Ciji Ware (31 page)

New
York
…

Good God, was she ever not in the mood for rude cab drivers and crowded subways and hauling her harp down sidewalks and over curbs! Nor was she in the mood for her harp teacher’s theatrics, or for facing the embarrassment of telling music colleagues around Manhattan that Rafe Oberlin had deep-sixed her from his chamber orchestra.

Myriad images drifted through her mind as she idly watched the frayed dimity curtains on the dormer window flutter on the river’s breeze. She pictured herself, dressed to the nines, playing a marathon of teatime gigs at fancy hotels—just to make a buck—while she auditioned for another “big time” orchestra job which she would ultimately grow to hate.

Then, of course, there was the twice-weekly chore of carrying her groceries in heat and humidity, rain, sleet, or snow from the corner One-Stop—where the packages of Twinkies were at least three years old—up five flights of dingy stairs to her tiny apartment on Sixteenth Street. And what could be more annoying than sitting in the Washing Well for hours waiting for her clothes, sheets, and towels to dry, or running for a bus, only to discover she didn’t have the exact change?

Was she ever not in the mood to go back to New York!

Was she ever not in the mood to deal with the high-pressured egomaniacal rat race that constituted the modern world of classical music.

And was she ever
not
in the mood to leave Natchez.

A soft knock on her door interrupted her unhappy reverie. “Daphne, dear,” Maddy called softly. “Much as I hate to tell you for my own sake, it’s nearly seven o’clock, darlin’, and I think you’d better—”

“I don’t want to go,” Daphne announced, sitting bolt upright in bed.

The door inched open and Maddy poked her head inside the room.

“What did you say, dear?”

“I don’t want to go. I don’t want to fly back to New York and start that life all over again. I just
don’t
! And besides, I got fired from the chamber orchestra for coming to King’s wedding instead of playing our concert debut at Lincoln Center.”

Madeline advanced into the room, concern etched into her features. She gestured questioningly at the bottom of Daphne’s bed where Groucho was curled up, fast asleep.

“Yes, please. Sit, Maddy,” Daphne urged, her heart pounding in her chest with the same velocity it had the evening she told five hundred wedding guests in Saint Louis Cathedral that the ceremony was off. “I want to move to Natchez.”

“You
do
?” Maddy exclaimed, an expression of delight erasing the furrows on her brow. “Are you
sure
, sugar? You’re not just feelin’ bad ’bout gettin’ fired?”

“No…” Daphne said slowly. “I’d like to try it out here for a year. Explore a different sort of music… blues, jazz, Dixieland. Learn from musicians like Willis McGee and Althea.”

“Did I hear my name taken in vain?” asked a husky voice from the hallway. Maddy’s other houseguest appeared in the doorway clad in a threadbare bathrobe, toothbrush in hand. “Man, oh man,” Althea complained, “what I let this white girl get me into.” She shook her head and added good-naturedly, “I’ve got permanent indentations on my rib cage from that danged bustier.”

“Daphne’s just said she wants to move to Natchez for a year… to study jazz and such,” Maddy announced, astonishment written all over her.

“She
what
?” Althea exclaimed. A broad grin spread across her face. “Well, whaddaya know? Our harp angel’s heading back down to earth?” Then her eyes narrowed, and she said, “This doesn’t happen to have anything to do with Bird Man, does it?”

Daphne blushed and remained silent for a moment. It was a fair question. She turned the query over in her mind and then shook her head. “No,” she answered simply. Her decision had nothing to do with the whereabouts of Sim Hopkins, and that knowledge buoyed her spirits tremendously. “Bird Man will move on to the next assignment before long, and since I declined to accompany him back to his hotel suite after our gig last night, who knows if I’ll ever hear from him again.”

“Pity…” Maddy murmured and then appeared embarrassed for thinking out loud.

“Okay…” Althea said, ignoring her hostess’s lapse. “But do you mind telling me the
other
reasons for doing this wild thing, girl?”

“Because I
want
to,” Daphne replied, moving to the edge of the bed and dangling her feet over the side. Groucho jumped to the floor with an indignant yowl and headed for his food bowl in the kitchen. “I had more damn fun with you and the McGees this week than I’ve had the entire month rehearsing for an effing concert at Lincoln Center.” She flushed slightly and turned toward her cousin. “Sorry, Maddy.”

“Land, nothing you’ve been saying upsets me,” Maddy said, waving her hand in the air. “What do y’all take me for? A fossil? I was the mother of a son, remember? I know you young people look at things differently than in my day… and in some ways, it’s an improvement,” she declared staunchly. “Now, back to the matter at hand. You propose to spend a year in Natchez playing and exploring jazz and popular music, am I right?”

“Exactly. I deserve to have a little enjoyment in life, for once.”

Maddy patted Daphne’s hand. “Well, first of all, I want you to know, darlin’ girl, that you are most welcome to stay here. Have the whole top floor to y’self, if you want to. You’d be doing me a favor.”

“Really?” Daphne said, her excitement mounting. “But I want to pay rent so you can get that homeowners insurance policy you’ve
got
to buy, Madeline Whitaker,” she said sternly. “And I could help you with your harp students.” She turned to look at Althea. “Don’t you think I could get some weekday gigs at the restaurant in the Eola Hotel and places around here?” Althea nodded affirmatively. Then Daphne laughed, adding, “Maybe I’d even get a job playing electrified harp dressed as a dance hall girl in the bar on the
Lady
Luck
?”

“If you really want to learn jazz,” Althea said skeptically, “why not give yourself a year back in New Orleans?”

“With Magnolia Mama breathing down my neck? Are you crazy?” Daphne asked with mild irritation. “I’d have a
horrible
year!”

Althea grimaced. “Oh, yeah… I forgot.”

“Why set myself up for trouble?” Daphne shrugged. “But on second thought, I’d certainly consider coming down to New Orleans for a job once in a while, if you asked me,” she volunteered slyly. “I could hide out at Corlis and King’s place in the Quarter when I’m in town. Mama doesn’t dare walk in there unannounced.”

“And I’d come up to Natchez for a job, if you asked me,” Althea countered with a grin. “After all, now that we’ve launched the Aphrodite Jazz Ensemble, why don’t we see if we can turn ourselves into
really
top women musicians?” Althea gaily wagged her toothbrush. “Maybe we could find some other players from around Miss-Lou?”

“What a great idea.”

“You gotta make money to live on while you’re here, right? Well, we won’t get rich, but we might each clear two fifty, three hundred dollars apiece on the weekends headlining at a place like the
Lady
Luck…
and maybe we could even get a slot at the New Orleans Jazz Fest by next year.”

“You’d really commit to this thing?” Daphne asked with amazement.

“Sure!” Althea said, nodding. “I thought it was a total gas last night, even though I ’bout split a gut trussed into those rigs we wore.”

“You
did
?” Daphne said. “Loved playing last night, I mean?”

“You betcha,” Althea replied.

“But, what about your job at Cafe LaCroix?”

“Don’tcha think I get tired of being bossed ’round by those brothers of mine on the bandstand, not to mention my daddy hollering at me to bring ’em all coffee? I love ’em all to death, but playing up here in Natchez is like a
vacation.
Why don’t we figure out a schedule and see if we can get a steady booking for the weekends, once you get y’self back down here? My brother, Rufus, can double on keyboard in New Orleans on the nights I’m up here.”

“Okay. We’ll look for a steady job here,” Daphne mused. “But we don’t want to steal Willis’s regular bread-and-butter gig at the Under-the-Hill Saloon.” She gazed at her cousin questioningly. “If the
Lady
Luck
turns us down, Maddy, maybe we could persuade the owners to have live music at the Pig Out Inn, on their back patio.”

“You could certainly ask,” Maddy replied encouragingly. “And there’s also Biscuits and Blues… and maybe even the Magnolia Grill would consider hiring you to play nice and quiet a night or two during the week?”

“Boy, the Pig Out Inn and Biscuits and Blues are a long way from Lincoln Center, Ms. Duvallon,” Althea said, suddenly doubtful. “You sure ’bout this?”

Daphne looked from Althea to Maddy and back to Althea. Her friend had a point. Did she really dare to do something as drastic as this? Did she honestly have the guts to kiss good-bye the opportunities she had in New York as a rising star in the world of orchestral music?

“Look,” she said, as much to convince herself as Althea, “I can always go back to Manhattan if this doesn’t work out.”

But
could
she? Would her highly competitive friends and classical music colleagues in New York accept her again, or figure she’d been a total flop down south and give her the brush-off—while laughing behind her back?

Probably.

I’m just taking a
year
off
, she reassured herself silently.

It would be like a sabbatical that academics are granted after a decade or so of teaching. For more than fifteen years now, she’d either been studying classical music or living the life of a professional musician. Considering her chronic stomachaches and the roller-coaster life she’d led thus far, wasn’t it about time she took stock of where her life was heading?

“How long do you think it’ll take you to close things down in New York and get back here?” Maddy inquired, beaming.

“If I’m lucky, I can wind things up in about a week, two at the outside. That’ll give you time, Althea, to serve Cafe LaCroix notice that you’ll be playing in Natchez on the weekends, right?”

“Right. While you’re up north, I’ll line up Kendra, for sure, and see if she knows anyone else around here of the female persuasion who can play drums.”

“And what about a sax player—”

“Daphne, dear,” Maddy interrupted, pointing to the bureau where a priceless cobalt blue, French enamel antique clock kept accurate time behind a cracked glass face. “If you plan to be on that plane out of New Orleans by three o’clock this afternoon—and you, Althea, intend to drive down with her—you’ve both got to get cracking, sugar pies!”

“Are we actually doing this?” Althea demanded in wonderment.

“We are actually
doing
this,” Daphne replied emphatically.

The two women looked at each other, burst out laughing, and then clapped each other’s palm in a joyous high five.

***

Daphne had no trouble selling her furniture and transferring the two-year lease on her apartment to a piccolo player in the chamber orchestra who had just broken up with her boyfriend and was thrilled that Daphne Duvallon was abandoning New York. However, Eleanor Beale, her harp teacher, was not at all pleased to hear Daphne’s news.

“Are you out of your mind?” she cried. “You’ve decided to change the entire course of your life just because you sat in on some jam session and then played with a microphone stuck up inside your harp, as a… as a…
novelty
act… in some dive in a tiny town in the swamps of Louisiana?”

“Mississippi,” Daphne corrected.

Ignoring her, Eleanor declared flatly, “Rafe will kill your career if you ever want to come back to New York. Granted, he thinks you’re a brilliant talent, but if you bail out of the profession like this, he’ll ruin you if you ever show your face here again. He’ll tell colleagues that you’re a flake… or hint you had a mental breakdown, or something.”

“If Rafe thinks I’m such a ‘brilliant talent,’” Daphne repeated quietly, “then, one year from today—should I decide to come back here—I’ll be able to prove to other conductors that I’m still a good classical harpist.”

“In this cutthroat old world, Daphne,” Eleanor Beale replied with weary finality, “one must learn to play by the rules. And unless you do things ‘the Rafe way,’ even being top talent won’t be good enough.”

Eleanor’s pronouncements gave Daphne pause. What if the old warhorse was right, after all? If Daphne insisted on pursuing this brave, perhaps foolish dream, was she royally burning all her bridges?

Shaken by the frigid smile her teacher had plastered on her heavily made-up features, Daphne had no choice but awkwardly to bid her a final farewell and not look back when the chilly stranger closed the door firmly behind her.