistake.”
He remembered something she said four or five years ago? She knew she had never gone near anything about James when Leon was around. And then she remembered Arthur.
“Just the wrong man,” she said.
“I asked you if you ever had your nose open for anyone and you dodged. Did you?”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to figure you out.”
It felt all right. What was the big deal—she could talk to him.
“If you mean turning flips over somebody—yeah, I did that once.”
“What happened?” Leon asked her.
“He went back to his wife.”
“Ouch.” Leon shook his hand like he’d just been burned. “One of those. A long time ago or lately?”
“Long time ago.”
“And you never got past it....”
October breathed in the air of the whole kitchen. As easily as an old song comes pouring out of a willing heart, she started talking.
She started out by saying, “I have a son ...,” talking through the slow burn in her throat.
“Whoa,” Leon said softly.
“Had—I had a son.”
Leon was still as a pool of oil, letting her tell it as it came, and she didn’t stop either, until Leon had all of it. The whole story.
She told him about James Wilson, how she had once thought being in love was always a two-way street that led to forever, once thought she knew all about it. How she hadn’t understood the simple fact that she had loved a halfway decent man who wasn’t free to love her back. Her fool-headed idea that he would leave his family. How, when she was pregnant and James didn’t choose her, she had thought it was the end of the world. How at first she couldn’t feel anything for the baby. He’d been like a consolation prize when she wanted James—the real-life teddy bear. How Gene and Vergie had stepped up, and how—without blinking—she had given him away. And a year later, when she screwed her head back on, it had been too late.
A stampede of secrets. How good it felt telling it all for the first time, and to somebody who didn’t care about what happened or why.
October told him how she had quit trying to justify things, but that it had all come crumbling down on her head. And when she tried to explain her feelings for David, the tears started. She wiped them with a paper napkin and kept going.
Leon sat still. He had sprinkled salt from the shaker on the tabletop, and while he listened, he trailed a line through it with a toothpick. Roads every which way.
She cried and tried to tell him about being separated from Vergie. Because she was explaining the hurt she never wanted to heap on David’s head, and how he deserved a normal life, she went on into the real reason that she and Vergie had been orphans—spat out the shame of having her father’s sister’s name, and how she changed it, and even told him what it was.
And then she was through. Relieved. Undone and done.
They sat at the table for a long time, not talking, her wondering what he was thinking. He made tracks in the salt. And every now and then he shook his head.
She got up and turned on the faucet, let the water run until it was cold, and filled up her glass. She unplugged her coffeepot and when she turned, Leon was right behind her. Like she was cotton, he put his arms all around her.
“So much for turning flips over somebody,” she said into his shoulder.
“That explains a lot,” he said softly to her hair.
She tilted her head to see what he meant.
“Just a lot,” he said.
They stood like that. He rocked her a little. When she looked up at him again, he kissed her. Soft on the lips. And kissed her again. And she kissed him back.
She wanted to think about whether they ought to be kissing, and she started to say Wait or something, but before she could get it out, he had her face in his hands and kissed her deep. Right into her eyes he said, “You know I love you, don’t you?”
She didn’t know that fast, and he said, “I’ve been loving you.”
She could see it. In his eyes were all the Leons she knew, and she got it real straight right then that she had gone further with him than she had gone with any man and it had all been by accident—just happened. And it had all been real good. And she didn’t want to let go of that. Ever.
They kissed like that until she couldn’t tell where she left off and he began and then they went upstairs. Later she would say she should have known he would be the best lover. He took the time. In the bedroom he didn’t make everything perfect. No music. They were the music. No closed curtains. They needed to see each other. No bip-bam, thank you, ma’am. He began all over again, made her ache for him. Slowed her down, had her telling him yes or no while he searched and found. Took her hands and showed her how to touch him, make him feel good. “Like this,” he said. And when he brought her, more than once, to the point where she couldn’t hold cries in her throat, he would say Like this? Deeper, or like this? slowing down, until all the waves were caught and rode and spent.
They slept. When she woke and sat up to see his face, he opened his eyes and said, “Yes, this is me, too.”
He told her that he hadn’t planned to “move on his heart.” He told her he had fallen in love too many times to do anything about it with her. But this was different. Wasn’t no falling. He just loved her. It just happened to him when he wasn’t looking.
And then it was October’s turn to ask and Leon’s time to tell.
“Did that woman break your heart, or did you break hers?”
“What woman?”
“Mona, the one you messed over.”
“Did I mess over somebody?”
She looked at him. “I’m going to get us a drink of water. When I come back I want the lowdown.”
She put on her robe, and when she came back, he took the glass from her hand. He looked serious.
“I didn’t mess over Mona,” he said. “We lived together for a while. She wanted the whole nine—I didn’t.” All matter-of-fact.
“Delores is the woman I messed over,” he said in a new voice. And he tried to breathe in all the air in the bedroom. He sat up on the side of the bed with his back to her.
“She was twenty when I first met her. A waitress at this restaurant where we used to eat—me and Foots.”
“Twenty is young,” October said, and she was sorry the minute it was out.
“That was years ago. She wasn’t twenty when we got together. From the get-go, though, Foots was on my case about her, warned me to stay away from her, and I did. She was sweet but she was a girl then. I already had a woman. She was everything to Foots—I mean, his heart. He cared about her. He and Sylvia took Delores in when she first came to the city. Dee didn’t live with them, but they watched out for her, you know—young girl up north in the Big Apple.”
He took a drink from his glass and set it on the bedside table. October wanted to rub his back, soothe him. She felt him being tight, having to get it all out. He looked cold with nothing on.
“If you want to talk about stabbing somebody in the back, I guess Foots is really the one I messed over.”
“Where did you know him from?” October asked.
“Foots? I was roaming around Harlem that first couple of years and he was, too. Everybody knew him, but not everybody tolerated him. He ran numbers. Shined shoes up near Small’s. He must have been sixty-something then, but he got around better than I did. He always wore that old visor on his bald head and his glasses. Every Friday he’d sit in the barber chair and get that little ring of nappy white hair cut. We just fell in together, I guess—right away we were partners.”
Leon stopped and October sat still. She k
new the sadness, felt it coming. She just didn’t know any of the details.
“That old man loved the blues,” Leon said. “He dug him some jazz, too, no matter what he said. He used to swear jazz was from the heart, but blues was from the soul, and he was a soul man. Swore he used to hang around with Blind Lemon Jefferson in Chicago. I know one thing—those crippled old hands could still hold a harmonica.”
She remembered that Leon had told her once that the old man was never really a manager.
“He was a mess. Pissed me off so many times, trying to run my life, but he meant well, more good than bad. When I wasn’t getting any action he’d tell me, ‘You’re the king, man.’ And when I finally started making it, he would tell me I was tired. Anybody can play that,’ he’d tell me.” He chuckled a little and rubbed his hands on this thighs.
She wanted to know about Delores. He read her mind.
“A year or so before I came out here, Dee and I started playing house. I was set up pretty nice, a place out in Queens, I had my group, a couple of my albums on the charts, I’m cool, I’m a shiny silver dollar and she’s broke—you know what I mean? When Foots got sick, Dee and Sylvia took care of him. Diabetes. He had to have his leg amputated. I helped with the bills. We were tight. Family.
“Anyway, after that, Dee moved in with me. She had a nothing little gig at this nothing little club. House singer, four nights for piddly change. She wanted to be another Ruth Brown, but she didn’t have it.
“Don’t get me wrong, I liked her, thought I loved her for a minute. Foots didn’t like it, but she was a grown woman, damn near thirty. When it came to Dee, though, he would swoop down on me like a hawk on a mouse. He’d tell her not to listen to me. With me sitting right in his face, he’d tell her I was no good. Tell her, ‘Ask him how many women he’s messed over.’
“I think she wanted to break into the big life and maybe she thought I was the ticket. Anyway, I sweet-talked her away from under Foots and Sylvia. She kept my place when I was on the road—I mean, she could cook, and she liked things neat. Better than that, she didn’t bitch about me getting high and staying up all night. Mona and me had fought all the time, ’cause she hated what I was into, you know. Dee, though, she tiptoed around and let me sleep all day. I’m making her out to be an angel and I sound like a dog. It wasn’t that bad.
“Anyway, I shared the wealth with her—or, let me tell it like it was: I introduced her to coke. She never really liked doing it. Said it made her crazy.
“The cat I copped from turned her on to smack, which she said she didn’t like either, but every now and then, she’d snort some. Everybody I ever knew who was strung out, shot up. Dee never shot up, just snorted sometimes. I’d pay for it. It wasn’t much.
“We did fine for about a year. Then Walter at the club let her go, and she had to take what she could get—hole-in-the-wall joints. I couldn’t take her being up under me every single minute—at the gigs, at the studio, at home. I started seeing another woman, this actress named Angela. She wasn’t important. Just somebody to see. Maybe Dee knew about her, maybe she didn’t.
“Foots and Sylvia caught me out in the streets with Angela one night. I was headlining at Spider Kelly’s, and she was waiting for me. Foots and Sylvia were there and they read it.
“When the last set was over, Foots came up to the bandstand. He’s on crutches, now—one good leg. He told me, he said, ‘Lonny, go on home.’ He said he knew that Angela was there at the club, and Dee was home waiting, so he told me ‘Go on home.’ I told him to kiss my ass.
“I went to step down off the bandstand, and that old man put out his crutch and made me fall. I tripped and fell, and my case and my horn flew every which way across the floor. I got myself up and picked up my horn. Foots was still yelling, ‘Go home, nigger—take your sorry ass home.’ The bouncer got riled at Foots cussing and swinging his crutches. I told him that he’d better be glad he had a jack leg because I would’ve whipped his ass. I was mad enough. Angela disappeared. Sylvia’s crying about Dee, so I just went on home.
“That night I slipped in the door and slid between the sheets. I was tired, pissed, but I wasn’t sleepy, and I didn’t want to wake her up. Didn’t want to touch her. I couldn’t tell if she was really asleep, but I didn’t care. She had won. I was home with her, shackled. I knew it was over. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I knew I would. I was going to have to cut her loose, and I felt sorry for her because I knew she didn’t want to go.
“It was quiet that night. I could hear my own heartbeat in the bed, my own breath. I felt sorry for Dee. So I turned over, her back was facing me, and I touched her, rubbed her back. She didn’t move and so I scooted closer and she didn’t budge, so I turned on over and tried to sleep. I guess I sensed something because suddenly I tried to hear her breathing and I couldn’t.
“I jumped up and turned on the light. I turned her over and shook her hard. She flopped without moving an eyelash. I ran and got cold water, threw it in her face. I couldn’t tell if her heart was beating. When I reached for the phone, I saw the rubber tubing, the tourniquet, and I knew. I never saw a needle, but I knew.
“Anyway, I put her in the bathtub and got in with her, sprayed cold water until the ambulance came. They gave her oxygen, and I followed them to the hospital. They couldn’t tell me right then if she would make it or not.
“I waited a whole day before I got up enough nerve to call Sylvia and Foots. I was at the hospital when they came, too. Foots wanted to kill me. For real. He wouldn’t look me in the face. Just said, ‘I’m through.’ That was all. Took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m through.’ He hasn’t spoken to me since.
“Delores did make it. Many a time, even now, I’ve thought about what would have happened if Foots hadn’t acted a fool and sent me home that night. I haven’t talked to Dee, either. I mean I wrote her a letter. Two. I don’t know if she ever got them.
“They tell me God don’t like ugly. I was heavy into coke. My new group fell apart. I let my house go. Played nothing but bullshit for a year, blowing all my money on lady, coasting. And then you gave somebody my address, and here I am.”
He took a breath and let it all out. “This could be my one chance. I’ve got two more years here to get my shit together. I’m damn near forty. It might already be over.”
Early that evening, when Leon had gone and October was left to marvel at what a day can bring, she got into her car and drove herself up to the bluff overlooking the river and the airport. Parked there, she watched the silver planes land and take off, watched the river change from earthen to sandy brown, watched clouds shift their animal shapes back to floes again. Then the western rim of sky caught fire and burned to varicolored embers. When dusk spread its neutral film over all the colors of the land and water, buildings and sky, she promised herself to hold on to this sudden slice of happiness. Easy, clear, and free, Leon was for her.
As the days went, October felt mostly humbled by her love with Leon. Lucky. And she thought maybe it was some kind of balance on the divine scale of what was fair. If her mind tried to wander too far in the if-only-David direction, she would tell it no. Here is a chance. This is getting on with your life. Leon called her his muse. Told her that finding her had been what got him to take his music seriously again.
The mostly wonderful weeks with Leon sped by, interrupted by only a rare evening that October spent alone, sewing and fending off David’s face. And then it was Christmas. The second Christmas that she wouldn’t be going to Ohio, wouldn’t be seeing David. Or Vergie. Cora had invited her and Leon for the day, but since Cora had dripped acid when it came to the two of them as a couple, October said no—she and Leon would do something quiet together.
For the first time, she bought a tree. A real live blue spruce. And lights. And icicles and angel hair. And for herself, she pulled out all the stops. It seemed like a shame, now, that she had put aw
ay “flame red” as one of the too-bright boundaries that sophisticated dark women didn’t cross.
Not anymore. She had designed a simple sleeveless shift of red silk shantung with a mandarin collar. The matching brocade jacket was shot through with gold threads, and it hung loose with set-in sleeves. And she had attached a shawl that flowed in one sweep from the lapel to wrap around her neck, so that the entire outfit looked like scarlet-spun silk spilling out from a gold-threaded cocoon.
On Christmas Eve, she put it on. When she looked at herself in the mirror, nobody could tell her she wasn’t gorgeous. Lines from Langston flitted through her head:
Jesus! ... When Susanna Jones wears red
A queen from some time-dead Egyptian night
Walks once again.
When Leon knocked, she went calmly to the door and swung it open. “Merry Christmas,” she said softly.
Leon closed his eyes and shook his head like she had washed away any resistance he might have had.
“Remind me to tell you something,” he said, and came on in.
She lit candles. “We need ‘Noel,’” she said. “Or something Christmasy.” And boom, he had a whole collection of Christmas music from the stars, jazz and R&B. She put on music, tied an apron around her waist, and began to show Leon how to make popcorn in the iron skillet, the way she and Vergie used to do. He couldn’t seem to get into popping corn, and she thought of all the Christmases he must have spent on the road with strangers.
They sat on the sofa with all the ornaments and icicles and the bowl of popcorn between them.
“I’m reminding you to tell me something,” she said.
Leon played with her hand a little. “There’s this piece Langston Hughes wrote where he talks about this woman, Susanna, in a red dress.” And with his eyes fixed on the lines of her hand, he recited Langston’s poem.
“He wrote that for you,” he said, and kissed her.
