The Angry Woman Suite (22 page)

But then, miraculously, I was
fine. Elena pierced my darkness. What she said?

“I’ve got an audition lined up for you, Francis.”

Elena led the way. I followed her into the Rainbow Room on legs of pure putty, over to the men gathered around the piano.

“Grayson, is it?” Mr. Goodman asked. He glanced at me, disinterested.

“Francis Grayson,” Elena said.

Why had I ever thought Elena a milquetoast? She wasn’t a milquetoast. She was understated. Not to mention, a miracle worker. I’d found that out my first night in Manhattan. I’d gotten off the bus and plopped myself down in the depot coffee shop, unable to face the city’s glitter, working up the nerve to go
out there.
And that was when the first miracle had occurred: Elena’s hand has appeared from out of nowhere. It had curled around mine and infused me with glibness:

“I couldn’t let you go,” I’d said. “I had to follow you, Elena.”

She lived with an aunt by the name of Honey Fitzgerald, who ran a boardinghouse in Queens. I was assigned an attic room just big enough to turn around in.

I palmed the hundred dollars in my pocket. “How much?”

“It’s not a real room,” Honey replied. “It’s the attic. You want something bigger, I charge. But for this, for you, Elena’s friend, no charge.”

I slept nearly ’round the clock, and woke up feeling almost hopeful. Until I phoned Aidan.

“You doing okay?” he asked. I told him about running into Elena and finding a place at Honey Fitzgerald’s boardinghouse. His reply was brisk.

“Good. Now I’ve got news. Hang onto your hat because you’re not going to like it: Lothian went to the police.”

“To swear out a complaint against me. You said she would, Aidan.”

“She showed off her beaut of a face, complete with shiner—but it was
Stella
, not you, she pointed the finger at.”

My throat closed up.

“Said Stella attacked her; that she went completely off her rocker. Also said Stella threatened your grandmother. Told the sheriff that Stella had to be removed from Grayson House, that she’s a danger.”

“Shit, Aidan …”

“Sorry, Francis. I didn’t see it quite this bad. Lothian’s out for you. And she knew she could get to you through Stella, through me.”

“How
is
Stella?” I croaked.

“You ought to know your mother vouched for Stella.” Aidan’s voice shook. “But your grandmother backed Lothian and … well, Stella was put back in the Portsmith asylum.”

“What d’you mean,
put back?
”

“She’s been there before.”

“Shit, Aidan … I never thought those Portsmith stories were
real
—”

“How much of my journal have you read? Any of it? It’s in there … everything about the murders and what happened to Stella.”

And just before that maddening itch began, lights danced before my eyes. There was a roaring in my ears, and then
that blessed, blessed blackness descended and I’d surrendered.

“Let’s hear what you can do,” Mr. Goodman said. “Want a lead-in?” I shook my head, sweating, fumbling with the clasp on my trumpet case. Elena began to hum. I raised my horn and fingered the valves, repeating Elena’s cue, the opening notes for “Body and Soul,” a light jazz piece that had been one of Mr. Goodman’s biggest hits on clarinet. My horn’s tone was a cool silver. It demanded attention. Mr. Goodman looked up.

“Go on, Teddy,” he said to his piano man. I froze, thinking maybe I wasn’t so hot after all, maybe Goodman already knew I was wasting his time. Maybe Teddy was supposed to be showing me the way out?

Teddy ran his hands over the piano keys, producing what I understood to be a segue. I raised my horn and bent my knees, then gave Teddy’s piano its reply, which was also light at first, but then I slid in weight; then, cleverly, depth, and right after that I went for some gusto, and I pushed at the height, the trill, the fever. Excitement pulled at the back of my legs. Teddy answered elegantly on piano, and each time I got back to him with my horn, I gave him
more
height,
more
of the trill,
more
of the soul.

“Well,”
is all Mr. Goodman said when Teddy and I wrapped up “Body and Soul.” And then, “What else of mine can you do?”

Goodman nodded. His sidemen scattered, picking up instruments. And then there it was, “Bugle Call Rag,” that incredible, escalating sound: Goodman sound, jive sound,
hot
sound. I wanted to dance, I wanted to snap my fingers and roll my head, whirl in circles; I wanted to twist, jump up and down. I wanted to do anything but stand and listen. It was
impossible
to stand still. I wanted to be a part of Goodman. I wanted to play!

“Play!” Benny Goodman commanded.

“You filled the room,” Elena gushed. “Oh my god, you were literally
bouncing
stuff off the walls, Francis! You should’ve seen the way they were looking at you!” She skipped a little on the sidewalk, eyes aglow, hair disheveled, never looking more beautiful.

I grabbed her by the waist and swung her up against me. “Baby, we’re on our way!” I was rejuvenated, completely patched together again. “And you get all the credit. What would I do without you?”

Elena pulled back, eyes soft. “You mean it?”

Something hot and heavy, what I’m sure volcanic ash feels like, descended on me, making it hard to breathe, making me remember where Stella was because of me.

“You bet I do, baby,” I said to Elena, smiling.

I gave Elena’s aunt forty dollars for room and board. I bought a sport coat, flannel trousers, four ties, two white shirts, cuff links, and five packs of cigarettes. I’d five dollars left in my pocket, and payday was still a week off. I decided to take Elena to dinner, but first I called Buster and told him to get to New York and pronto, that bands were hiring because they’d lost so many musicians to the war.

“You got a job?” Buster practically squealed. “With
Benny Goodman?”

I struggled to keep from laughing. “And so can you.”

“You got a job with
Benny Goodman?”
We dissolved in fits of helpless laughter.

“When can you get here?” I asked.

“I can’t believe you’re in New York and that you got a job with
the
Benny Goodman and you didn’t tell even me you were—”

“When?”

“But, Francis, I can’t leave—”

“Yes, you can. I did. Look, you pack a suitcase, get on a bus, and I’ll get you the audition with Goodman.”

“I’m only seventeen,” Buster hedged. “I won’t be eighteen for another month.”

“Shit, they don’t care, Buster. They’re not interested in age. They’re only interested in making the big noise, getting the best fellas. So, you act the part, be the part, you
are
the part, get it? Throw a suit on and you can pass for older, too, just as I did. And if anyone gives you any guff about the war and stuff, just say they wouldn’t take you. Asthma or something. You’ll think of a reason.”

***

I told Elena about Buster over dinner.

“Do you think you should’ve?” was her first question right off the bat. “What if Mr. Goodman doesn’t give Buster the job?”

I disliked her second-guessing my judgment. “Buster will get a job with Goodman.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” she persisted. “Francis, Mr. Goodman likes being in charge of
everything.
I mean, he
really
likes his control. He’s the controller of all time. If he thinks—and mind you, I’m not saying you are—but if he thinks you’re pushing him, why, he—”

“Goodman’s always looking for talent, right? Buster’s got talent.” I cut my steak and set my knife on my plate at a precise angle. My fingers itched. I longed to throw the knife across the room. I longed to make Elena have to duck.

“Well, you have something there, for sure,” she conceded. She seemed to warm to the idea. “I’ll never forget you and Buster that night at Washington’s Headquarters, doing ‘Moonlight Serenade.’ You might be right, Francis. Mr. Goodman may end up thanking you.”

“We’ll see,” I said, cutting, chewing, looking around the room, making it clear I wasn’t placated.

“Francis—” I heard the wariness. “Did I tell you I read part of Mr. Madsen’s journal while you were laid up with that awful flu?”

I’d let Elena watch me unpack at her aunt’s, hard put deciding which was impressing her most: Aidan’s watercolor or his journal. She’d turned the painting every which way looking for a signature. I’d told her she should be looking at the journal instead. Who knew what nuggets it held?

“No,” I answered, tone still chilly. “I didn’t know you’d started reading the journal.”

“You said I could … and, well, you won’t believe this, but I think Sahar Witherspoon—she was married to Matthew Waterston,
the
famous artist, and they lived across from Washington’s Headquarters—”

“Aidan describes the mill house perfectly,” I said curtly.

“So you
have
read the journal, too?”

“Aidan said I could,”
I mimicked her.
That
had her. She looked confused.

“Yes … well, the Waterstons lived in that old mill house across from the headquarters, like the one in your watercolor, Francis. That’s my point: I think Sahar Witherspoon painted your watercolor!”

I didn’t mention pawning the painting that very afternoon.

“The way Mr. Madsen writes about Sahar … well, I think it’s possible Sahar Witherspoon and our Mr. Madsen were once lovers.”

She got my full attention.

And that was the thing about Elena: she knew me. She knew how to get my attention. And not only had she seen one of my dark spells, but she’d also known how to bring me out of it. In fact, I believed Elena knew me so well because she’d fallen in love with me. And of course I was falling in love with her. Brave, independent Elena.

Of course
that’s the way it was.

Elena exhaled her cigarette smoke and said teasingly, “Mr. Madsen wrote that he thinks you’re a creative genius, Francis.” I laughed, good humor fully restored. “But, Francis, how much do you know about someone called Jamie? Or about a Frederick Forsythe?”

I reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing it hard. “You tell me.”

***

Elena was discovered by Pete Burdick, a novice agent affiliated with MCA out of Chicago. At my urging, she left her spot as a stand-in for Benny Goodman, and took a full-time vocalist job headlining Lee Andrews’ orchestra.

“Forget secretarial school,” I’d told her.

Her pay was fifty dollars a week, as opposed to the two hundred I was pulling down, but although it was the dawning for vocalists, the very start of their box office status, they could never—so I thought—attain the dizzying prestige enjoyed by the big bands.

“Make hay while the sun shines,” I told Elena, thinking of her new agent.

“Why’d you let her go?” Buster asked, back in New York. It was three o’clock in the morning and we’d just finished a gig at The Starlight Roof. No one cared that we weren’t old enough to drink legally, least of all the bartender at The Waldorf. We were musicians, sidemen, the newest cream in old Benny’s tea for two. Playing for Benny Goodman had made me somebody and by extension Buster as well—and Buster would never lose sight of the fact that he was where he was because of me. Buster was an incredible musician, but an otherwise lackluster personality except where I was concerned, where almost nothing kept me more pumped than the deferential banter he rolled out for my benefit.

“
Goodman
was the one who let Elena slip through his fingers,” I answered. “Goodman was stupid. Besides, it’s not as if
I
could ever hold Elena back! And it’s not as if Lee Andrews isn’t one of the country’s best bandleaders! Underrated, yes, but Andrews is an up-and-comer. Elena can make
herself
a name with Andrews.”

Buster’s dumb eyes appraised me. “But now you’re never going to see her, bud.”

No arguing with that. Andrews’ orchestra, like all big bands, was always on the road. The junket up and down the eastern sideboard, with stops at auditoriums and clubs and theaters throughout New York, Pennsylvania, Jersey, Maryland, Connecticut, to name a few, that was the easy one. It was the “criss-crosser,” the one from coast to coast and back again, playing one-nighters, sometimes with five hundred miles between engagements, sleeping in buses or back seats, sans any semblance of privacy: that was the ball buster.

But there was The Plan and the sacrifices that had to be made for it. Whenever I’d felt down, felt The Plan foolhardy, Elena had kept the blackness at bay, convincing me I’d hung the moon. Buster, though, had yet to be told of The Plan, or even that he and I were leaving Benny Goodman soon, to join Horace Heidt’s band. My friend Buster had to be eased into things.

“Listen to this,” Buster said one January night in ‘44, stretched out on the twin bed next to mine, a newspaper dangerously close to the cigarette hanging from his lips. We were in a Dayton flea-bag, but at least it had a shower.

“It’s time,” I announced.

“Says here that the German surface navy is totally gonesville—”

“It’s time,” I repeated.

Buster looked up. “For what?”

“For us to leave Heidt. It’s time to go with another band.”

Buster threw the paper at me, and for the umpteenth time I explained that razzle-dazzle, not complacency, was our goal.

“But couldn’t we,” he groused, “stay with a band longer than two months?”

We weren’t just sidemen any longer, I told him. We were stars—something neither Goodman nor Heidt had been quick enough to take advantage of. Although Heidt didn’t mind relinquishing a spotlight, Goodman had handed out spotlights like they were baby Hope Diamonds. Goodman had a well-deserved reputation for paranoia and he’d been paranoid about us in particular because we’d threatened him; that’s how good we were.

“So,” Buster said wryly, “why’re we leaving Heidt then? As long as we’re with Heidt, we at least get a spotlight now and then.”

“Bud, you and I can have all the technical perfection in the world, but it means zip if we don’t have arrangements geared to
our
signature.”

“That’s an answer?
We
don’t have a signature, Francis!”