Blues in the Dark

by Raymond Benson

  “We’re ‘blues in the dark.’ You and me. That’s what we are.”

  He grinned. “That we are, baby.”

  A short silence. Then she asked, “You’ve never told me whose house this is.”

  “Some white guy who lives in Florida. He rents rooms to colored folks. It’s kind of a dump, wouldn’t you say? Not like the other houses on South Hobart Boulevard. Louise Beavers lives just a few houses down.”

  “Who else lives here?”

  “My bass player, Ray, and his wife and son. Another Negro couple who are both dancers. That’s it right now. Our landlord doesn’t go in for all that covenant bullshit that prevents Negroes from living in Sugar Hill.”

  “I thought I heard those cases were over. Hattie McDaniel and the others—they won, didn’t they?”

  “In the state of California, yes they did. But I understand another case is going to the Supreme Court. I don’t know when; soon. In the meantime, we get to stay.”

  “Good.”

  They lay in each other’s arms for a while, and then she shook herself out of her reverie. “I have to go.”

  “I know.”

  “I meant to go last night.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think anyone will see me?” The notion made her nervous.

  “I don’t know. I hope not.” After a pause, he suggested, “You could do what you’ve done before—go out the back, around the side of the house, and then come up to your car. Won’t be as noticeable.”

  “I think I’ll do that.”

  “Or I could cover you with a blanket and carry you to your car.”

  She laughed and punched him lightly on the shoulder. He laughed, too, and kissed her again.

  “Oh, Hank, what are we going to do?”

  “Darlin’, if you need to … if you need to end this … I will understand. I will totally understand, baby. You know that. I’d hate for it to end, but … well, I know.”

  “Hank, I don’t want it to end. But what if someone finds out? It’s a miracle no one has caught us yet.”

  “No one’s coming in my room without me inviting them in. Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson will make sure of that.”

  “Who?”

  “Smith & Wesson. My revolver sitting in the nightstand on my side of the bed.”

  “You have a gun?”

  “I do. A thirty-eight caliber. It’s a real honey.”

  “Jesus.” She shivered a bit at the thought. “The thing is … Hank, I want to be seen with you. I want us to be able to go out to restaurants. I want to go to the club and hear you play. I want to go dancing with you. I want you to be my date at the premiere of The Jazz Club.”

  “I don’t think your studio bosses would like that very much.”

  “I know.”

  “Isn’t there something in your contract about that?”

  “There’s a morality clause in everyone’s studio contract. Relationships with someone of a different race are forbidden. It’s so stupid. Why is this country the way it is?”

  “It would take a philosopher much smarter than me to answer that. Darlin’, I’ve lived with racism every day of my life.”

  His frankness shocked her. After a moment, she replied, “And that is so unbelievable.” She looked at him. “Do you think maybe in ten, twenty, or thirty more years that things will have changed?”

  His soft laugh was short and abrupt. “Baby, you are smart, talented, and good-hearted. But I got to say, you’re naive. Sometimes I think you’ve been blind to what’s going on between whites and Negroes in this country. What was it like in Chicago?”

  She bristled a little, but then answered, “You’re right, Hank. I grew up in a sheltered existence on the north side of the city. I never had much dealings with Negroes. I guess maybe I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I understand. Most people in this country are like that. We notice the discrimination. White folks, for the most part, take it for granted, I’m sorry to say. Please don’t take offense, but Blair, you’re going to leave here and go back to your white world and not face any of the danger I would if we’re caught. I have a feeling it’s going to take a long time for those kinds of things to change.”

  “Oh, Hank. We have to be careful. And, you know, I can dream about things changing,” she said. “Maybe it’s naive, but think of a future when we could get married. Can you imagine that?”

  “You and me? Married?”

  “Can you see it? In your mind’s eye?”

  He gave a soft laugh. “I’d like to be able to imagine it, darlin’. But I’m afraid I can’t. Don’t get me wrong; I would love more than anything to be married to you. I just don’t see it happening … except in a dream.” He separated himself from her and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. He popped two into his mouth, lit them with a lighter, and handed one to her.

  “You did that better than Paul Henreid did in Now, Voyager,” she said with a smile.

  “And you’re a hell of a lot more beautiful than Bette Davis.”

  A moment of silence passed as they smoked.

  “Hank?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “What was your family in St. Louis like? You’ve never said much about them.”

  “Not much to tell. I didn’t know my daddy. He upped and left when I was four. I barely remember anything about him.” He held up his right hand, revealing a gold ring on his finger. “This is all that’s left of my daddy. It was his wedding ring. Apparently, he left it behind when he walked out. My mother gave it to me, said I could sell it if I wanted to. I decided to keep it and wear in on my right hand just to—I don’t know—have some sort of connection to the man who helped conceive me. My mother still loved him. She never hated him for leaving us, although I never understood why not. I guess love is a powerful thing when it’s real. As for my mom, well, she died when I was fifteen.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She had the cancer. It was a blessing. She worked her heart out as a maid. I loved her more than anything, but she was never a very happy person. After she was gone, it was just me and my little sister, Regina. She’s two years younger than me.”

  “Is she still in St. Louis?”

  “Nuh-uh. She’s right here in LA. Plays the piano, too.”

  “Really? How come I haven’t met her?”

  Hank gestured with his hands. “I suppose it just hasn’t worked out.”

  “You’re not … it’s not because I’m white that I haven’t met her, right?”

  “No.”

  “Hank, I think you’re lying to me. You don’t want your sister to know you’re seeing a white woman.”

  “That’s not true, baby.”

  “Well then, I want to meet her.”

  “All right, all right! You’ll meet her. Lordy, woman …”

  “Why isn’t she living here with you?”

  “She didn’t want to! She wanted to make her own way. Regina lives in an ugly old apartment in South Central. I’ve been trying to get her to move. But what about you, Blair? Why did you leave Chicago?”

  Blair sighed heavily. “My father owns a chain of liquor shops. He’s done very well. We were never wanting for money. The problem was that both he and my mother liked to sample the goods a little too much—every day. My older brother, Tommy, was killed during the war. Battle of the Bulge. That really sent them over the edge. Mom would beat me. Dad would beat me. They tried to get me to marry some businessman my dad was friends with. He was twenty years older than me and fat. There was no love in our family. I got out of there as soon as I could.”

  They were silent for a while after that confession. Then she turned to him. “Hank?”

  “Yes?”

  “I … I never asked you this before.”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever … you know … with a white woman …?”

  He shook his head. “Hell, no. You, my dear, are the first.” He gave her a lo
ok. “And I ain’t going to ask you the same question.”

  She laughed. “Oh, you don’t have to, I’ll tell you everything. Hank, you’re really the first man I ever … well, there was this boy back in Chicago. Happened once. Didn’t mean a thing. I’ll always consider you the first.”

  Indeed, there had been Joey in Chicago, the boy who had taken her virginity at a high school graduation party gone out of control. The act had been awkward and passionless. Afterward, she felt ashamed, but he wanted her to stay in the city and marry him. She held no interest in that, but Joey kept pursuing her, thinking she would “put out” for him again, Instead, she left town. She told her parents her plans and didn’t say a word to Joey. Her mother and father didn’t care. To them, she had been just another mouth to feed, which took away from what they were able to spend on booze.

  “The fact I’m a Negro doesn’t make any difference to you?” Hank asked, drawing her out of the unpleasant memory.

  “No.”

  “It’s supposed to.”

  “Well, it doesn’t. I mean, I know what the outside world thinks about it. I know we could get in a lot of trouble. But in my heart and soul, I don’t care about that. None of that ever mattered to me. In my eye, you’re just a man. And a damned handsome one, too.”

  She draped a leg over him and pushed her body on top of his.

  They kissed for a full minute.

  When their mouths parted, Hank said, “Well, then, we’re just going to have to be careful, won’t we?”

  She nodded, but then couldn’t help but continue. “But I have to say, I might throw caution to the wind and challenge that studio contract morality clause. Olivia de Havilland took Warner Brothers to court and got some changes made. Maybe it’s time someone stood up to them about this.”

  “Darlin’, it’s about a lot more than the studio contract. It’s not legal for different races to get married. I’m pretty sure what we’re doing right now isn’t legal. We could go to jail, I think.”

  “Then we’ll have to run away and find someplace where we can live the way we want to.” The kissing continued for a while until she finally said, “Damn it. I really need to go.”

  She slid off him and put her feet on the floor. “But before I do … would you show me your gun?”

  “My gun? What for?”

  “Well, you know I had to shoot a prop pistol in The Jazz Club. I have to do it again in A Dame Without Fear. I think maybe I should practice shooting a real gun so I’ll know what it’s really like.”

  He put his hands behind his head on the pillow and grinned at her. “We could go out of town and find a place in the desert to take a crack at some bottles and tin cans. I’ll show you how.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun! When can we go?”

  “Soon, baby, soon. You had best go before there are too many people on the street who’ll see you.”

  She nodded, blew him a kiss, and put on the clothes she’d dropped on the floor the night before.

  10

  KARISSA

  The World Stage was a performance and educational art space in Leimert Park Village, located in the heart of LA’s African American community. Degnan Boulevard bisected the diamondshaped triangle that made up the area with 43rd Street running east-west at the top, Crenshaw Boulevard jogging down from the northeast corner, and Leimert Boulevard going from the northwest corner to a point at West Vernon Avenue. At the bottom tip of the “diamond” was small Leimert Park itself. Degnan sported an art gallery, a Jamaican restaurant, a bookstore, a foster youth support center that provided arts education and other activities, a parking lot, and the World Stage.

  Karissa hadn’t been to the spot, even though it was about three miles away from her house in Sugar Hill. Over the past few years, much of her time in Hollywood had been spent in other areas. During her marriage to Willy, she had lived in Van Nuys and never had much opportunity to visit this side of Los Angeles with a majority black population. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t have felt at home, but that she knew from experience that color-ism factored into how she was viewed.

  Willy, who was darker, once told her that she could “pass as white.” It wasn’t true at all. He’d said it to hurt her. It was an insulting comment, especially from her husband at the time. She fully acknowledged that she had grown up with a significant amount of privilege, considering that her adoptive parents had been white and had lived in a predominantly white upper-middleclass neighborhood. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still identify with the black community. Especially regarding civil rights, the Black Lives Matter movement, and other issues involving race relations, Karissa knew where she stood.

  Even so, throughout her life she lived daily with questions from strangers like, “What are you, exactly?” They always wanted to touch her hair. She was asked which “side” she preferred. She’d become upset with the limited options of races from which to choose on forms. She was told countless times that she was “exotic.” She’d been asked if she was Middle Eastern. She perceived that some black people thought she was “stuck up,” believing that she “behaved” as if she were fully white, while white people presumed the opposite—that she viewed them from the point of view of a black person. This was nonsense, of course. These daily microaggressions were indicators of their prejudices, not hers.

  Sometimes, Karissa felt caught in the middle, blocked from both communities and never fully accepted.

  But there were positive aspects to her identity, too, such as being able to comfortably chat up members of either race. She was instinctively aware of interracial families or couples when she saw them on the street or in the media. She received—and presented—the “black nod,” that subtle acknowledgment African Americans gave to their peers, usually strangers on the street, to illustrate their shared solidarity. Karissa also typically felt comfortable in certain foreign countries where being biracial was a more accepted norm than in the United States.

  Karissa and Marcello had dinner at Ackee Bamboo, just a few doors north of World Stage, prior to the nine-o’clock Friday night show. The jerk chicken was excellent, and Marcello devoured his ackee and salt-fish entrée. No alcohol was served, so they drank ginger beer.

  “There’s no bar at World Stage, either,” Marcello said.

  Karissa said, “I suppose we could go somewhere for a drink afterward if we want.”

  He shrugged. “No party animal activity tonight, I’m afraid. Angelina gave me the stink eye when I said I was going with you to hear jazz.”

  “I thought you were going to bring her.”

  “Nah, she wasn’t interested. She thought it’d be more fun to take the twins to see the new Marvel superhero flick. Too bad we can’t produce one of those.”

  “Tell Angelina I’ll have you both over for dinner as soon as my kitchen is up to snuff at the new house.”

  “She’d like that.”

  Karissa cocked her head. “Wait … she doesn’t know about … when we …?”

  Marcello vehemently shook his head. “She does not.”

  “That’s good.”

  He looked at his watch. “Let’s get going.”

  Karissa paid with the Stormglove credit card, and they walked over to World Stage, which looked more like a storefront for a dentist’s office than a nightclub. Inside, the space was long and narrow with fewer than a hundred folding chairs on the floor. The tiny stage held a baby grand piano, drums, a double bass, and gear for guitar, woodwinds, and vocalists. Charlie Parker tunes from a bygone age piped over the PA as the nearly all-black audience waited for the performance to begin. Karissa and Marcello found three empty seats near the front and took two. The last open chair was grabbed at the last minute by a bald white man in a suit and tie. He smiled at Karissa and said, “I know, I’m overdressed.” He loosened his tie and settled into his chair.

  Karissa turned to Marcello. “How do you know these guys?”

  “Butch is my man from San Diego. He’s the sax player. Through him I know Zach,
the drummer, and Carl, the keyboard guy.”

  “Think they’ll know anything about Hank Marley and Blair Kendrick?”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  The lights dimmed and the music faded out as a man wearing a kufi cap and caftan stepped onto the stage. He welcomed the audience to the show, made a plea for donations, and then introduced the band. “It is my pleasure to welcome to the World Stage once again—the Butch Johnson Hive.”

  The seven musicians took the stage—all black men who appeared to be various ages from twenties to sixties—and picked up their instruments. Butch, perhaps the oldest member of the group, stood in front, eyed the drummer and bass player, and gave them a quiet count-off. The rhythm section burst into a swinging fast tempo that recalled the bebop style of the forties.

  Karissa spent the entire evening with a smile on her face, swaying and bouncing in her chair. This was the real thing. For the next ninety minutes, old-school jazz was alive and well in Los Angeles, California.

  When the show was over, the band greeted the audience members and signed CDs at the back of the house. Marcello embraced Butch and slapped hands with the other musicians, giving them dap. He then introduced Karissa and explained that they had questions about some musicians of yesteryear. Three of the guys left for home, while Butch, Carl, Zach, and the bass player, known as “Hero,” joined Karissa and Marcello as they walked out of the building. Mutually deciding there wasn’t enough time to find a place nearby to sit and have a drink, they strolled down Degnan to the park and found some benches. The four musicians lit cigarettes. One had a pint of bourbon in a paper bag, which was passed around. There were plenty of people in the surrounding areas, including a couple of LA’s finest sitting on police motorcycles on 43rd.

  Karissa produced the photo of Blair Kendrick and Hank Marley, and the musicians took a look.

  “I don’t know who the white woman is, but I know that’s Hank Marley,” Butch said. Hero murmured an acknowledgment. “He was a piano man, had his own band for a while. Fine player. Ray played with him.”

  “Ray?” Karissa asked.

  “Ray Webster,” Butch said. “Bass player. He played with us when we were first starting out. We were friends, I guess.”