Jazz Moon (6 page)

Ben understood loneliness. He had no one to tease or coddle him. All he had were a ma who snarled orders, a pa who said nothing, and four dead siblings.

Willful placed both his hands on Ben's shoulders. “You a good boy. That's nice.”

Ben looked up into the older boy's eyes. The sin at the pond wasted away. He just wanted Willful to keep touching him.

But Willful stepped away. “You best be gettin' back home. Your ma and pa be waitin' for you, wonderin' what's takin' you so long. Don't want you gettin' in no trouble. Go on home now.”

Ben hesitated, then went to the door, stopped. He didn't want to leave. The desire to hug Willful, to
be
hugged, crushed him. He turned around. And when Willful spread his arms, Ben ran straight into them. Willful hugged him tight, tight, tight, grasping his head to his chest as Ben wept.

“Shh,” Willful whispered, and kissed his forehead. “Shh.”

He didn't know how long they stayed locked in that hug. He didn't care. This was the first affection he could remember in a long time and he basked in it. It felt so good, losing himself in Willful's chest, those arms secured around him. He had started to flit into something like unconsciousness when Willful pulled away, gently.

“You best be gettin' home, Know-nothin'. We'll see each other again. I promise.”

 

“Refill? Sir? Hello?”

He'd been too rapt by the memory to see Fanny standing there. “Yes. Please. A double.”

“You got it, swinger.”

Though several years and a thousand miles from Dogwood, he could still feel the muscle and bone and flesh that was Willful's chest as he huddled close against it that day. It warmed him. He consciously tensed his body—his neck, shoulders, arms, fingers, jaw—to expel the warmth, restrict any more of it from entering, festering. But it was too late.

By the time Fanny brought the drink, the band had finished its set. Ben readied himself. The trumpeter stepped off the stage, saw him, nodded a brief, formal acknowledgment, and then toured the room, traipsing from table to table, shaking hands and laughing it up. The inattention shocked Ben. That cursory nod wasn't enough. Envy needled him when Baby Back sat with a nice-looking guy. Ben wondered what was happening under that table as the two chatted and the trumpeter commanded Fanny to bring a round of drinks.

Ben needed to go home. But
this thing
would just go with him.

Baby Back ended his conversation, rose from the table, and saw Ben. He nodded again. This time his eyes spoke delight. Ben exhaled in relief, despite himself. A long look ensued between them; it was a bridge, a bridge meant to be crossed, the distance minimal, not miles, merely steps. And when Baby Back pressed his lips to his hand and blew a kiss, it wasn't even steps anymore. Ben sat unmoving, but felt himself plunging. He couldn't fight
this thing
. Couldn't run from it. Couldn't resist—

“Got a light?”

“Hey. Hey, mister. Psst! Got a light?”

Ben looked to his right. A woman was sitting at his table, gouging through her purse. An unlit cigarette sagged from the corner of her mouth.

“Ain't that just like me? Got a damn cigarette, but no fuckin' light. Oh, here's a match.” She lit up. “I found one. Don't worry about it, mister.”

“Um . . . I won't.”

The woman smoked and smiled at the perplexed Ben.

“What's the name of this place? Psst! Hey, mister? You know the name of this joint?”

“Teddy's,” Ben said.

“Teddy's. Ain't never been in here. I'm usually at Edmond's. Over at 132nd and Fifth? You been in there, mister? You'd remember it. Joint's a mess. People be gamblin'. All kind of shit be goin' down. Turn your back for a minute and you might find a knife stuck in it. But the bartender makes the drinks plenty strong—'specially if you a regular—and the music's killer. I ain't feel like walking all the way over there tonight. My feet be
hurtin'
in these heels, child. And I gets tired of goin' to the same damn place all the time. I need me some variety. You know what I'm sayin', mister?”

She stopped talking, but only briefly and only to puff her cigarette.

“You sure is quiet,” she said. “You all right? By the way, I'm Honey. As in: sweeter than.” She threw her head back, slapped the table, and hooted out loud at her own joke.

Honey's green charmeuse dress frazzled at the seams. The beaded embroidery was missing a few. Dark bags drooped under her eyes. Fine lines sprouted when she smiled. Strings of gray hair were tucked in among the black. She had made herself at home at Ben's table, puffing on her cigarette, content as a cat on a lap.

“Honey, can I help you with something?” Ben asked.

“Maybe. I don't live far. Don't charge much either.”

He stammered, “I don't think . . . I really . . .” then remembered Baby Back, still standing there, waiting for him to cross the bridge. But Ben wanted to exterminate
this thing
.

He rose, looked down at Honey. “Let's go.”

“Well, all right, mister. For a minute, I thought you was a square or something.”

He helped her push back her chair and offered his arm.

“And you a gentleman, too? Guess I got lucky tonight.” She appraised Teddy's. “Gotta make sure I come back to this place.”

As they exited, they passed by one confused and furious-looking trumpeter.

The room stank of grime and too much perfume. Honey lay on the lump of covered stuffing that served as a mattress. The sheet covered only her ankles. Her careworn face had deceived him. He had assumed her body would match and was surprised by its beauty. Taut, polished skin dressing her opulent curves. Places that bred shadows and intrigue—the cleft between her breasts, her deep and perfectly round valley of a navel, the florid valley between her legs.

And still he'd been unable to do it. He had tried. But
this thing
had succeeded.

“You still gotta pay, mister,” Honey said.

The sounds of sex from the room next door—headboard banging against the wall, a man's throaty moaning—mocked him. Ben got out of bed, began to dress. He looked around. Water spots blotched the ceiling. Wallpaper flaked off the walls. The bed's metal headboard was awash in rust. A bedbug trawled across the sheets.

“Two dollars, mister. Put 'em on the bureau,” Honey said. “And come back anytime.” She winked. “You gentleman.”

He left.

Why can't I make this end?
he thought.
Make this end, please.

He walked toward home. He could smell Honey's sweat and perfume on him. How many other men had she fucked? How many, like himself, had used her to reestablish their manhood, their normalcy, as if she was a sexual proving ground?

He turned onto his street. Except for a few lit windows, the street slept. Not a soul. Not a sound. Ben stopped, closed his eyes, imbibed the stillness, cherished the quiet on the street, the quiet inside his head. His head, that colony of noise. The barked orders of The Pavilion's guests. The untamed voices of nascent poems.
This thing
's merciless nagging. It was too much. This quiet was a pearl.

Then he heard something. A dapple of voices coming from nearby. Ben opened his eyes. Two men, standing in front of a brownstone a little ways down. One quite tall, the other short enough that his head only reached the taller man's chest. Both young, Ben's age. They talked and laughed in a restrained manner, as if eager to preserve the stillness. Something uncomfortably intimate tinted the scene. They stood too close to each other. Looked in each other's eyes with too much joy, too much need.

The short one said something. The tall one bent down, leaned his ear close to his friend's mouth, then straightened once again. He cupped his hand on the back of the short guy's neck, and left it there. It seemed they would stay that way forever if they had their preference. On that dark street. Gauzy light in a couple of windows. The crush of stillness.

Ben began to walk in their direction. He had to, to get home. But his intent was stabbed with vindictiveness, too.

“Good evening,” he bellowed, as he strutted toward them.

The two men scrambled apart, their erstwhile intimacy skewered and replaced with fear.

Ben kept walking. “How you guys doing? Nice night, huh?”

Each man mumbled something unintelligible. The tall one crossed the street and took off at a clip in the opposite direction. The short one almost tripped as he ran up the steps and into the building and slammed the door shut.

 

When Ben arrived home, he saw Evelyn Harrisburg's door ajar about an inch. Surprised at her carelessness, he moved to close it, but it did so, seemingly on its own, with a soft
click
.

He went into the bedroom after a thorough sponge bath. Angeline rounded on him before he could slip into bed.

“It's late.”

He didn't respond.

“Ben. I said, it's late.”

“Is it really? Thanks. I couldn't have figured that out without you.”

“What's your problem?”

“You are. Now shut the fuck up!”

He had never spoken to her like that. Ever. It took her a moment to reorient herself. But only a moment.

“Get out! Get out of here! Go sleep on the sofa. Go!”

She pushed and socked and kicked him until he was running for his life into the living room. Then she slammed the door shut, splitting their life in two.

M
ornings he rose early to write, vigilant about escaping the apartment before Angeline awoke. At The Pavilion, he'd work so many hours, his boss had to order him out. Then he'd retreat to Harlem and walk its length and breadth. From 110th Street straight up to the northernmost fringe of Sugar Hill. From the Hudson River on the west side to the Harlem River on the northeast. He walked and composed poems in his head.

Life became a pattern to be duplicated each day, like the day itself with its rote predictability: dawn, sunrise, dusk, nightfall, moonrise, dawn again.
Rise. Write. Work. Walk. Sleep.
He adhered to the pattern, perfected it. It didn't make him happy, but it kept him sane.

He was too slow one morning and didn't slip out before Angeline awoke. She came into the room, her step businesslike, eyes not so much as straying in his direction. She began fixing her breakfast while Ben lowered his head and pecked the typewriter's keys quietly, as if that would hide him.

“The rent's due,” she said. “Leave your share on the table tonight or tomorrow morning and I'll take care of it. And the grocery bill. You ain't been eating much, so just leave a few dollars on the table.”

“Sure, Angel,” he said, then wondered if he was still allowed to use her pet name.

“I'll be home late tonight. Me and Ruby going to a picture show.”

“Ruby. Hmm.”

She looked at him for the first time. “What's the
hmm
for?”

“You know I don't like that woman. She thinks she knows everything. Loves to tell people what's best for them. Likes to gossip, too. Ruby could give Mrs. Harrisburg a run for her money.” He rose from the typewriter, panicked. “What have you told her about us?”

“I think you really want to know what I've told her about
you
.”

Was that glee in her voice? Malice spoiling on her lips, flexing her mouth into a dark grin? He'd never seen this ugly side of Angeline before. It stunned him. He wondered if it had always been there, prowling in some secret, dirty corner of their marriage, now prompted out of hiding because of
this thing
. For the first time, he was afraid of her.

Ben watched her closely, saw the ugly side recede, saw his wife return to a semblance of the woman he'd lived with for six years.

“Don't worry,” Angeline said. “I ain't going to expose you. What good would that do?”

A breeze of relief, but he hated that word:
expose
. A harsh word that signaled danger and betrayal. A word—and an action—that endowed the world with a blank check to judge.

He attended more readings at the Harlem Library. He didn't see the effeminate poet again, but the more he wandered Harlem, the more cravats he saw adorning the necks of men whose hips flopped from side to side; the more male voices he heard embossed with feminine textures. Ben couldn't comprehend why any man would adopt such behavior, especially with Harlem's abundance of masculinity. There were men who moved firmly and with purpose, big arms swinging and big, brute backs casting shadows on the sidewalk, their broad, solid backsides taking command of the space. Men with virile faces, engraved with hard, flinty edges. Dapper men, godly with confidence, who grandstanded their way up and down the avenues, brandishing slick suits and two-toned shoes. Working men, tired and tireless, the veins in their arms and necks as thick as pipes. Dark-chocolate men. Café au lait men. Blue-black men. Men the color of caramel or red earth or tea. Ben would dream about the eclectic variety and wake up aroused. Exiled to the living room sofa and unobstructed by a wife's objections, he relieved himself in private, guilty pleasure.

The poems poured out and the rejections from publishers piled up. He persevered because writing was all he had. That and his expeditions through Harlem, which led him one night to 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue: The Cotton Club. The marquee—so ablaze it lit the entire block—proclaimed that Fletcher Henderson and his orchestra were starring. A doorman stood curbside as taxis and Daimlers and Stutzes cruised to the curb, dropping off merry whites in tuxes, flapper dresses, gowns, even furs, though it was only October. Jazz bopped out of the club and into the street. Ben watched the parade from across the street. Out of one taxi stepped a figure he recognized. Mr. Kittredge dazzled with his self-assured flair. He appraised the surroundings, smiling his approval, imparting faultless elegance in his top hat, tails, and spats. A much younger man also stepped out of the cab. Mr. Kittredge touched, just briefly, the small of the younger man's back as he ushered him into the club.

Next day, the same young man joined Mr. Kittredge at breakfast. Ben watched as they talked and laughed, hands brushing a moment here, a second or two there. Their cheeks nearly grazed as they leaned in to each other and the young man confided something in Kittredge's ear with an intimacy that Ben would never share with him. He looked Ben's age with oil-black hair, skin as smooth as cream and almost as white.

“Good morning, Benjamin. Allow me to introduce my friend, David-Nicholas.” Mr. Kittredge's eyes never left the young man.

Ben nodded. “Pleased to meet you. You from England?”

David-Nicholas glanced at Kittredge, amused. “No,” he said. “The Upper East Side. You?”

“Harlem.”

“We were there just last night, weren't we, Geoffrey?”

Kittredge gave the young man's arm a pat that looked as though it aspired to a caress. “That we were. The Cotton Club.”

“It was swell!” David-Nicholas said. “The waiters danced as they delivered the food! You must go there all the time, since you live in Harlem.”

Mr. Kittredge fidgeted.

“Cotton Club don't allow colored,” Ben said. He debated with himself, then added, “Except to work onstage or wait tables. What can I get you gentlemen this morning?”

Later, Mr. Kittredge said, “I've been meaning to ask you: How are you enjoying the Keats?”

“Very much, sir. Thank you.”

He lied. He had buried the book in the depths of his desk drawer. But that night he dug it out from beneath an old, heavy dictionary, took it to Pigfoot Mary's Restaurant on the corner of 135th and Lenox, and asked for the most isolated table they had. After a meal of ham hocks, collard greens, and black-eyed peas, he opened the Keats.

He hadn't read those words in years, but they were evergreen.

Ben had sat against a dogwood tree, Willful's head in his lap, the last time he read that poem. That was how they whiled away their time together. After they'd tired from splashing in Sugarfish Pond and had kissed themselves numb, Ben read to Willful. They started with the Paul Laurence Dunbar—the only book Ben owned—reading the difficult and beautiful poems worn cover to worn cover over the course of weeks, always while trifling in the groves of dogwoods as yellow-head blackbirds and laughing gulls chirped and clucked overhead.

Willful couldn't read or write. Ben wanted to teach him, begged to, but Willful always deferred with, “Maybe someday.”

When they finished the Dunbar, Willful pulled a new book out of his pocket with what seemed like sleight of hand. “For you, Know-nothin'. I don't know what it is, but it's so pretty.”

It
was
pretty. Leather-bound. Gold gilting the pages' edges, the title,
Poems of John Keats,
spelled out in ornate lettering. They started it right away. Ben bumbled and fumbled the verses at first and Willful constantly asked, “What does that mean?” The language was so strange, it might as well have been foreign. They recognized individual words, but the phrases they created were a mystery. The two boys had to train themselves to submit to the language. When they did, they lost themselves in its beauty, although they never got through more than the first few pages.

It was an open secret between them that Willful had stolen the book from the store in the white part of town. That and all of the gifts he had given him: candies, sweet apples, a pocketknife with a mother-of-pearl handle. After the Keats poems, more contraband books came. So many that they no longer fit in secret compartments under fussy chickens and Ben had to invent creative ways to stash them. Meanwhile, in the grove of sweet-scented dogwoods, Ben and Willful lamented their lack of books by colored writers, but gorged themselves on what they did have.

Spinning in a whirlpool of
I'll die if don't see him soon,
Ben didn't comprehend what consumed him. But when Willful got lost in the beauty of words and faraway places—so immersed that a look of peace illuminated him—he wasn't just the handsomest boy in Dogwood or a thief or a lazy, good-for-nothing son and brother. Willful was the love of Ben's life. The whirlpool spun and spun. Out of the dizziness he wrote his first poem:

Their afternoons in the dogwood groves exceeded poems and pilfered gifts. Willful loved to sit against a tree, Ben kneeling in front of him.

“Undo my pants.”

Ben obeyed, was happy to obey, happy to make Willful happy. Even if Willful didn't reciprocate. At least not that way. But he would work Ben until the cream spewed down his big, dark-brown hand in white stripes.

“When you gone let me inside you?” Willful asked, numerous times, during the year they'd been together. That act could complete the circle of their intimacy, he said, but it was the one desire of Willful's that Ben wouldn't obey. Because one day, Willful had played with him, back there, with an intrusive finger. The deeper he prodded, the worse it hurt.

More gifts: chocolates in boxes wrapped in tissue paper; a razor for shaving; a bottle of Scotch (it made them sick); a set of suspenders, which he couldn't wear without provoking suspicion. Things he couldn't possibly use: a lady's jewelry box; a parasol.

He loved the books, but the gold heart-shaped locket was his favorite gift.

“I know it's for a gal,” Willful said, “but it made me think of our favorite poem.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever
.”

The thievery benefited Ben, but not Willful's own impoverished family. Nevertheless, he anticipated each gift, even as he worried about the consequences if the white folks caught them.

But always, his most vicious worry was
When will I see him again?
Days—sometimes few, sometimes many—divided their meetings. The separation gnawed, so Ben employed himself in disciplined work to alleviate it. He drove himself like a soldier, fulfilled each job his ma assigned, and voluntarily took on more. He worked so hard, so efficiently that, for once, she couldn't invent a reason to complain at him.

The day after he received the locket, the Reverend Ledger's wife paid a call on his ma. She munched sweet potato pie and drank sassafras tea while he sat in a corner shucking corn. Mrs. Ledger was a proper colored lady and a proper preacher's wife. She was tall and mostly trim except for a mildly protruding belly that Ben figured to be the consequence of eating desserts in the homes of her husband's congregants.

“My Trina gettin' to be quite the young lady,” she said of her eldest daughter. “She practically engaged to the Reverend Glover. You know, the pastor over in Weldon Grove?”

Ben's ma frowned. “He gotta be over thirty. Trina how old? Sixteen? He even proposed yet?”

Mrs. Ledger cut her pie to polite pieces with a knife. Ben had never seen anyone treat dessert so formally. “Not yet. But he will. I ain't worried.”

“In this family, we don't count our chickens till they's hatched.” Ben's ma called to him. “Ain't that right, boy?”