Joplin's Ghost

by Tananarive Due

  “Urine test results can be faked,” Sarge said. “You can buy clean piss on the internet.”

  “Marcus, you sound like a lunatic. She’s doing what we said. Give her some dignity.”

  Mom and Sarge were arguing, their natural state, but Phoenix hadn’t seen her parents this unified in a long time. Worrying about her had brought them into the same bedroom again, at least. Phoenix smiled about that, washing her hands with the hotel’s kiwi-lime exfoliating soap, or whatever exclusive blend it was.

  Phoenix left Sarge to the test strips on the bathroom counter, joining her mother on the king-sized bed. Lying down, she realized how exhausted she felt, and she fought to keep her eyes open. Leah Smalls was lying on her side, her head propped on one elbow, and Phoenix mirrored her mother’s pose. Mom looked radiant to the tips of her silvery hair, which she had stopped coloring last year. Instead of making Mom look old, the streaks made her seem exotic. She looked better than Aunt Livvy, and that wasn’t easy. Aunt Livvy had always been the showier of the sisters, more preoccupied with her looks, but seeing her mother and aunt together today, Phoenix noticed that her aunt must spend too much time in the sun. The skin on her face seemed leathery, like a Halloween mask of a gorgeous woman. Mom’s body wasn’t perfect, but her face was still hers. Retiring from the School Board last year had been good for her, Phoenix decided. Her mother finally had her own life.

  Mom reached across the bed to gently hold Phoenix’s hand, and her array of copper bracelets chimed. Mom’s blue-green eyes didn’t blink. “Hon…if you’ve gotten in trouble, please don’t underestimate it. Drugs are pandemic in music, and it’s not the road you want to take. Remember Charlie Parker? Bill Evans? Billie Holiday? Jimi Hendrix, who wasn’t much older than you when he died? It would kill Marcus and me both if we had to watch that happen to you.”

  Phoenix might have laughed except for the earnestness in her mother’s eyes. Mom should know her better. Phoenix didn’t like the fuzziness of alcohol and had never been curious about Ecstasy, much less had she tried coke, heroin or meth. She liked weed fine on her downtime, but she’d learned with her band that her playing was sloppier than it seemed when she was high, so she’d never trusted weed as a habit. Phoenix had spent too many hours lost in melodies in her head—both before and after her ghost—to understand why so many musicians had forgotten that music didn’t need help.

  “That’s not me, Mom,” Phoenix said, stroking her mother’s rough knuckle. Mom had never taken good enough care of her hands, always running to meetings to take care of other people, and some of her cracks had grown deep.

  “Marcus says you’ve been acting strange, saying strange things. And we’ve never seen Glo this upset about you.”

  That’s her own fault for being so stubborn, Phoenix thought. Last week, Gloria had wasted a dozen opportunities to accept Scott’s presence. He had tripped her on the same spot on the rug three times in the same afternoon, but she refused to see him. The sheet music scores Phoenix had written in her frenzy last night were on the bed where her mother had been thumbing through them, and Mom had to know the music hadn’t come from her, even if Gloria wouldn’t. One piece didn’t look like ragtime at all; it might be a movement from a symphony.

  “Drugs wouldn’t make me write that music.”

  “You really wrote these last night, Phoenix?”

  She nodded. “My new boyfriend watched me do it.”

  “A new boyfriend already? What does he do?” Mom said. When Phoenix had turned eighteen, her mother had marched her to a doctor’s office to get her a prescription for the pill, no questions asked, her approach to sex education. Since then—with the exception of Ronn, who had scared her—Mom had savored details about Phoenix’s meager love life. Phoenix could feel her mother’s heart traveling vicariously with hers.

  “You’ll meet him.” Phoenix couldn’t bring herself to say Carlos’s name yet.

  From the bathroom, Sarge made a surly noise. Sarge probably had something to do with Carlos vanishing today, and how could she blame Carlos for leaving? Awkward didn’t do this mess justice. Besides, this wasn’t a family reunion, it was an intervention.

  “Daddy, you know I had some weed with Ronn the other day, but that’s it,” Phoenix said toward the bathroom doorway. “If anything else shows up on those tests, it’s a lie.” From the bathroom, Sarge only grunted, so Phoenix went on. “I’m not the one you need to be testing, anyway. Malcolm’s the one acting like he’s bugging out.”

  Phoenix was sorry as soon as she’d said it.

  Phoenix’s mother swatted Phoenix’s hand, clucking. “Shame on you.”

  Phoenix heard her father’s measured footsteps across the bathroom’s marble floor, and he poked his head out of the doorway to look at her. A thunderstorm was brewing on her father’s face. Malcolm was Sarge’s youngest son—he’d been ten when Sarge went to prison—and Malcolm had gone through rehab three times for crack addiction since he was twenty. Malcolm was the biggest open wound of her father’s life, and she’d jabbed it just to have something to say.

  “I’m sorry,” Phoenix said before Sarge could open his mouth.

  “Bugging out?” Sarge said, ignoring her apology. “In case you’re interested in someone else’s life for a change, Phoenix, Malcolm has been clean two years. You want to know why he’s bugging out? He doesn’t have any reason to have confidence in himself, and he’s shaking hands with people from a major label for the first time in his life, people who can help him believe in a dream. It may be tough for you to remember that most people don’t take these blessings for granted and piss all over them. Your brother is nervous. Cut him some fucking slack.”

  Phoenix blinked, her face hot. “Daddy, seriously, I’m sorry. When I saw Malcolm with you, I was really happy for both of you. For real. I don’t know why I said that.”

  Sarge didn’t answer, returning to the bathroom. She could almost hear his thoughts: What else do you expect from a junkie?

  The door to the bedroom clicked and swung open toward them, allowing the music from the living room to fly in at full volume. “Atomic Dog” had become Sly & the Family Stone’s “Dance to the Music.” Phoenix heard Serena and Malcolm laughing, telling loud stories on each other. But no one walked into her room.

  “Hello?” Phoenix called.

  No answer. Phoenix got up and glanced into the living room to make sure no one was nearby. Kai and Manny were closest, but they were bent over the minibar, not looking at her.

  Phoenix closed the door again, shaking it to make sure it stuck, then she smiled.

  You’re here, Scott. I know.

  She hadn’t thought about Scott with her family around, and maybe he got restless when he was ignored. Maybe he’d expected her to fax the new pieces to Van Milton right away, and to pay his biographer, Berlin, a home visit. But Scott would have to wait.

  “I suppose that’s your ghost?” Mom said, eyeing the door with suspicion.

  “It’s possible. He shows up in different ways.”

  “You sound very cavalier about it.”

  “I’ve learned you can get used to anything.”

  Right, Mom? Phoenix wondered how much her mother knew about Sarge’s lady friend in Baldwin Hills with a daughter at Spelman. Did she pretend she didn’t exist? Was she relieved? Mom never talked about her relationship with Sarge, and Phoenix longed for more days like today, with her parents acting as a team. Unless she’d imagined it, they’d been holding hands when they first came. It was too bad the current crisis would be over so soon.

  Sarge came out of the bathroom, holding a test strip in each hand. Phoenix had no idea how many drugs he was testing her for, but Sarge was grinning. “Well, you’re clean,” he said.

  “I know I am.”

  “I really thought you were strung out, Phee, and that scared me. You know what I’ve been through with that. I apologize.”

  Phoenix hugged her father, their first real hug since the television taping. His arms were a cradle. “If y
ou accept my apology about Malcolm, I’ll accept yours.”

  Sarge kissed her forehead. “Deal.” He took Phoenix’s hands and stared at her, probing. “Phee, if it’s not about drugs, what is it? Where’s all the Joplin coming from? Help me understand. You’ve never been interested in ragtime. Just that one night.”

  Phoenix’s heart thundered. Maybe today was her chance, she thought. Phoenix squeezed her father’s hands as hard as she could to keep his attention.

  “Daddy…what if you woke up in the middle of the night and found out you’d filled up a notebook with fifty pages of somebody else’s handwriting? And a historian told you the writing looked like Malcolm X’s, and a psychic told you Malcolm had chosen you to write the book he would have written if he hadn’t been shot? What would you do?” Phoenix thought she saw something in her father’s eyes, a shard of understanding. “Would you keep up your life as usual, or would you try to help Malcolm be heard?”

  “Or Anne Frank,” Mom murmured, trying to imagine it. Anne Frank was her heroine.

  “Right,” Phoenix said. “That’s what happened to me. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t know how or why, but I think it started with that piano that hurt me. From the Silver Slipper.”

  “Oh, my God,” Mom said, a sudden realization.

  “What?” Phoenix said.

  “That piano was haunted. Remember, what I told you, Marcus? From when we were kids. Something happened. Ask your aunt Livvy, Phee. Livvy knows.” But just that quickly, the ghost dropped from Mom’s mind as she studied Phoenix from head to toe. “Darling, don’t fall into the same trap I did when I was dancing. You’re skinny as a rail. Even people who make their living on the stage have to eat.”

  Kai and Manny were gone by the time Phoenix and her parents came back to the living room (Jay-Z’s got a better party uptown, Gloria explained), so everyone left was family. After declaring he was tired of funk, Sarge switched the music to Charlie Parker playing on WBGO. Phoenix saw him whisper to Gloria while her cousin’s eyes tracked her, and Gloria grinned with relief. Sarge not only patted Gloria’s shoulder, but kissed her cousin’s cheek, a rare sight.

  Three large pizzas from Broadway Pizza arrived, and they sat in a loose circle eating together, passing Coke cans and napkins and shredded mozzarella back and forth, no big deal. But it was a big deal. Serena and Malcolm had never been in the same room with Aunt Livvy and Uncle Dave. Even she, Sarge and Mom hadn’t shared a meal in forever. The sight of her family warmed a part of Phoenix she hadn’t realized was craving warmth. Phoenix was so happy, she felt like Scott, floating invisible in the room. I wish Carlos could have stayed, too, she thought, but his absence didn’t dull her contentment. He would come back.

  “I gotta give it up to you, sis,” Malcolm said, raising his pizza slice in a toast. Phoenix expected him to turn toward Serena, until she realized he was addressing her. “You’re not at all like I thought. I guess I always figgered you’d be stuck-up. Huh, Reenie?”

  “I told you,” Serena said, smiling. “Phee’s good folks.”

  “Why’d you think I was stuck-up?” Phoenix asked.

  Malcolm shrugged. “Hey, no reason, I guess. That just shows what I didn’t know. But you’ve got it goin’ on, I’m blessed to be your brother, and I pray to God for your success.”

  Everyone mumbled their agreement, raising their glasses. Phoenix got up to kiss Malcolm’s cheek, and she meant it this time, not like the brushing kiss she’d given him when he first hugged her, a virtual stranger who’d appeared from nowhere. She wished she could take back the awful, thoughtless thing she’d said about him to Sarge.

  “Welcome to the party, Malcolm,” she whispered.

  “I’m just glad to be upright, sis. Praise God.”

  “Amen,” Serena murmured.

  Gazing at her sister, Phoenix felt a sudden inspiration, pointing at her. “Sing with me Friday night!” she said. “You’ll rehearse with me and my crew, and it’ll be great. Please?”

  Serena looked startled, and her automatic headshaking began. When Serena opened her mouth to decline, she was drowned out. Finally, Serena stood up and surveyed the room as if she were already taking the stage. “OK, ya’ll know what? Last week Trey was riding me, and Gloria’s been riding me, and Phoenix has never let up. If ya’ll want me to get up and make a fool of myself in front of two thousand people…I’ll do it.”

  “Reenie, for real?” Phoenix said. Her heart, like the room, had gone silent.

  Serena grinned from molar to molar, raising her arms in surrender. “How am I gonna teach Trey to go for what he wants in the world if his own mama won’t do it?”

  Phoenix shrieked and leaped from her seat, giving Serena a hug. Phoenix could feel her sister’s heart galloping in her chest, genuine terror.

  “Mazel tov, ladies!” Aunt Livvy said, and everyone applauded. By the time their hug ended, both Serena and Phoenix were blinking away tears.

  The radio suddenly went silent, the sound system’s panel losing its light. Phoenix saw Sarge fiddle with the knobs and dials, even checking the plug, but the components refused to come back on. In Phoenix’s old life, an occurrence like that meant nothing. Now, nothing slipped her notice. Scott’s hand was everywhere.

  “Forget it, Daddy,” Phoenix said.

  Sarge gave her a puzzled look.

  “Oh, here we go,” Gloria said, rolling her eyes. “Phoenix and her ghost again.”

  “Please don’t try to freak us out with your ghost stories,” Serena said.

  Aunt Livvy’s eyes came to Phoenix’s, pale lasers. “What ghost stories?”

  “You tell me yours first, Aunt Livvy,” Phoenix said. “What happened with you and that piano at the Silver Slipper?”

  Aunt Livvy gasped, and her half-empty can of Heineken dropped to the coffee table, nearly falling over. She and Uncle Dave steadied it. No one else was drinking beer at midday. Mom thought her sister drank too much. “I can’t believe you brought that up!” she said. “I was just thinking about that. Dave and I saw a piano being moved on the street today, and it gave me shivers. To this day, I won’t have a piano in the house. Tell her, Dave.”

  “Oh, she won’t.” Uncle Dave looked annoyed, flipping the page of his Time Out New York while a string of his thinning hair fell across his glasses. He had always reminded Phoenix of a mad professor. “My wife is insane.”

  “He’s still livid. Last year, the father of one of our partners died, and Mitch wanted to give us this beautiful cranberry concert grand piano. I said we couldn’t take it because we don’t have room, but I cannot have a piano in my house, not after that other one.”

  Mom shrugged. “I never knew what scared you so much that day. I was—”

  “In school,” Aunt Livvy finished, shaking her finger with the excitement of a rediscovered memory. “That’s right, because I was four and you were seven. And while you’re at school, Mom and Dad are schlepping me around the Slipper all day. I hated that place.”

  “Really? Phee and I loved it there,” Gloria said, gnawing on her crust. “Beer on tap.”

  Mom gave Phoenix an unhappy look, and Phoenix passed it on to Gloria. Good going, loudmouth. Phoenix had hated the taste of beer at twelve, but Gloria loved sneaking sips.

  “Thanks for reminding me what a lying terror you were, Glo,” Aunt Livvy said. “Anyway, I’m four years old, and it’s a Friday afternoon. On Fridays, I’m alone with Pop because Mom is with her mother at the home from noon to three every week. And Pop’s going nuts trying to keep the place running, racing up and down the stairs, taking meetings, futzing with mikes and shit on the stage. And he’d sit me in his office in this big, cracked, leather chair, and say, ‘Olivia, you stay right here,’ and then I don’t see him again in God-knows-how-long. There was always something going on at this place. Everybody came through the Slipper in those days, I’m talking about 1960. Jackie Gleason, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole. And let’s not forget Sam Giancana in the audience, and sometimes he’d bring friends. I had n
o idea at the time, of course—all grown-ups are equally boring when I’m four—but Pop loved to brag about meeting famous people. Pop’s killing himself to make everything go right, the perfect this and that so nobody goes away unimpressed. Pop thought the sun rose and set on the place, you have no idea.”

  “God, yes,” Mom murmured sadly, nodding. Grandpa Bud had lied about his income for years to pay his debts and try to keep his supper club’s doors open, and one day his lies had caught up to him. Unlike Serena and Malcolm, Mom and Aunt Livvy had been fully grown when their father went to prison. He died soon after serving two years for tax evasion, and Mom said he’d never been the same. In elementary school, Phoenix had loved telling her friends that both her father and grandfather had been to prison, before she’d learned to feel embarrassed by it.

  “So this particular Friday, I’m sick to death of sitting in Pop’s chair, which is annoying anyway because it squeaks when it spins. I wander to the next room, which is this storeroom upstairs. The door to this room is always closed, but that day it’s wide-open. I’m a kid, I’m bored, so naturally I want to know what’s in this room.”

  Phoenix felt goose bumps race up her arms. She glanced toward Gloria, who was already looking at her.

  “I can just barely reach the light switch to turn it on. It takes me three tries. The room is full of all kinds of crap, but the only thing I remember is this piano sitting there, like it’s waiting for something. I’m only four, but I can tell this thing is ancient. This is an ugly piano, like it’s been in there a million years without any light. Like it’s mad because it’s forgotten how to make music. The minute I see this piano, I’m sorry I left Pop’s office. I close my eyes and start to back away from it the way I used to back away from that maniac dog our neighbor had, the one that was always biting little kids. And then I bump the back of my head on something in the doorway.”

  “The door had closed?” Phoenix said.