Sisters in Arms

by Kaia Alderson

  Grace mimicked pressing the two heavy notes of the sonata into the countertop. Then she doled out a portion of the improvised dinner into a bowl, placed it on the table, and headed down the hallway to her room.

  “Where are you going? Grace?”

  “Out,” she called over her shoulder.

  “What about dinner?”

  I lack the discipline to share a meal with you and not wring your neck, you nag. Grace took a deep breath and fixed her face before responding, “It’s on the table.”

  “Those people killed my son! Why must you break my heart too?” Mama yelled out as the front door slammed closed behind Grace.

  ONCE OUTSIDE, GRACE kicked the first garbage can she saw. In her mind, she had always justified Mama’s controlling behavior by thinking of it as just what mothers who have daughters do. It was their job to make sure their babies grew up to be well-mannered, obedient “good girls.” And as a Negro woman, it was just a given that Grace would not act in a way that embarrassed her family or the race.

  She could live with that, Grace thought as she marched down the block. As a matter of fact, she liked the structure that living under that set of expectations put in her life. She was a “good girl,” so she had clear boundaries of where to set her aspirations for a career, a husband, and a life. In that sense, Grace too would one day have complete control over her life and her own children. In a world where you didn’t know if your loved ones would make it home over a police stop gone wrong, or a random person deciding that he didn’t like how they looked or being jealous over something they had that he didn’t, that was the most you could hope for.

  It was when Tony had left to go into the Navy that Mama’s demanding ways had become incorrigible. Prior to that, Mama sabotaging Grace’s musical career had seemed like a one-off. An irrational one maybe, but still not the norm. However, when Tony left for boot camp, Mama’s insistence on complete control over Grace’s comings and goings had dropped like an iron fist. Daddy would playfully get Mama to stand down.

  For Grace, losing Tony meant losing everything. It had felt like her world had stopped. Yesterday had been one of those rare days she had made Mama smile. And then there was that knock on the door . . .

  Several blocks later, Grace shook off Mama’s fussing as she pulled open the back door to the jazz club. She recognized a number of the musicians who were taking a smoke break a few feet from the door. She had seen them at some of the other Harlem clubs she would sneak into with her brother from time to time when they were in the mood to see some “real piano playing.”

  The younger, hipper cats hung out here at Henry Minton’s place. Grace had managed to talk them into letting her play around on the piano backstage. She hadn’t had the nerve yet to ask to sit in on one of the late-night jam sessions she kept hearing them talk about, though. Heaven forbid word got back to Mama that she had been spotted playing that “devil’s music” in some “lowlife” club.

  Lately, she hadn’t been able to get there as much as she would’ve liked. Mama had been keeping her busier than ever at the dress shop. Even if all she got to do tonight was soak up the energy of being around other musicians, it would be enough. It was a relief in itself to be out of the house, where she could let down her guard. But tonight was different.

  She hesitated in the doorway. Every muscle in her body was tense. One thing the recruiters and examiners had hammered home to her that afternoon was that WAAC leadership was adamant that only the most upstanding women would be accepted into the corps. And, once in, they would be held up to the highest standards. Grace doubted that those standards would allow for one of its members sneaking through the back door of a Harlem jazz club at night.

  Maybe she should have put a scarf on over her head before storming out of the house. Maybe she should leave. Or maybe she should not give a damn what other people thought about her for once.

  The odds of anyone with any connections to the Army recognizing her here at Minton’s Playhouse, of all places, were low. The lights were always dimmed, for one. And she always clung to the shadows anyway. Because despite Mama’s hand maladies, she still had the best sewing skills on this end of Manhattan. Anyone who wanted to hit the town in the slickest threads came to Mrs. Steele’s shop. At any given time, a good portion of the club patrons were wearing suits and dresses that Mama had hemmed herself.

  However, what did it matter anymore if Mama did find out that she was here? She might as well go for broke. Grace stepped inside.

  “Hey there, Miss Grace.” The man she liked to call Father Earl waved her over. “Come over here. Word on the street is there’s a gold star in your window.”

  Tony was the last thing she wanted to talk about right now. But she should have expected it. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Aw damn, baby girl.” Earl wrapped his arms around her. “I am so sorry. He was one of the good ones.”

  “Yes.”

  Earl lifted her chin with his fingers. “I also heard you were down at that Juilliard school today.”

  “How do you know about my audition?”

  A man in a tailored pin-striped suit, whom Earl had been talking to when she’d arrived, hovered nearby. It was the suit that threw her for a loop. He was in prime physical condition and too young to not be in a military uniform of some kind. It seemed like every day another boy in her neighborhood was receiving a draft notice.

  This newcomer’s ears had perked right up when Earl mentioned Juilliard. Grace frowned. She hadn’t even been introduced to him yet. Why was he all in her business? She didn’t want the first thing he knew about her to be that she blew an important audition.

  He was leaning against the bar, nursing a drink that looked like it could have been water. Or gin. Probably a mixture of both. You never knew, given some of the riffraff that came through here. She noticed that he drummed the fingers of his free hand against his thigh, similar to her own habit whenever she was bored or nervous. He scanned the light early-evening crowd with an air of restlessness about him—a feeling that Grace herself battled with more often than not. He looked both out of place and right at home here at Minton’s Playhouse. Exactly how she felt.

  Now as for Father Earl, who was more popularly known as bandleader Earl Hines, she had grown to respect him once he had taken her under his wing. He took her seriously as a student both of classical piano and of this new sound the guys around here had dubbed “bebop.” He had been the first one to call her amateur attempts at composition good.

  She had never seen anyone play like Earl Hines could. They called his style “stride piano.” Grace had been a solid classical pianist until she met this man. Ever since, Mama complained whenever she “tarnished her music with that swing rubbish.”

  Earl shrugged. “I keep my ear to the streets.”

  She leaned in closer to whisper, “Then you must know already that it didn’t go well.”

  Earl patted her hand. “Chin up, baby girl. The world will soon learn to appreciate the magic in these fingers.”

  “Well, the magic wasn’t there today.” She pulled her hand away, studying her fingertips. “Anyway, none of that matters now. Right after, I went downtown and enlisted in that new women’s army.”

  “Is that so?” Earl and his companion exchanged a look. “Then maybe I need to introduce you to my friend here. Grace Steele, meet Mr. Jonathan Philips.”

  She wasn’t sure if she wanted to meet this man or not. He looked dangerous. The kind of dangerous that would have a girl like her making bad life decisions. And that had her intrigued. It didn’t help that he was quite the looker too. But Grace wasn’t “looking” for a man right now. Unfortunately, she couldn’t look away despite her gut feeling that this man should not be trusted.

  “Mr. Philips.” She nodded in acknowledgment.

  Mr. Philips held out his hand. She took it and gave it a firm shake. “Please, call me Jonathan.”

  Earl nudged Jonathan with his shoulder. “This girl here is one helluva player. Pardon
my language, Miss Grace.”

  Grace felt her cheeks warm. After her audition fiasco, she was inclined to refute that statement, but she opted for a grateful smile instead. “You’re too kind.”

  “Just speaking the truth. How about you play a little something for him.”

  “No, I’m just here to soak up the atmosphere.” The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass herself again. Her “performance” at Juilliard was one thing. Mr. Hutcheson was a stranger. But here at Minton’s? These men were like family—well, distant family—and the damage to her reputation with them would hurt far worse.

  “Pshaw.” Earl waved away her polite refusal. “Nobody who can play like you do comes here just to ‘soak up the atmosphere.’ You better go on somewhere with that noise.”

  Jonathan put his hand on Earl’s shoulder. “No need to pressure the girl. There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to jump into the jam sometimes. If she’s scared, she’s scared.”

  And then he shrugged.

  He shrugged? Grace jerked her neck, taken aback. He shrugged!

  They had barely exchanged hellos and this man, this playboy, this idiot, had the gall to question her nerve. As if Grace Steele didn’t have a healthy-sized competitive streak running inside her. What a jerk.

  “Sir.” She balled her fists and put them squarely on her hips. “I’ll have you know that I am not scared of anything.”

  Grace bit her tongue as soon as the words flew out of her mouth. The rest of the room quieted. Now the eyes of every other musician in the place were looking in her direction. Her impulsive streak really did have a way of getting her behind in trouble. She’d have to figure out how to get it under control. But unfortunately, today was not that day.

  Earl gestured his hand toward the piano on the stage. “Then show him what ya got, sugar.”

  Grace took a deep breath. A lone spotlight shone over the piano. It beckoned to her. She sat down, shrugging out of her jacket. Mr. Philips—no, Jonathan—leaned forward to take it from her.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he whispered. His forehead was creased with what Grace assumed to be concern. It was a little too late for that. “I was just joshing you back there. You don’t have anything to prove.”

  “Yes, I do.” After the disaster of an audition she’d had that morning, she had to do this. She was less concerned about proving anything to Jonathan or to anyone else who was in that room. She had something to prove to herself.

  But as she sat there, her fingers poised on top of the keys, her mind went blank. She felt her heart thud inside her chest.

  From behind her, someone called out, “Take your time, baby girl.”

  She pressed a key. The wrong key. The few patrons sitting at the tables in the audience went silent.

  Shoot.

  She took another deep breath. And then she tried again.

  It was an original composition that had been floating around in her head for years. It was a jaunty piece that suited the background noise of patrons resuming their conversations. To Grace’s ears, the resulting buzz seemed to be speaking just to her. It was asking her a question. No . . . more like challenging her. A dare for her to step up to the moment. It said, Are you gonna show them what you can do or not?

  That’s when the link between her frazzled brain and the rest of her body disconnected. Her more confident fingers answered for her. I’ve got rhythm. My name is Grace. I’m the queen of these keys. Get out my face . . .

  It was a fun little ditty she had created during the height of her public playing career. She used it to warm up her hands. Or, as in this case, to boost her confidence before tackling a difficult piece.

  “That’s my girl!” Earl laughed.

  There was a slap of hands behind her, followed by a howl of laughter. It was the same kind of laughter that might erupt out of her father, proud and encouraging. She kept going, her fingers alternating between the fast-pasted theatrics of a virtuoso and the slower, melancholy phrasing of a blues vocalist.

  Then she was really feeling the groove. She went with it, laying out everything she had onto the keys. She was having an out-of-body experience at this point, almost like her conscious self had floated up to the ceiling so she could watch from above. She clearly wasn’t in her right mind. Because her right mind would have never told her hands to delve into her failed audition piece. But play it they did. And with nothing at stake here other than salvaging her wounded pride, she made it bop. Some of the older fellas in the room recognized the piece. They showed their appreciation for how she interpreted it into the rhythm of their world, of how they rolled on the streets of Harlem, by whooping and hollering.

  “You better play that thing, girl.”

  And play she did. She kept on going until it felt like her fingers had said all that they had to say. Eventually, the bursts of a saxophone and trombone joined in as someone tapped out a beat with what sounded like drumsticks on the floor. She rode the vibe for a few minutes more. And then she was done. She tapped out the same notes with which she had started that jam session.

  I’ve got rhythm. My name is Grace. I’m the queen of these keys. Get out my face . . .

  She stood up. The room erupted into applause. She smiled, bowing with the same daintiness she had bestowed upon the audience at Carnegie Hall all those years ago.

  All too quickly, reality crashed in. Her hands began to shake. Smiling faces came up to congratulate her, crowding around her. She became aware of how small that room really was. The walls felt too close together. She had to get out of there.

  “Excuse me.” She began pushing her way through the bodies around her. How could a room feel so small while the back door seemed so far away? “I need air.”

  “C’mon now. Give the lady some space.”

  An arm draped across her shoulders while another began pushing everyone back. It was Jonathan. She sagged against him, succumbing to post-performance exhaustion. As soon as they were outside, she extracted herself from his embrace.

  “I forgot why I never play in intimate spaces like this one . . .” Grace waved her hands in circles as she searched for the right word. “The crowd afterward is too much.”

  “That performance was incredible.” He studied her for a moment, like he was trying to figure her out. “You were fearless onstage. But afterward . . . Are you scared of the people?”

  “When they crowd around me like that, I can’t breathe. I told you, I’m not scared of anything. But I don’t like being in tight spaces. I hate feeling like I’m trapped.”

  Jonathan sighed. “Then what happened back there is my fault. I wouldn’t have teased you like that if I had known.”

  “It’s okay. I needed to redeem myself after I performed so poorly at my audition today. But I’ve decided I won’t be playing in public anymore. I—I’m going to be trying something different.”

  “I heard you mention to Earl that you joined the military today.”

  “Yes, I ran out of that Juilliard audition and right into the Army.”

  “You don’t say?” Jonathan looked at his watch. The lull in their conversation gave Grace the opportunity to consider him again. Yes, he was too polished for her liking. And he had a smart mouth. But he did have a streak of decency in him. She might have given him the time of day if there wasn’t a war going on and she hadn’t just signed her life away to the military.

  “Look, I need to call it a night. My day starts early tomorrow.” Jonathan stuck his hand inside his suit jacket. He fished out a business card and placed it in Grace’s hand. “Sounds like you’ll be heading off to training camp soon. This is my contact information. If anything comes up while you’re there or if you need anything, give me a call.”

  Grace looked at the card. Her heart sank as she read the words on it: ASSISTANT CIVILIAN AIDE TO THE U.S. SECRETARY OF WAR.

  “Oh no. You work for the War Department.” She backed away from him.

  In the newsreel where the formation of the WAAC was announced, th
e director of the new corps talked about what an ideal WAAC soldier would be: ladylike and above reproach.

  “It looks like I’m on my way out of the WAAC before I ever really got in. I don’t see them tolerating someone who sneaks out of her parents’ house to play music in the back room of a notorious jazz club. You won’t tell on me, will you?”

  She kicked a pebble down the ramp leading to the sidewalk. This was turning out to be the second worst day in Grace’s life.

  “Grace, why in the world would you think I’d rat you out for something so inconsequential as playing the piano in a bar?”

  “Because I’m so used to having the rug pulled out from under me. It always happens.”

  She leaned on the railing with her forearms and looked out onto the street. Dusk was setting in. With the dimout in effect all over Manhattan, residents were beginning to pull down their blackout window shades. Most of the cars passing by were waiting until the last possible moment to turn on their dimmed headlights. The spirit of Harlem was still there, however, as a group of children played hopscotch in front of a brownstone across the street.

  “Well, you have nothing to worry about from me.” Jonathan joined her at the railing, careful to keep a few inches of space between them. “It’s not like I’m in the business of advertising to the brass down in Washington that I hang out in places like this either.”

  He gave her a crooked grin. She returned it. “Thank you.”

  He tipped his hat at her. “It has been real interesting meeting you, Grace Steele.”

  And then he was gone.

  And Grace didn’t have another chance to give him a moment’s thought. A week later, the orders came, instructing her to board a train headed for Des Moines, Iowa.

  Chapter 7

  Harlem, New York

  July 17, 1942

  IN HER EXCITEMENT, Eliza had foolishly left her WAAC induction orders out on the dining room table for anyone to find. Unfortunately, the one who had found them was her father. Five hours before she was due to report to Army officials down at Grand Central Station, the silent showdown between Eliza and her father exploded into a yelling match.