This Monday morning, seated at the kitchen’s breakfast bar, a coffee mug to my right and my laptop and notebook before me, I drew in a slow, deep breath and then exhaled. A single tear escaped my eye and trickled down my cheek. I brushed it away while flipping through my notebook to the page where my Dahlia notes began.
Adrenaline flowed through me, sweeping away my melancholy mood as I turned on my laptop and stared at the blank page that came up on the computer screen. This was where I would begin her story. My fingers tapped the keyboard while I allowed creativity and imagination to takeover where Dahlia did not or could not fill in the blanks.
***
Dahlia’s Story – Chapter 1
From the stage, Dahlia eyed the dapper stranger who entered the rundown Harlem Jazz joint where she sang on Saturday nights. She allowed her gaze to follow him, a peacock among pigeons, as he made his way to the bar to order a drink. He was different alright. His gaze, his smile, the way he rhythmically nodded his head to the music were clear signs to Dahlia that he was engaged in her performance. Unlike the regulars who often seemed more absorbed in conducting shady business over cheap liquor than they were in her singing. After Dahlia’s set, the stranger approached her and invited her to join him for a drink.
He took her hand in his. “Name’s Josephus,” he said his voice rich and smooth, like a chocolate malt. “Josephus Elroy Jones.”
Her eyes widened. “THE Josephus Elroy Jones? The ace horn player over at The Half Moon Club?”
“The same,” he answered. “What about you, girl? You got a name to go with that silken voice?”
She smiled. “I sure do. It’s Dahlia. So, what brings you to this dive?”
“I come to check out the sax player but looks like I hit pay dirt with you too. My band, The Jazz Deliverers, sure could use a fine looking vocalist like you. Why don’t you come check us out next Saturday, honey? I’ll make sure they treat you right.”
“For sure, I’ll be there,” she gushed.
Dahlia wanted to pinch herself, make sure she wasn’t dreaming. The Half Moon Club on Lenox Avenue was pure class. She had heard that only the best Blues and Jazz folk played there and getting a gig at the Half Moon was not something that happened to ordinary folk like her. That is, until Josephus Elroy Jones graced this dump with his fine presence. A shiver of jittery anticipation rushed through her.
***
Sunday afternoon came on a wave of bright sunshine. I grabbed my car keys from the key hook next to the hall closet and shouted a quick ‘bye’ to Bradley who was in the den working on his trial file. He mumbled a barely audible ‘bye’ in return. I hurried through the front door happily anticipating my trip to Forest Brook. My visits would now take on an added purpose – my Dahlia project. I hadn’t yet discussed the idea of turning her story into a novel with anyone, not even Bradley. My thoughts searched for those days, like someone groping in the dark for a light switch, when Bradley and I shared everything.
At Forest Brook, I found Dad and Dahlia seated outside on a bench at the foot of a beautiful weeping willow tree. Dad, I noticed, held in his hand his cherished copy of Shakespearean Sonnets. He was reading to her, his recitation surprisingly as strong and as clear as I remembered when he recited Shakespeare to Mom and me. “..but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of those fair those ow’st…” What course, I mused, would these two lovely souls’ friendship take had they not been limited by their impediments?
I paused to allow Dad to finish reading then smiled and greeted them. “Hey, you two.”
With the aid of his walker, locked into position, Dad hoisted himself up off the bench. We wrapped one another in a warm embrace. A lopsided smile spread across his face. “Hello sweetheart. You look lovely, as always,” he said while patting my mass of curls.
“Thanks Dad. Hello Dahlia,” I said while reaching down to give her a hug. Her face registered no sign of recognition. “It’s me, Megan. We met last week and you were telling me all about your days as a Jazz singer. Remember?” I searched her face hoping for a hint that she recalled our chat but her gaze was vague.
Then, her lips curved into a little smile. “Oh yeah. Megan. Such a pretty name. My daughters have pretty names too. Slim, tell Megan my daughters’ names.”
“Anne and Patricia,” Dad said, looking pleased.
“Those are pretty names. I wish they were here today. I’d love to meet them.”
“They must’ve been here today. Didn’t they come here today, Slim?”
“Um no, Dahlia. Your girls were here yesterday. They visit one day during the week and Saturdays.” Dad turned to me. “I met Anne and Patricia yesterday, Meg. They are lovely ladies.”
“Just like their mother. How about we take a walk around the grounds? It’s such a beautiful day. Dahlia, would you like to join us?”
She reached for her walking cane and, with unexpected fluidity, stood up. “Sure, let’s walk.”
Our stroll took us over well-manicured lawns and past a lawn bowling green where a group of bowlers chatted between turns. Further on, we came upon a Tai Chi class and further still, seated around a long picnic table, another group was engaged in lively debate.
“The book club,” Dad explained.
I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back for helping Dad select Forest Brook. I had researched this and other facilities with, I imagined, as much vigor as a PhD candidate researching her thesis. Forest Brook was noted for being a progressive facility; one that nurtured its residents, those who were self-sufficient as well as those who required assisted living. It was pricey, but worth it. Seeing that Dad hadn’t lost his habitually upbeat attitude quelled any nagging concerns I had about his well-being.
“Meg,” Dad called to me. I glanced around. He and Dahlia were several steps behind me. “Mind if we go inside now? I could use a comfy chair.”
“Of course, Dad. Is the lounge okay, or would you prefer we visit in your suite?”
“The lounge is fine. I love the view from that space.”
“I’m coming in too, Slim. You mind if I come in too?”
“We were hoping you would, weren’t we, Meg?”
I nodded at my gracious father. Tenderness caressed my heart. Inside, I went to the small kitchenette adjacent to the lounge and prepared tea for the three of us. The kitchenette was well stocked with trays of baked goods. We sat, sipped tea, munched on banana muffins and chatted until I noticed Dad’s eyelids, like heavy drapery, slipping over his eyes.
“How’re you feeling, Dahlia?” I asked.
“I’m feeling fine.” She reached for the teapot but her hand trembled when she tried to lift it. I gently took it from her and topped up her tea.
“Thank you, honey.” She looked at me but she was frowning. Her eyes seemed pleading. Anticipating her request, I stood up. “Would you like me to put your music on?” I asked.
She nodded and smiled at me.
I retrieved her CD player and CD from the audio cabinet. Dahlia’s eyes sparkled as the music started.
“You know,” she said. “Josephus always liked the way I fixed his tea, said I sweetened it just right.”
“Oh? Did you and Josephus get married?”
“No, we never did, but he always said we would get married and I believed him. After all, he was my man and I was his woman. We lived in the same apartment and had children. We may as well been married, huh?”
I set my teacup down and retrieved my notebook and pen from my purse. “When did you and Josephus get together?”
“Josephus and me, we got together after I joined his band. My friends, though, didn’t trust him, said he looked like trouble. But I didn’t pay them any mind. I figured they were just jealous. Well, he asked me to join the band after I sang at the Half Moon one Saturday night. I suppose that was like what you call an audition.”
“How did you feel? Were you nervous?”
She chuckled. “Nervous? I was downright terrified. But I tried to keep that fear insid
e me. Why, from the time I got there and talked to the club manager, to the time I got up on stage and started singing, my knees were knocking together like two big ole coconuts. See, I wasn’t used to singing in no fancy place like the Half Moon Club. I didn’t know what folk there would think about me or my singing. Good thing I had a shot of gin and soda before I got on stage.”
I laughed. “Oh no, Dahlia. How did you get through the song?”
Dahlia paused and I tried to read her expression before she continued. “Well I got through that song because it felt right, like I was supposed to be there on that stage with Josephus and his band. When I looked into Josephus’s eyes and he smiled at me, and when I started to sing and I saw them smiling faces in the audience, I knew I was gonna do alright. From that night, I fell for Josephus. I fell hard for him and he fell for me.”
“What happened then?”
“He invited me to his place one night after a real hot set. From that night, one thing led to another and, well, I never looked back. Honey, things were real good right up until our baby girls come along.”
As Dahlia spoke, I fervently jotted down the notes that would become chapter two of her story. Every so often I glanced at her. She had a faraway expression on her face, as though she were seeing that scene at the Half Moon Club being played out on the wall behind me.
***
Driving home, I squinted into the setting sun that lingered at the horizon like a golden beach ball. On the radio, a twangy-voiced singer lamented her lost love. But my mind remained on the Half Moon Club. As I drove along the quiet road, the characters that made an appearance in Dahlia’s story today – Josephus, the band, the club’s manager and patrons – all jostled to gain a position at the forefront of my thoughts. They remained with me the entire trip home, their presence palpable, until I turned onto our driveway.
Inside, I met an oppressive silence. The house felt cavernous. Had Bradley taken a break from trial stuff and gone out? I wondered. But, as I walked through the hallway, the clicking sound of fingers tapping a keyboard splintered the silence. A beam of light shone at the slightly ajar den door. Gently, I pushed it open wider. Bradley was seated at the computer desk, typing away, working, I guessed, on closing arguments.
“Hi there,” I said quietly. “You been in here all day?”
He looked up and toward me with tired looking eyes. “Pretty much. How’d your visit go?”
“Great. We took advantage of the beautiful day and spent some time outside.”
“Cool. How’s Dad?”
“He seems to be improving with each visit.”
“That’s good news. So, no Dahlia today?”
I hesitated. I could always read his attitude in his body language. This time, I read lack of interest. “Yes, we visited with Dahlia also.”
“That’s nice,” he said then returned his attention to the computer screen. “Well, I’d better get back to this.”
‘No more questions, Your Honor,’ he might as well have said.
“Alright, I’ll leave you to it. I’m going up for a shower. Oh, any calls?”
“Uhm…yeah. Krystin called. She said classes are going well and she’s looking forward to coming home in August. And she said not to worry about Mikayla; they’ve been in touch through Facebook or Instagram or one of those things.”
“Great,” I said. Mikayla, our eldest, was spending the summer teaching English in Thailand, and Krystin was staying on at school through July to earn an extra credit. Both girls would be home in August for a short break before returning to school in the fall. Pride welled up within me when I thought of my daughters’ stellar work ethics. Yet, part of me wondered whether the tension they must surely have sensed between Bradley and me influenced their decision to extend their time away from home. I turned to leave the den.
“Oh, and your sister, Laura. She called again.” Bradley’s words were like a brick wall that sprang up in front of me.
I turned and glared at him. “Laura is not my sister, and why don’t they leave me alone?”
Bradley removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes and stood up. He came toward me and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Megan” he said, his voice soft. I saw concern in his face, an emotion that had been lacking of late. “Laura is your sister, albeit half-sister, but still your sister. She said Helen is very ill. The prognosis isn’t good. She may have only months left.”
I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that, but what does it have to do with me?”
Bradley spoke my name through a sigh. “Megan.” He ignored my angry frown and continued. “You’ve let this go on far too long. You’ve given your time to some woman you hardly know, yet you refuse to give your own birth mother a chance at reconciliation in what could be the short time she has left. That is not the caring, compassionate woman I married.”
Damned tears; they prickled the corners of my eyes. I stubbornly pushed them back. “You just don’t get it, do you? You know very well what I went through in foster care. That’s all down to her tossing me from her life with no consideration of what I could, and did, face without her to protect me.”
Bradley’s face appeared crestfallen. We’d had this discussion several times in the past, always with the same outcome. “Look,” he said. “You know that Helen was a very young woman; facing motherhood alone after your biological father took off. You never forgave him either. And now he’s dead. You’ll never get that chance. Do you want the same thing to happen with your mother? Why not give her a chance to explain to you why she made what was very likely an agonizing decision?”
“Oh, so now I’m the guilty party eh, Mr. Attorney?”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just suggesting that you hear what she has to say, before it’s too late.”
“Listen, Bradley, enough with the lecture. You weren’t there in that foster home with me. If it hadn’t been for Mom and Dad, who knows what would have become of me.”
“Megan, listen to me, I –”
I rushed from the den and raced up the stairs, through our bedroom to the ensuite bathroom where I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower. Salty tears rolling down my face mingled with the warm stream that poured from the showerhead. For whom, I asked myself, was I shedding tears - the little girl who had suffered at the hands of a dysfunctional system or the woman who had given me away like an unwanted cat or dog?
After my shower, I quickly dried off, wrapped a towel around my damp hair and slipped into freshly laundered pajamas. Years ago, Bradley had set up the antique desk that was a housewarming gift from his parents in the alcove area of our bedroom. My laptop sat on that desk beckoning me to come to it and continue with Dahlia’s story – a needed diversion from this Helen issue. I positioned my fingers on the keyboard and, venturing back to Dahlia’s Harlem and the Half Moon Club, began typing.
***
Dahlia’s Story – Chapter Two
The following Saturday night, decked out in her fanciest dress – an emerald green taffeta - Dahlia tentatively entered the heady atmosphere of The Half Moon Club where she sought momentary refuge in the Ladies’ room. There, she tucked behind her ear a strand of hair that had escaped from her glossy upswept hairdo. Nervously, she fumbled through her pocketbook for her compact and applied a dab of powder to her nose, then touched up her rouge.
Satisfied that she looked her Saturday night best, she took a deep breath and, head held high, entered the club. Her heels clicked over the hardwood flooring. Her eyes scanned the large room’s rich red and gold textured walls, linen covered tables, each adorned with a flickering candle inside a glass holder and the long bar, its varnished wood glistening beneath Victorian light fixtures. The air was infused with the competing scents of tobacco smoke, cologne and perfume emanating from the few patrons who were already seated. The pungent mixture could have been offensive but Dahlia found it intoxicating. On stage, she saw Josephus and The Jazz Deliverers warming up.
She made
her way to the bar and lightly tapped the shoulder of a burley, cocoa colored man seated on one of the barstools. “’Scuse me, Mister. You the manager?” Josephus had described him well.
The manager eyed her up and down before answering. “I sure am. What can I do for you, doll?”
“I’m Dahlia, Josephus’s friend. He said to ask for you.”
“Ah, Dahlia. So you’re the doll Josephus can’t stop talking about. Ha-ha,” he chuckled. “That brother sure do have fine taste in the ladies.”
Dahlia felt a blush of heat rise to her cheeks.
“Have a seat, honey. What can I get you to drink? Josephus said to take good care of you.”
She took a seat on the padded bar stool the manager held out for her and said, “How ‘bout a gin and soda?”
“You askin’ me or you offerin’, honey?” he asked, another baritone laugh following his question.
The glow in Dahlia’s cheeks grew warmer. She smiled at him. “Oh, I’m asking. Definitely asking.”
“Then a gin and soda it is.” The manager turned from her and repeated her order to the bartender. “Henry, pour this fine lady a gin and soda.”
From the stage, Josephus acknowledged her with a wink and a smile that made her heart dance. She shifted her gaze from the stage and focused on the bartender’s long, tapered fingers as he mixed her drink. The band started playing, their sweet Jazz riffs carried in sound waves that bounced off the ceiling and back to her ears. Dahlia took a sip of her drink and began to relax as the potent liquid coursed through her. She looked up from her drink and scanned the club. Quite suddenly, it seemed, the large space was filled with fine looking patrons, chatting, laughing, and sipping cocktails.
After the band’s third number, Josephus went to the microphone. “Ladies and Gents, we got a real treat for you all tonight. C’mon up here Dahlia honey and give these folk a piece of scat heaven.”
Dahlia took a deep breath and chased it with a gulp of her drink. Her heart began to flutter against her ribcage. She looked around the room at the fine looking men and women sipping fancy cocktails and her heartbeat accelerated. She stood up to make her way to the stage but her legs felt heavy as though protesting her presence there. The Half Moon Club was a palace compared to the hovel that was the joint where she’d managed to score gigs, where she could have been singing butt naked and the patrons would’ve taken no notice, as if she was just a piece of the shabby furnishings.
Walking Through and Other Stories Page 12