Two Birds, One Feather: The Lives and Times of Lorewyn & Rhianyn in America

by C. J. Pearson

  “I know,” Rhianyn agreed. “Jeanne was good, but Bessie is something else!”

  Lorewyn and Rhianyn were both added to the VIP list and arrived at the Cotton Club in Harlem. There was only one entrance for customers… whites only.

  The club had only recently been opened, or re-opened one might say. Three years ago it was a smaller supper club called the Club Deluxe on 142nd and Lenox, owned and operated by heavyweight boxing champion Jack Johnson. But a local bootlegger and gangster, Owney Madden, took over the club, changing its name and style, expanding it, and using it as a means to sell his own brand of booze illegally. Johnson was allowed to continue managing it.

  Lorewyn and Rhianyn had actually been to the place back when Johnson still owned it, but they were unprepared for the updated design and décor of the establishment under its new name and title. The motif of the Cotton Club was one of feigned homage to ridiculing African stereotypes and “Old South” plantation trappings. Images and murals depicting naked Black men and women dancing like savages in the jungle, tribal masks, and “darkies” in slave attire. The club staff were dominantly Black, as were many of the performers. But not a single Black patron in the house.

  Rhianyn shuddered as they entered the club. Lorewyn saw her reaction and as she took a closer look at the place, understanding, she just closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head.

  “Barbaric,” she whispered. “And downright demeaning. If it weren’t for you singing tonight with Bessie…”

  But they checked their coats and got seated at a table. Lorewyn was dressed in a fairly simple evening gown, her favorite lavender colored one. Rhianyn, however, had deliberately chosen a black satin dress, one she didn’t use for performance at the Raven’s Nest, mainly because it was somewhat modest by comparison to what she wore on stage, but it accentuated her stature and figure nicely. And since she was performing tonight in tandem with Bessie Smith and under the name Lady Raven… They both ordered drinks and waited for the show to start.

  What Bessie had been invited to participate in was a musical revue, the first of many that the club would host in years to come. It was a showcase of new talent, dancers, chorus line, jazz singers, and musicians. Neither Lorewyn nor Rhianyn had ever heard Andy Preer before, but he led the house band that night. Quite a line-up! Bessie got called up about midway, right before a break in the entertainment. There was a round of applause. She signaled to the band to pause before going into her number. Preer seemed a bit puzzled, but held off for a moment.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Bessie began, speaking into the mic, “I know most of you are probably aware that I’m here in New York promoting my first Columbia single release, Downhearted Blues.”

  More applause and cheering. She waited, then continued. “It is of course what I’ll be singing for you tonight. However…” Some more applause, so she paused again. “However, I wanted to do something special tonight for the esteemed patronage of this most esteemed club.” A definite round of approving cheers. “So, I’ll be singing my new single with my new friend and fellow performer, as a duet… the lovely and talented Miss Lady Raven!” She extended a hand toward the audience, specifically in Rhianyn’s direction, and stepped aside, making room for a second singer on the mic.

  The reference to “Raven” was well-played. The audience no doubt was expecting a second Black female performer to emerge from backstage. The facial expressions and shifts in clapping to vocal gasps and murmurs were quite palpable as Rhianyn stood up and joined Bessie on stage.

  Preer was obviously astounded himself, but he had already directed the band to start playing. It was too late.

  Rhianyn stood next to Bessie, her mouth close to hers by the mic, and the two boldly began singing the number as a duet.

  Bessie:Gee, but it's hard to love someone

  When that someone don't love you

  Rhianyn:I'm so disgusted, heartbroken too

  Both:I've got those downhearted blues

  Rhianyn:Once I was crazy 'bout a man

  He mistreated me all the time

  Bessie:The next man I get has got to promise me

  To be mine, all mine

  Rhianyn:Trouble, trouble

  I've had it all my days

  Bessie:Trouble, trouble

  I've had it all my days

  Both:It seems like trouble

  Going to follow me to my grave

  Bessie:I ain't never loved but

  Three men in my life

  Rhianyn:I ain't never loved

  But three men in my life

  Bessie:My father, my brother

  The man that wrecked my life

  Rhianyn:It may be a week

  It may be a month or two

  Bessie:It may be a week

  It may be a month or two

  Both:But the day you quit me, honey

  It's comin' home to you

  Rhianyn:I got the world in a jug

  The stopper's in my hand

  Bessie:I got the world in a jug

  The stopper's in my hand

  Both:I'm gonna hold it until you

  Meet some of my demands

  Lorewyn was listening intently, obviously. She loved hearing her wife sing, and a duet like this was extra special indeed. But she was using her keen peripheral vision to survey the crowd as well, trying to gauge their response.

  What she saw was most remarkable, at least from what she could tell. The initial reaction to a woman who by all appearances seemed Ashkenazi Jewish singing on stage with an African-American woman at a segregated establishment like the Cotton Club in Harlem was as one could imagine quite negative and laced with bigoted resentment. However, by halfway through the song, things were starting to change. What the audience was hearing was real talent, genuine, heartfelt, and authentic singing. Lorewyn didn’t know Bessie’s history, but she was a woman, and as a woman herself Lorewyn could understand. And she knew Rhianyn’s past. She knew about Kazlyn, of course. Three men in her life… her father… yes, Rhianyn had loved her father at one point. And the third? A brother? Rhianyn had no brother, obviously, not in the sibling sense. But Pypp, her bonded Giant Owl mount, her devoted companion for centuries before his death in the Second War… yes, he was as close to her as a brother as anyone else could be. Was it just coincidence that Bessie had asked Rhianyn to sing this with her? If so, an amazing coincidence!

  But the audience… they were getting it. They were realizing that what they were hearing were two hearts and souls performing, their differences incidental, and those differences were far greater than any in that club save Lorewyn could’ve imagined! The disapproving looks ceased. They were listening, captivated by what they heard, by what they were seeing take place.

  The song ended. Rhianyn reached over instinctively and hugged her singing partner, the expression on her face one of pure joy. A moment later, a single surge of clapping could be heard as Lorewyn stood up, applauding and smiling. Her lone applause was quickly augmented, however, as one by one, table by table, the audience in like manner stood and began offering an ovation the likes of which the club had perhaps never experienced before.

  Bessie and Rhianyn took their bows, and Bessie was about to exit through the backstage area, which was expected. But Rhianyn wouldn’t have it. She took Bessie’s hand and led her to the table that she was sharing with Lorewyn. Seeing them approach, Lorewyn made room for a third.

  The positive energy that had been generated by their duet was suddenly stifled as some patrons saw Bessie leave the stage up front and walk with Rhianyn to a table. This was a serious breach of “separate but equal” etiquette. Again, the murmurs and angry stares. Rhianyn didn’t care, however, and made sure that Bessie was seated with her and Lorewyn and tried to signal one of the waiters to get her friend a drink.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the young Black server said to Rhianyn. “I can’t serve no colored folk here.” He turned to Bessie. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, but you’ll have to leave the club through
the back exit.”

  “Actually, no, she doesn’t,” Lorewyn spoke up. “Miss Bessie Smith is our guest. She’s with us. This is her table too. Now, if you’ll please serve her a drink, we would be much obliged. Thank you, sir.”

  The young Black man was a bit startled at Lorewyn’s use of “sir,” but perhaps more concerned about how to handle this situation.

  “Yes’m,” the waiter replied respectfully and left the table to inform the manager.

  They continued to get insolent stares from the people around them as a few moments later a couple of men in tuxedos approached.

  “It’s been brought to my attention that there’s a problem here?” one of them said, addressing Lorewyn and Rhianyn.

  “No, there’s no problem,” Rhianyn stated. “We just ordered a drink for our friend, that’s all. I’m sure your waiter, who’s a very nice young man by the way, will be back with it shortly and we’ll continue to enjoy our evening here in your club.”

  She offered a smile and raised her glass in a mock sort of toast. The men did not smile back. They continued to address Lorewyn and Rhianyn, without acknowledging Bessie’s presence.

  “I think you ladies both know that the Cotton Club does not serve Negro clientele,” the same man continued. “Your friend will have to leave through the back with the other colored help and entertainers.”

  Bessie slowly got up. “Rachel, Ariel, it’s okay. I appreciate the invitation to your table, but it’s best that I leave through the back, like these gentlemen said.”

  “No, hold on,” Rhianyn broke in, standing up herself. At her 5’10” natural height, she was looking eye to eye with the two men. “So, what you’re saying is that you can accept colored help and colored entertainers just fine, but no colored guests, huh? Well, you know what? I have color too. It might not be quite the same shade as my friend here, who has a beautiful dark complexion that reminds me of fine polished onyx, or my dear sister here whose color is somewhat lighter than my own… or even your swarthy hue that likely comes from Sicilian heritage. For that matter, every patron in this club right now possesses color of some sort, don’t they? What do you plan to do? Kick us all out the back door?”

  The man just glared at Rhianyn. The man with him shifted his stance, perhaps in anticipation of matters escalating.

  “I’ve been patient and courteous with all three of you ladies,” the first man stated. “But I ain’t gonna be sass-mouthed by some uppity Jew Princess. Your onyx friend is leavin’ out the back, and you and the Blondie are leavin’ out the front… right now!”

  Rhianyn looked as if she was going to swing at the man, her posture stiffening. But Lorewyn stepped in. “No, that won’t work, I’m afraid. All three of us are indeed leaving… and we’re all leaving the same way. Come on, Blackbird, Bessie… we’re walking out the back. Together. They can stop us, or let us stay here and finish our drinks. Their choice.” She said nothing more, but stared down the two men, her expression cold and penetrating.

  The two men didn’t respond, but they didn’t try to intervene either. They simply moved away from the table and watched as all three women got their coats and followed Bessie out the backstage exit into the alley behind the Cotton Club.

  “Uncommon spirits,” Bessie finally exclaimed after they were outside. “Two of a kind… birds of a feather… Mmm hmm.” She offered a warm smile to both Lorewyn and Rhianyn and embraced them. “Rachel, thank you for singing with me tonight,” she said to Rhianyn, “and thank you especially for introducing me to your lovely girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?” Lorewyn interjected, alerted to a possible “outing” dilemma. “Rachel and I are sisters. Yes, we live together, but…”

  “Honey,” Bessie remarked, cutting in, shaking her head in understanding. “I see the two of you, how you look at each other. A woman can tell. You two ain’t got nothin’ to worry about from me. I got me a fella back in Philadelphia. A good man too. We’re gettin’ married in a few weeks. But I’ve had a few lady friends too, and will likely have a few more. Love is love… and you two love each other. It’s beautiful. Stay beautiful for one another, in your hearts, in your souls. That’s where the magic of love resides.”

  She gave them both a farewell kiss on the cheek and left, walking over to 646 Lenox to catch up with some of her fellow Black performers.

  Lorewyn and Rhianyn watched her depart. Rhianyn finally turned to her wife, taking her hands in her own and smiling.

  “What do you think, Yellowfeather?” she asked coyly. “Can we stay beautiful for each other? All these centuries we still have in front of us?”

  Lorewyn just began walking with her wife at her side, still holding her hand, soon leaving the alley and strolling down 142nd east toward the Harlem River.

  “In our hearts and souls, Blackbird,” she replied. “Always.”

  CHAPTER 5

  There was some fallout from Rhianyn’s stunt with Bessie Smith at the Cotton Club, as was to be expected. The first was the inevitable confrontation with Symanski. He tried to be level-headed about it, but his meaning was clear.

  “I gotta let you go,” he said, handing Rhianyn an envelope with her final pay. “I’m including a bit of a severance, as a token of my goodwill and appreciation for all you’ve done to help my club get on the map, but I can’t keep you on stage. I’m sorry. I hope you understand. I have some influential clientele, and well…”

  Rhianyn understood. Lady Raven was quickly associated with Lady Godiva, and word got around that the Nest’s biggest attraction was the same bird who had broken the color line at the Cotton Club. Symanski started getting heat, then threats. It was show business in 1920’s Manhattan.

  It was a generous severance. Symanski wasn’t a cheapskate. He also let slip, though “accidentally” and through “unofficial channels,” that the Lady Raven (he dumped the Godiva altogether, for which Rhianyn was grateful) was now available as a club act to any mob-boss or high-roller in the city who might be in competition with Madden. Symanski was no fool; he knew how the system worked, and he had some experience in working it. Rebelling against the segregation status quo culture was a social misdemeanor to be sure in the eyes of the privileged, but it could easily be overlooked if the stakes got higher… and when it came to competition in the club and speakeasy business of New York among the bosses and kingpins of the bootlegging underworld, the stakes got high indeed… higher than a penny-ante deal involving race and who’s with who on stage.

  It was yet another slice of that American pie. Capitalism trumped prejudice if and when there was something temporarily more profitable than prejudice to be exploited.

  Sure enough, Rhianyn got an offer from a competitor, a speakeasy called The Back Room, located on Norfolk on the Lower East Side, just across the Williamsburg Bridge from where Lorewyn and Rhianyn lived. The joint was mobbed up, of course, but the pay was good, the hours were better compared to Symanski’s place, and Rhianyn was able to sing under her new stage name, Lady Raven. Over the following two or three years, she developed a reputation for being one of Manhattan’s signature underground songbirds, her act at the Back Room soon becoming known as “Quoth the Raven, featuring the sweetest sound south of Harlem, the nightingale herself.”

  And of course she and Lorewyn had discussed the high profile risks of being in the entertainment business. The contract at Columbia had been a bust. Same issue as the club. Word got around. Rhianyn had stood up to the power structure while on stage. She had gotten herself in the spotlight, but unfavorably with regards to certain elements of the industry. Still, there was concern. Lorewyn had reminded her wife about the need to not become too prolific. What they had done in Europe time and time again would inevitably have to repeat here in America.

  “Sooner or later we’ll have to change identities,” Lorewyn had said. “You know how this goes… I don’t have to get into details. We still live among Humans, despite being on a different continent, and from what I can tell, we’re still a long way away from living
in a time when the Humans of this realm will be ready on a large-scale level to accept who we truly are. We faced this challenge in Europe, remember? It got harder as the centuries progressed. We’re in a new place now, yes, but we will face the same challenges. We just have to be careful, Blackbird. I am so proud of you for using your talent to sing and do something you enjoy. I just don’t want to have to go through another cycle of memory wipes and facing recognition and suspicion down the line because we’re too well known in a previous incarnation. It’s happened before.”

  “I know,” Rhianyn had assured her. “And I’m being careful. It’s part of what’s nice about working in the club scene. It’s an underground business. The clientele doesn’t want exposure or notoriety. In some ways, being a performer in a speakeasy is like working undercover. No one on the street would dare say a word that they recognize me as the Lady Raven from the Back Room. No one wants to incriminate themselves!”

  “My wife the trouble-maker, the rebel, the wave-maker,” Lorewyn smiled. “And I love you so very much.”

  “I learned from the best,” Rhianyn replied, kissing her.

  Lorewyn continued her work with Scribner’s under Max’s oversight. She had gained a reputation as well, an excellent reputation in the editing and publishing business in fact, though far more behind the scenes. She was less the pretty face and lovely voice on stage and more the notes in the margin, the finished proofs, the occasional phone call and lunch meeting with an author. But she was happy with that arrangement. And Max Perkins was happy with her work.