Last Night at the Blue Angel: A Novel

by Rebecca Rotert

  I’m not even listening, she said.

  I’m off, then, he said.

  On a Saturday? complained Mrs. Miller

  Money doesn’t know from Saturday, he said. And he kissed her.

  Mrs. Miller strolled into the parlor with her cigarette case. Everyone’s leaving me.

  Mother, David said I could get something from his room before he left. May I?

  Mrs. Miller glanced at her as she lit her cigarette. It was a look that said, None of these matters interests me at all.

  We ran upstairs into David’s old room. Black-and-white pictures of musicians that had been cut out of magazines were taped to the wall. Laura opened the third drawer of his bureau and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tucking it in her shirt. Then she flipped through a stack of albums and took two. She hugged them to her as we ran down the stairs.

  I followed her out the front door. As the screen door bounced in its frame she called, Bye, Mother!

  Bye, Mrs. Miller, I said, and we raced the dogs to the road.

  It was hot. My stomach leaped behind my ribs. I searched Laura’s face but saw nothing to suggest nerves, guilt, fear.

  What does David do in Kansas City?

  Oh, let’s see, gambling, women, jazz, whatever he wants. At least he lives far enough away to not be a COMPLETE embarrassment! Laura said, imitating her mother.

  I laughed at her. She walked taller, having made me laugh.

  The schoolhouse seemed a long way off. The heat’s haze wiggled the lines of the road, of the fields, of the horizon. I thought of David. How different his world must look from this.

  You should go visit him someday, she said.

  Why don’t you? I asked.

  They would never let me. They watch me like a hawk, she said.

  A truck went by us, the driver waved, and the draft of his passing knocked us into the weeds for a step or two.

  But you could. Seems like no one watches you very carefully, she said.

  They do, I said, though they didn’t. They didn’t watch me, they tolerated me.

  Race you, said Laura, running up to the schoolhouse.

  In Sister’s room there were peonies in a glass jam jar. I unlocked the record player with the key around my neck and Laura pulled an album out of its sleeve. She handed the sleeve to me; there was a red saxophone with black wings on the cover, a sketch of a man, a black hand and an ivory trumpet, a finger on the valve slide. Bird and Diz, the album read. Short sweet words, words from another world. I had to hear them out loud. Bird and Diz, Bird and Diz.

  The music bounced in my chest. It rose around us like a dark tent, shielding us from everything we knew, carving a space for us. The saxophone pierced me. Laura watched my face like she was putting me to a test. She turned up the volume carefully so as not to knock the needle.

  We helped each other out of our clothes and I closed my eyes. There was just the music inside of me and Laura’s hands and mouth, her weight. My mind was pulled here and there by her skin, her breath, to the river, to David and his women, his long hands, to touching myself in the bath while the others waited their turn. The music rushed this way and that, notes popping and fighting one another then flipping and tumbling down like playing cards whipped into the air.

  I covered her with my mouth, felt all of her with the skin of my upper lip. She tried to stop me when I moved down her body and pushed open her legs with my elbows. What are you doing? she said, and I didn’t really know; and I did.

  We rested. I stared at her. Here was her face imagining things, here was her looking at me like she knew something I didn’t. There was so much to this woman, so much to learn and memorize. Would there be enough time? Would I be allowed? She pulled the key and string from around my neck and put it over her head, resting the key between her breasts.

  The music stopped and we lay there listening to the needle bump the center. She stood up, stepping over me to turn the record over. I studied her body as she bent to place the needle. Kneeling down behind her, I slid my hand up between her thighs. She reached back and braced her hands on my shoulders. I rested my cheek against her, touched her barely, and felt her swell. Then her legs started to tremble as I lowered her back to the floor so I could see her face, where she was going, her face without me.

  While this was happening, while we were cutting ourselves loose from everything we’d known before, Mrs. Miller discovered the forgotten basket of food in the kitchen and maybe shook her head, saying, oh, those girls, and decided to walk it to us, because Mr. Miller had taken the car. So she wandered down the drive and up along the road and she probably thought it was hotter than she expected, like we did, was irritated and maybe thought about turning back but she didn’t turn back. She looked for us in the empty schoolhouse, I imagine, before hearing the music and following the sound right to us, hot and naked, tangled on a blanket on the floor while Bird and Diz blew, pushed, pulled, fell down, flew up, notes shooting everywhere like the world would fall apart if they stopped. She dropped the basket in the doorway, her hand just opening on itself, and the glass pudding dish cracked inside.

  She righted the basket before she turned and walked away.

  Laura scurried like she was suddenly stuck under something heavy, and held her shirt to her chest as she ran out the door. I tried to stop her but she jerked her arm from me. When she caught up to her mother, who was walking stiffly down the road, her mother’s voice flew out of her—a short wail like an animal snapped in a trap. Laura stopped. Stood in the road and watched her walk away. I was frozen and waited for her to turn around. I believed we could be okay if she would just turn around, come back to me. Turn around, Laura. Just turn around.

  I stood absolutely still, staring at Laura’s back. Her skin was ghostly in the afternoon sun, flushed in places, marked. The sound of her mother’s shoes on the gravel road became faint. I begged Laura with my heart to turn around. I felt my bare feet on the rocks and promised to God I would take care of her. Come to me. She did turn around. And my breath fell out of my lungs and I smiled but she raised her hand to me like you would to stop a truck in the road.

  She walked back to the schoolhouse, dragging her shirt in the dust, then dressed, collected her things, left. As she walked back down the road she pulled the key off her neck and dropped it in the weeds.

  When I could no longer see her, I went slowly up the road and found the key. I lifted it from a shock of thistle and put it back around my neck.

  Then I walked.

  CHAPTER 14

  DOWN THE HILL, past the copse of cottonwood, toward the creek. I stepped into the water and moved against the current, the silky mud sliding around my feet, small, moss-wrapped stones shifting, the water pushing and pulling my balance. Soldier Creek dumps into the Kansas River. All that rushing just to become something else. I felt its cold, cold water and the hot sun on my hair. I somehow knew, standing there, that my world was going to drop like a clean sheet slipping from the line and I was going to be all right.

  When I got home I played with the little ones in the yard. I smelled their heads. My sisters huffed past me for being gone all day. A wet pile of laundry sat in a basket on the ground, so I strung it up.

  I listened to my family talk during the meal, not eating. I watched them as though I’d never seen them before—the silverware tinking tin plates, the rush, the laughter, the freckles, the dirty nails. It was how I imagined the dead twin watched us when I was little, lingering, suspended. I put my fork down and stood at my place. Everyone looked. I started to sing. “There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole. There’s power enough in heaven to heal the sin-sick soul.”

  The little ones chewed their food. Murielle scowled. Mama cocked her head at me. Where did you learn that?

  From Sister Idalia. A Negro woman taught her it.

  Mama and Father looked at each other, and then down at their plates.

  There’s more to the song, I said.

  I think we’ve heard enough, said Mama.
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  Dinner was over and I’d washed the last plate when Mr. Miller appeared at the back door. I stood in front of him, my heart pounding, and he looked through the screen door and through me. He came in without speaking and took off his hat and smoothed his hair. He was still in the suit he wore that morning when I cooked pudding in their kitchen and he teased me. I slipped out of the room and hid under the stairs and wondered how I might escape.

  I heard Mama and Father rush to welcome him, offer him a seat, a drink. I peeked my head out and watched them through the balusters. He smiled at them but it didn’t hide the fire in his skin. I thought about running down into the cellar and up out the cellar door but I was so afraid I couldn’t think fast enough; I couldn’t move.

  I’ll need to speak with Naomi, he said.

  Of course, of course, Mama said, her brow pinched.

  To Father he said, Went in this morning and realized I’d not given her her first week’s wages. He held an envelope in the air. New employees. It happens. He slid it back into his coat pocket.

  I stepped into the kitchen, my heart banging. A vein behind his collar twitched. There she is, he said. And then, to Mother and Father, Do you mind? Business.

  Oh, my, yes, of course, said Mother, rushing Father back into the parlor and closing the kitchen door behind her.

  Have a seat, he said.

  I sat.

  He breathed through his nose and stared. I squeezed my hands between my knees.

  He took a deep breath and looked around the kitchen. I hold the notes to this whole operation, he said. I own the dirt they’re farming. Of course, you already know that.

  Yes, sir. The sound of my voice made him flinch.

  It would take me but a few days to destroy it. Repossess. Auction. It would be real sad.

  I nodded.

  You know what happens to the kids? In situations like that? he asked.

  No, sir.

  Oh, they get separated and stuck in orphanages or put with other families.

  My stomach squeezed into a small hard knot.

  He set the envelope in front of me, pried it open like a mouth to reveal a small stack of bills, closed it. Then he leaned forward. Now, what I want is for you to disappear. You will never come back. You will never, ever come near my daughter again, you sick little cunt.

  He stood, straightened his coat, and walked to the door. What are you waiting for? he said before he left.

  Mama heard the door shut and peeked in. Seeing he’d gone, she rushed to the window and watched him walk to his car.

  Did you offer him anything to drink?

  I watched her mouth move.

  Well?

  He was in a hurry, I tried to say, but ran out of air.

  Well, what did he want?

  To give me my paycheck. I lifted the envelope in the air, my hand shaking.

  Seems that could’ve waited till Monday, Mama said, pushing the chair Mr. Miller sat in back against the table. What will you do with a paycheck between now and Monday?

  I stood. Sit down, Ma. Let me make you some tea.

  No, she said. But thank you. She wiped down the table again. I kissed her and told her good night.

  She looked at me and moved a curl from where it hung in front of my eye. She never touched me. Naomi, she said.

  I let myself feel her. The sound of my name in her voice, my longing for her, to be loved by her, adored, touched. Anything.

  Your song, she said. At the table tonight. It was . . .

  She twisted the rag in her hands. Night had blackened the windows. The kitchen clock clacked on the wall.

  You go to bed now was all she could say.

  I packed the lavender dress in my book satchel and stood for a moment in the room, listening to my siblings sleep. Murielle watched me as though this was not news, my leaving.

  I’m sorry, I said.

  She rolled over. It’s not fair, she said into her pillow. It’s never been fair.

  The fields—high, black—seemed to breathe as I ran past them. I stumbled on rocks in the road. The wind started quietly in the distance and built up speed until I thought it would knock me over. I kept thinking I’d made a wrong turn and was lost. Nothing looked the same. I began to feel like I’d run forever.

  When I finally saw the dim light outside the schoolhouse, I didn’t believe my eyes, so I ran faster and fell, skinning my knee. The sting of it in the night air made me feel stronger. The truck was parked out front and Sister Idalia was rushing in and out of her room. I tried to catch my breath.

  Naomi? What on earth, she said when she saw me.

  Sister, I—

  I can’t talk now.

  What are you doing? I asked.

  She bent to lift the stereo. Help me.

  I picked up the other end and we shuffled it into the truck bed. The moon was dim and I couldn’t read her face.

  What happened? I asked.

  Mrs. Miller. Father Eugene. She stuffed her work clothes into a duffel bag. I don’t have to tell you, do I? Are you okay?

  You’re going home?

  Yes.

  Are you in trouble?

  She threw her bag into the truck.

  I’m so sorry, I told her.

  She put her stove in the truck, her bedroll, her blanket. We are probably going to be in trouble much of the time. Women like us. For one reason or another.

  I’m scared.

  What do you intend to do? she asked, looking at my bag.

  I’ve never been away from here.

  She looked at me. Then get in.

  PART THREE

  Come Rain or Come Shine

  Sophia

  CHAPTER 15

  CHICAGO, 1965

  JIM DROPS ME off at school and tells me he might be late picking me up, and I am under strict orders to stay with Sister Eye until he gets there.

  I eat lunch with Elizabeth. The boys continue to say things to me and now to her, though their comments to her feel more frightening. Maybe it’s because I’m used to them being mean to me. Sister says to the boys after recess, I would like to spend some time with you gentlemen after school. They make faces and kick at the ground but she just smiles and walks away.

  I linger around Sister Eye after school. The boys sit at their desks with their hands crossed, quiet.

  Sister Eye whispers to me, Peanut, please wait in the hall.

  I wait outside the door.

  I hear a big noise—something slamming against a desk. Then I hear a familiar noise, a sharp sliding sound I can almost place.

  Do you see this? says Sister, her voice angrier than I’ve ever heard it.

  Do you? she says.

  Yes, sir, the boys say together.

  If you so much as look at Elizabeth again, or say a word to her, one single word that is not pure sweetness and light, I will cut your hands off. Then the sliding noise again. It’s the giant paper cutter. I almost start to laugh when I figure it out.

  Do you understand, gentlemen?

  Yes, sir, the boys say, their voices shaking.

  Sister raises and lowers the blade again with a slam. Go home. And the boys run by me. They see me but they don’t even care.

  Sister and I wait for Jim on the front steps. I can’t stop staring at her.

  Stop it, she says finally.

  I start to laugh.

  What is it you find so funny?

  This makes me laugh even harder. I can’t believe you did that, I’m finally able to say.

  It’s my job.

  I know, I say. Mom told me.

  Really. And what did she say?

  That you protect the innocent, I tell her.

  Sister laughs pretty loud for a minute and then she looks down at me. Oh, peanut, she says. No one is innocent. Not even you.

  But you would still cut off the boys’ hands for us? I ask.

  She tucks a curl behind my ear and smiles at me. I’m protecting them, too.

  Elizabeth and I eat lunch together all week and the
boys don’t come anywhere near us. On Friday she says, My answer is yes.

  We are sitting at the craft desk in the back of the classroom. We don’t play with the other kids and it’s not clear to me if this is because we’re not welcome or because we don’t feel like it.

  Yes, what?

  Your note, she says. You asked me if I would be your friend.

  I’d forgotten about the note. I had assumed the answer was yes because we’d been acting like friends all week.

  I showed my father the note and he said you can’t just say yes or no to friendship. He said you have to see how it goes.

  A thin layer of clay is stuck to the table and I try to get it off with my thumbnail.

  Do you want to come to my house tomorrow? I ask.

  Don’t you live at a motel?

  Well, yes. It’s still my home.

  I would love to, she says, bending over the clay and helping me scrape it. I try to match her excitement, though the cup of worry in my stomach has already begun to fill.

  I’ll ask my mom after school but don’t say anything, says Elizabeth. Just let me talk to her.

  Okay, I say, though I can’t imagine what I would say to Elizabeth’s mother.

  After school, Elizabeth’s mother is waiting for her and Jim is on his knees toward the end of the block, taking a picture of the junker truck that has been parked there as long as I can remember. I pretend I don’t see him.

  Just go along with me, okay? says Elizabeth.

  We approach her mother. I glance at Jim, who is stretching his body over the hood of the car so he can shoot the broken windshield.

  Mama, says Elizabeth, Sophia and me have a project to work on. Geography.

  Sophia and I, says Elizabeth’s mother.

  She said we could work on it at her house tomorrow, says Elizabeth.

  I nod. Elizabeth’s mother squints at me.

  Jim yells, Hey, my girl, come check this out! But I pretend I don’t know him.

  I’ve spoken to Sister every day this week. She says you’re doing fine, more than fine, says Elizabeth’s mother.

  Yes, but we took a pretest just this afternoon in geography and I missed half the capitals, says Elizabeth.