by Alex George
After a moment’s silence Joseph said, “He wants to play tonight.”
Lomax turned and pointed toward his cornet that was sitting on top of the piano.
“I told him it’s our last night,” said Joseph.
“Would you play something for me?” asked Jette.
“Happy to,” said Lomax. He sat down at the piano and picked up his cornet.
As Jette listened to the languorous unfurling of melody, she remembered her brief time in New Orleans. Lomax had been the first friendly face they met in America. Without him they might never have made it to Missouri. She wondered what path her life might have followed if the man on the stage had not appeared when he did. The thought occurred to her that, like the improvised melodies that Lomax was spinning from the bell of his horn, every life was a galaxy of permutations and possibilities from which a single thread would be picked out and followed, for better or for worse. When the music ended, Jette made a choice of her own that sent our family careening down an unlikely path that only now has acquired the reassuring gloss of inevitability. By such delicate threads do all our existences hang.
She smiled. “Joseph, Mr. Lomax was very kind to your father and me, a long time ago. Of course he can play.”
Lomax grinned. “Never forget a face,” he said proudly.
In truth Jette did not much care for Lomax’s maudlin music, but she knew that Frederick would have approved: here was a stranger from across the years, arrived just in time to help administer the last rites to her husband’s dream.
As it was, nobody complained about the music at all, because Lomax’s tender ballads were difficult to hear above the hysteria of the tavern’s final night. The whole town wallowed in a riot of nostalgia, fueled by an ocean of free drink. Determined not to leave a drop for Walford Scott and his thirsty minions, Jette kept pouring drinks until the final bottle had been emptied. By then it was three o’clock in the morning, and the Nick-Nack was still half-full, although only a few customers were conscious. Men snored fitfully in their chairs. Some had crawled onto the stage and were sleeping next to the piano.
For the last time, Jette and Joseph walked home from the Nick-Nack, leaving the front door unlocked and the passed-out drinkers in peace. Lomax followed them, Rosa fast asleep in his arms.
“So, Miss Jette,” said Lomax as they walked home. “What happens next?”
Jette looked up at the stars. “I’ve been wondering that for months.” She sighed. “And I still have no idea. The Nick-Nack is all I have.”
“People are always going to want their liquor,” said Lomax quietly.
“No,” said Jette firmly. “I won’t do that. I won’t become a criminal.”
They walked on in silence.
“Miss Jette,” asked Lomax after a while, “can you cook?”
“I suppose so. Why do you ask?”
“Well,” said Lomax, “even if people can’t drink, they still have to eat.”
Lomax spent the night on the floor of the sitting room, sleeping in front of the fireplace, beneath the terra-cotta angel wing. When Joseph woke up, he found their guest sitting outside on the porch, his long legs stretched out in the sunshine.
“Was I dreaming,” said Lomax, “or was there a raccoon sleeping in that crate?”
“That was Mr. Jim,” said Joseph.
“He didn’t look too pleased to see me. Gave me a mean old look as he slunk off.” Lomax laughed softly to himself. “Mr. Jim,” he said.
Joseph sat down next to him. “What’s it like, living in a city?”
“What’s it like? It’s loud, for one thing. Everyone lives so close to each other. And you know, down there, in Louisiana, with all them bayous and swamps—” Lomax pinched his nose. “But this.” He turned toward Joseph. “You know what the air around here smells like to me? It smells like freedom.”
“I liked your playing last night.”
“You did, huh. Well, thanks. I think you were about the only one payin’ any attention,” said Lomax without bitterness.
“Where will you go now?”
“Kansas City, most likely. Bennie Moten’s got a band there. Figure he might need a cornet player. And if he don’t, I’ll find other work. Plenty of good music going on there right now.”
“The girl next door is from Kansas City,” said Joseph.
Lomax raised an eyebrow. “She your girlfriend?”
“I’ve never spoken to her.”
“You haven’t? Why not?”
Joseph blushed. “I don’t know what to say.”
Lomax nodded sympathetically. “My friend, you are not alone. There are fellas been around a lot longer than you who still have no idea how to talk to the ladies.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, I got an idea.”
“So tell me, then. What should I say to her?”
“Aw, you know.” Lomax sucked in his cheeks. “My, what a pretty dress you’re wearing today. Excuse me, but you have the most beautiful eyes. Tra la la.”
Joseph gave Lomax a look.
“Or, okay. You could give her something. Pick her some flowers. Write her a poem.”
Before Joseph could reply, Jette appeared at the door. She winced as she blinked into the morning sun. As a rule she never drank when she worked, but last night she had been swept up in the sentimentality of the occasion. She looked as if she was regretting it now. Jette shaded her eyes and squinted at Lomax and Joseph.
“Mr. Lomax, I’ve been thinking about what you said last night,” she said. “And you’re right. People still need to eat.”
“Yes, ma’am, they do,” said Lomax.
“You’re going to open a restaurant?” asked Joseph excitedly.
“I don’t know.” Jette sighed and looked at Lomax. “Do you really think it could work?”
“If you can cook, then it’ll work.” Lomax looked thoughtful. “You already got most of what you need. You got a place, you got tables and chairs. You got a clientele.”
Jette looked up at the sky. She had lain awake most of the night, thinking about the idea. It was the only plan she had. “Mr. Lomax,” she said, “would you be interested in earning a little extra money?”
Lomax got to his feet. “Ma’am, I’m always interested in earning a little extra money.”
Thirty minutes later, Joseph and Lomax were standing in the middle of the deserted Nick-Nack. They had shaken the last slumbering drinkers awake and sent them on their way. Now they surveyed the wreckage of the night before. There were mountains of unwashed glasses. Chairs had been upended and abandoned where they fell. Hats and shoes littered the floor.
They spent the morning clearing out everything that wouldn’t be needed. In the alleyway behind the building they lit a bonfire and watched while memories burned. They upended tables and chairs and began to file down the legs so they no longer wobbled. While they worked, Lomax talked. Joseph could have listened to his deep, rolling voice for the rest of his life. His language glittered with mystery, enriched by Southern patois and an impressive lexicon of cusswords. Lomax wove his tales into a rich tapestry of food, heat, women, and music—Buddy Bolden, King Oliver, Louis Armstrong, an army of cornet players. New Orleans shimmered in the background of his stories, a mirage.
Lomax had grown up in the Third Ward, the eldest of six children. His mother worked as a seamstress. She made a little money on the side practicing voodoo, casting hexes on enemies, a nickel a curse. He never knew his father. His first job, at eight, was delivering five-cent buckets of coal to the prostitutes on Bienville Street. His childhood was hungry but happy. Every Sunday he and his brothers followed the marching bands as they paraded through town. The musicians looked so fine in their pristine uniforms, instruments gleaming in the sun. He told Joseph about catching crawfish off the pier at Algiers, about stea
ling jars of honey off traders’ wagons. He recalled sneaking backstage at the Funky Butt Hall on Perdido Street to watch the beautiful dancers shimmy beneath the bright lights.
Joseph listened, agog at news of this alien world. The only black man he had ever spoken to was William Henry Harris. Lomax’s life in the Louisiana delta was exotic, steamy, and cruel, a universe away from the vanilla, landlocked borders of Missouri.
As they walked back to the house at the end of the day, Joseph was exhausted. His body hummed with the ache of a day’s work, and he was filthy with dirt and grime, but he was happy. He was looking toward the future, and saw nothing but mystery glimmering just beyond the horizon.
His euphoria did not last long. When he pushed open the front door, Jette was sitting at the table, her head in her hands. She looked up as they walked into the room.
“Something terrible has happened,” she said.
Despite the audience’s apparent indifference to Lomax’s performance the previous evening, those pretty melodies had lain siege to an unexpected heart.
Polk, the ancient bartender, had listened to the music, and a heavy melancholy had descended upon him. Ever since he’d been struck by Cupid’s unexpected arrow the day of Frederick’s departure for war, his devotion to Jette had never faltered. In the intervening months he had remained more or less constantly drunk. With enough whiskey inside him he could still achieve a sedated equilibrium, at least for a while.
But Polk’s precariously balanced existence was knocked disastrously off-kilter by the sweet sounds that crept out of Lomax’s cornet. He listened in dismay to the truth and beauty in those sad notes. The music clustered around his beleaguered heart, extinguishing hope. Only when he crashed to the ground later that evening was he finally able to escape its spell.
When Polk awoke in the alleyway behind the Nick-Nack some hours later, he opened his eyes and stared up at the stars. Inside, the tavern was silent. He gingerly pulled himself to his feet.
The hopelessness of Polk’s love for my grandmother had given him a certain grace, but not any longer. His feelings had been betrayed by the purity of Lomax’s music, exposed for what they really were: shabby, second-rate, and compromised by his own timidity. He walked sadly through the deserted streets of the town.
Even before Lomax’s cornet had sliced him open, Polk had been teetering on the brink of despair at the prospect of the tavern closing its doors. There would be no more exquisite proximity to Jette, and no more liquor to soften his nightly crucifixion. Over the past few months Polk had been pilfering bottles from behind the bar and hiding them beneath his bed, but he knew that he was merely postponing the inevitable. A future without alcohol or Jette Meisenheimer was waiting for him, and he did not know how he was going to survive.
The old bartender heard the quiet pulse of the river nearby, and turned toward it. He walked to the end of the pier and stared out into the night. Such a shame, whispered the rushing water beneath his feet, such a shame. With a small sigh, Polk stepped forward and allowed his body to fall into the water’s embrace. There was barely a ripple as the river closed over the old man’s head, bearing him onward into darkness.
It was one more departure, another good-bye.
Polk had been found a little way downriver, his tired, bedraggled body washed up on a muddy bank. Cap in hand, a somber Walford Scott had delivered the news personally to my grandmother.
Jette had grown very fond of the old bartender. She sat at the kitchen table and wept for him. Chief Scott did not know whether he had jumped or fallen into the river; the evidence was inconclusive.
Still, no amount of fruitless conjecture would ever bring Polk back. The Nick-Nack was gone, and its tottering talisman with it.
SEVENTEEN
That evening Lomax sat down to dinner with Jette and the children. The four of them ate in silence. Usually Rosa dominated mealtime conversation, but she was perfectly silent, her eyes never leaving the dark-skinned stranger sitting across the table from her. Jette had made a thick potato soup laced with sauerkraut. Lomax ate thoughtfully.
“Is this the sort of thing you were thinking of serving in the restaurant?” he asked.
Jette nodded. “Do you like it?”
“Oh, well. It’s very good, yes.” Lomax stirred his spoon, not looking up.
“It’s German,” said Jette. “It’s traditional.”
“Uh-huh. Traditional. Well, okay then.” Lomax returned to his silent contemplation of his soup bowl.
Jette remembered their first meal in New Orleans, the hotel table laden down with all that spicy food. “Perhaps you think it’s a little bland,” she sniffed.
Lomax put his hands up. “I never said that,” he protested. “It’s very nice.”
Jette’s eyes narrowed. “Nice?”
“Absolutely. Delicious, in fact.” Lomax tried a worried smile. He knew he was in trouble.
Jette put down her spoon. “Perhaps you have some suggestions as to how I might improve it?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” muttered Lomax, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t—”
“Really,” interrupted Jette. “Please.” Although it was not a request.
“Well.” Lomax looked uncomfortable. “You might add a little cayenne.”
“Cayenne? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Cayenne pepper. Give it a little zing.”
“A little zing,” repeated Jette.
“Or, um. Maybe some dried basil,” said Lomax, his voice small.
There was a long silence.
“Are you a cook yourself, Mr. Lomax?” asked Jette eventually.
“I don’t know that I’d call myself a cook, but I’ve worked a few different kitchens in my time,” he answered. “That place I met your husband? Chez Benny’s? I worked there for a while. I learned a thing or two along the way.”
“Well, then, perhaps you could show me how you would do it.”
“You want more zing?”
Finally, Jette smiled. “Yes, I want more zing.”
The next few weeks were a riot of industry. Lomax agreed to stay until the Nick-Nack’s metamorphosis was complete. He slept in the back room of what was to become the new restaurant. During the day he and Joseph worked together, slowly erasing the years of liquor and smoke. They whitewashed the walls and polished the floors until they shone darkly underfoot. The old mirror that had hung for years behind the bar was removed, cleaned, and rehung. The piano was pushed back into the same corner where Frederick had first discovered it, silenced once more.
My father and Lomax had plenty of time to talk while they painted and cleaned. Joseph loved to hear his new friend’s tales of New Orleans, but what really made the two of them as thick as thieves was Cora Leftkemeyer.
Lomax was fond of boasting about the trail of brokenhearted women he had left in his wake. His bragging convinced Joseph that he had finally found the person to help him unlock Cora’s heart, and he peppered Lomax with questions. Seeing the desperate look on his young friend’s face, Lomax’s soliloquies on the manifold complexities of the female became more thoughtful. The two of them discussed tactics and techniques. They practiced opening conversational gambits. Lomax would flutter his eyelashes and respond to Joseph’s questions in an arch falsetto. Joseph became upset when Lomax could no longer contain his laughter. He mumbled his lines, his face a mask of terror. No amount of coaching could hide his fear. When it came to Cora Leftkemeyer, there was simply too much at stake.
While Lomax and Joseph worked, Jette ordered pots and pans, a mountain of new plates, glasses, and cutlery, and a new stove. She visited local farmers and negotiated daily deliveries of vegetables and meat. She bought tablecloths and candles.
There was no rest in the evenings. Jette and Lomax discussed menus and stood over the stove, experimenting with recipes. From somewhere Lomax had procu
red a selection of herbs and spices that Jette had never seen before, and he showed her how to use them. My grandmother was a good student. Soon the kitchen was a rainbow of paprika, bell peppers, okra, and sweet potatoes. Saucepans of fragrant, dark stock bubbled on the stove, filling the house with their dangerous, delicious aroma. Every fresh concoction now had plenty of zing. Occasionally there was too much zing—Lomax was sometimes reduced to coughing fits when Jette was too heavy-handed with those new, potent ingredients. Every night he would taste my grandmother’s latest attempt at gumbo, red beans and rice, or shrimp Creole. Jette made notes of whatever improvements he suggested, and would try again the next day.
One evening Lomax put a forkful of chicken étouffée into his mouth. It was Jette’s fifth attempt in three weeks. On each previous occasion he had shaken his head; this time, though, he closed his eyes and a wide smile appeared on his face.
“Oh, that’s it,” he breathed, “that is it.” My grandmother stood there, a wooden spoon in her hand, blushing like a schoolgirl. “Miss Jette”—Lomax grinned, his mouth still full—“you just took me home.”
Jette beamed at him.
Throughout all this, the rest of the town looked on. Jette’s decision to open a restaurant was a matter of mild interest, but it was Lomax’s continued presence that scandalized the gossips. A black man in the house! What’s next? people wondered. Well, this, came the reply: he would murder them all in their beds soon enough. They watched Lomax go in and out of the Meisenheimer home as if he owned the place. They watched and waited.
Jette decided that they needed a new name to go with the new venture. The Nick-Nack held too many memories, not all of them good. It was time to move on and start afresh. She ordered a new sign, which Lomax nailed over the door.
The sign read frederick’s.
On the first Sunday in April, the new restaurant opened its doors for its inaugural lunch service. There was a healthy line of hungry guests at the door, still dressed up in their churchgoing best.