“I never heard of any of them,” Jerry confessed. “I don’t know a thing about jazz. Never really listened to it.”
Cara pressed close to him, her perfume exciting and bold. “I’ll teach you, Jerry!” she whispered, and her words seemed to go beyond music.
The Lincoln Gardens was a dirty place, as Jerry saw when they entered. It was dingy and needed paint, and the paper decorations and faded flowers hanging from the walls added nothing.
They sat down at a small table, and Cara winked at the waiter, saying, “Bring me something nice to drink.” When he took their order, Cara suddenly said, “Look over there, Jerry—”
Jerry turned to see a group of men wearing dark suits sitting at a table. “Who’s that? They all look like gangsters.”
“Jerry—they are gangsters!” Cara giggled and put her hand on his arm. “You’re such a baby!”
Jerry studied the men, who were all smoking black cigars and drinking as they talked. One of them looked vaguely familiar, and he asked, “Who’s that big man?”
“That’s Big Jim Colosimo with his bodyguards. And the other two are Johnny Torrio and Al Capone.”
Jerry stared at her. “How in the world do you know all those men?”
“I read the papers, silly! They’re famous!”
“They look like they’d kill their own mother for a dollar bill!”
“I guess so—but they’re exciting,” Cara shrugged. A band came out and took its station, and Cara said, “That’s King Oliver—the big strong-looking man. You listen now!”
Jerry was nearly bowled over by the sound that the group poured out. It was raw and loud and somehow animalistic. It had the power to stir him, and he realized for the first time what his father had meant when he’d written, “Jazz is a combination of nervousness, lawlessness, primitive and savage animalism, and lasciviousness.”
It was all of those things, and by the time the couple had listened to the music for an hour, Jerry was caught up in it. Once when Oliver was taking the roof off, Cara shouted over the music, “Now you’ll get a chance to see Papa Joe’s red underwear!” And as the big man continued to lift the notes, his stiff shirtfront popped open, and his red undershirt was exposed.
Finally Cara persuaded Jerry to dance, and he proved to be an apt pupil. The Charleston he had heard of but had never seen. He was feeling the effect of the “nice”—and illegal—drinks the waiter had brought, so he threw himself into it.
“You’re a real sheik, Jerry,” Cara laughed, holding on to him as they moved back to the table. A black man carrying a gleaming golden trumpet encountered them and smiled. “You folks dance good,” he said with a gravelly voice. “Ought to get paid for it.”
Cara laughed and asked, “Are you with the band?”
“I sometimes plays when Papa Joe ain’t tootin his horn.” He grinned and said, “My name’s Louis Armstrong, but folks calls me ‘Papa Dip.’”
“Why do they call you that?” Jerry asked.
Armstrong laughed and touched his lower lip. “Cause of this. I was called ‘Dippermouth’ for a long time, but I guess I got some respect now. Well, Papa Dip, he’s got to play for the folks. Enjoy the show.”
The two of them listened with awe as Armstrong made the room vibrate with a great soaring solo, and Cara said reverently, “He’s the best there is, Jerry.”
“You said that about Oliver.”
“That was before I heard Papa Dip,” she retorted. She leaned forward, but whatever she was going to say was drowned out by a voice that proposed, “How about a dance, Sweetheart?”
Both Jerry and Cara looked up to see a man who had come to stand beside their table. He was, Jerry noted instantly, one of the men Cara had pointed out—the one called Johnny Torrio. He was not a tall man, but there was some sort of primitive power in his gaze. Jerry said, “Not tonight—sorry.”
“I guess I’ll have to insist.”
“Insist all you want,” Jerry shrugged. “But you’ll have to find another partner.”
Cara was pale and said nervously, “Jerry, it’s all right.”
But Jerry was in one of his “no” moods. He stood up and faced Torrio, saying, “She’s not dancing with you, and that’s the last time I want to say it.”
Torrio looked startled. He had steady brown eyes, and there was something in the scene that amused him. “Do you know who I am?”
“Johnny Torrio,” Jerry said. He was nervous and noted that the music was muted and that everybody in the club was watching. “Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“I’m Jerry Stuart.”
“Never heard of you.”
“You will when I get to be famous. Look, I’m getting tired of this. Why don’t you go back to your table before somebody gets hurt.”
“Jerry!” Cara stood up and took his arm. She gave Torrio a steady look, then said, “Find another girl, Mr. Torrio.”
Torrio was enjoying the spotlight. “I like you,” he said. “Just one dance. I can’t let a baby like this push me around.”
And then another man suddenly appeared, one who had sat at the table with Torrio. He was trim and had dark hair and eyes. “You any relation to the preacher, Owen Stuart?” he asked.
Jerry was startled and gave the man a close look. “My uncle,” he nodded. “You know him?”
“Do I know him?” The sleek man laughed silently. “Sure I know him—Amos must be your dad. I’m Eddy Castellano. Amos lived at our house when I was a kid. And Owen saved my life over in France. You hear about that?”
“Yes, I’ve heard him talk about you—Dad, too. He sends your mother flowers every time she has a birthday.”
Castellano smiled. “Sure. He’s a straight-up guy, and so is Owen.”
Torrio was staring at Castellano strangely. “This kid’s dad and uncle is friends of yours? One of them a preacher?”
“That’s right, Mr. Torrio.” Castellano turned to face the gangleader, his right hand held loosely at his side. “Like I say, I owe a lot to the kid’s uncle. He came across a field where me and the rest of the outfit was pinned down by the Krauts. They blew his hand off—but he got up and kept coming. Him and a baby-faced kid set up the machine gun and stopped the charge. If they hadn’t I wouldn’t be here.”
“And you’re telling me not to bother this punk?”
Eddy Castellano’s voice was smooth as velvet, but there was no mistaking the threat in his body. “I’m saying that my brother Nick wouldn’t like it if anyone bothered this kid. And you know what a pest Nick can be when he gets his back up, Mr. Torrio. He just goes crazy.” Eddy was aware that several of Torrio’s men, including Al Capone, were edging around behind their boss. It was Capone who said, “Want us to take him out, Johnny?”
The silence in the room was heavy, so heavy it seemed to press down on Torrio. He was a man who was accustomed to being obeyed, and the impulse to kill was in him. Still—he saw that Eddy was ready to pull his gun. Torrio knew that Nick Castellano was a fierce enemy—one he didn’t need. He had enough trouble with the Castellanos already, now that they had moved in from New York.
“Why, I didn’t mean to be rude,” Torrio said, smiling with his lips, though it never reached his eyes. “I gotta’ lot of respect for men like your uncle, Stuart—war heroes. They kept this country from getting whipped. No hard feelings?”
“Not at all,” Jerry swallowed.
“Swell—and don’t pay for nothin’, it’s all on Torrio.”
When Johnny Torrio turned and walked away, Eddy smiled queerly at Jerry. “Well, Kid, you’ll never come as close to shutting it down as you just did.”
Jerry stared at the slender face of the gangster. “I’ll tell Owen what you did. Dad, too.” He shook his head, adding, “I was a goner. Thanks a lot, Mr. Castellano.”
Eddy stared at the open face of the young man. “Tell Owen—maybe this will make up for some things—”
Then he turned and left. Jerry said, “Let’s get out of here, Cara.”
“All right.”
As they rose to leave the band struck up, and they heard Armstrong’s golden trumpet playing a quick-paced solo. Cara began to sing the words as they left:
Runnin’ wild, lost control,
Runnin’ wild, mighty bold,
Feelin’ gay, reckless too—
Later Jerry would remember that night as the beginning of some sort of wild journey—and he never heard the song without feeling a touch of sadness.
That was the night he became part of what a young writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald, called the “lost generation.”
It was the night he began his first affair.
And it was the night he left the way of his fathers to begin a slow journey into shame.
LENORA
Got to get these peanuts while the weather’s still hot,” Will said. He came to stand beside Lenora and Christie, who had come to watch the harvest. He glanced down at Lenora’s chair, which the blacksmith had equipped with large thick bicycle tires for outside use. The first wheels had cut into the ground, making progress hard in the fields, but Lenora had come up with the idea, and now she went everywhere.
Christie looked over to the thresher that had come down the road and watched as the owner, a neighbor named John DeForge, attached a steel blade to the feet of the cultivator. She looked down at Lenora, thinking of how well her sister had adjusted to her limitations. She was not able to ride her horse, of course, but she collected eggs, milked the cow by slipping out of her chair onto a low stool that Will had built, and even managed to pick tomatoes and other vegetables in the garden. She never complains, Christie marveled. If I was tied to that wheelchair, I’d be terrible!
Lenora turned her head to smile, saying, “Remember how we used to have to dig peanuts by hand, Christie? I think we all hated that job worse than any other chore on the farm.”
“Yes. Owen threatened once to run away from home if he had to dig another peanut!”
“He hated it, all right, and so did I,” Will put in. He glanced over toward the cultivator, adding, “Some of the newfangled inventions they come up with I could do without, but this one suits me fine.”
They watched as the cultivator began to move. Up the row it went, the steel blade slicing under the rows, loosening the dirt, and cutting the taproots of the peanut vines. As DeForge urged the team of mules forward, a cloud of dust rose, and Will and Christie followed, picking up the vines and shaking the dirt free. The hired man came after them, loading the vines into a wheelbarrow and hauling them to the wagon. When the wagon was filled, he drove it to a clear spot and unloaded them into a pile.
Lenora was sitting beside the pile when the thresher came, driven by DeForge’s oldest boy, Denton. As he set up the thresher, attaching it to the small gasoline engine, Lenora said, “Remember you promised me you’d come to the revival tonight, Dent.”
The young man was thin as a rail and tough as a boot. He had a shock of black hair, piercing black eyes—and a bad reputation in the community. Now he paused and looked up at her, a gleam of humor in his dark eyes. “Did I really promise that, Lenora?”
“Yes, you did—and I’m holding you to it.”
“Aw, I guess I did—but the roof would fall in if I came to meet’n!” he grinned. “Why don’t me and you go out and watch the moon come up at Spangler’s Point?” This particular location was where young lovers parked in their cars and buggies, and the idea tickled young DeForge. “Tell you what, Lenora, you go to Spangler’s Point with me—and I’ll go to the revival with you.”
Lenora was accustomed to Dent’s teasing. He had tried to court her for years, though he was ten years younger. “Never mind Spangler’s Point—you gave your word, so I’ll see you tonight.”
DeForge shrugged, giving up. “All right, I’ll be there. But I’m sitting on the back row.”
“Better get there early then, Dent,” Lenora said, the corners of her lips turning upward in a smile. “All the real bad sinners want those seats. They don’t last long. Why don’t you sing in the choir with me? Plenty of seats there.”
“Now that’d be something for folks to talk about, wouldn’t it?” The idea tickled the young man, but he shook his head. “The songs I know can’t be sung in church, Lenora. But I’ll be on that back row.”
Christie and Will came to lift the peanuts on pitchforks and piled them into the hopper. The peanuts came out of one spout, the leaves and vines out of another. Then the sacks of peanuts had to be stacked, and the thrashed-out vines loaded on the wagon for hay.
All afternoon the engine made a noisy cadence—Clap! Clap! Clap!—that echoed on the hot, dusty air. All of them were covered with a fine dust that clogged the nose and burned the eyes. Hour after hour it went on, and the pile of peanuts grew higher and higher.
“Never seen so many peanuts!” Dent DeForge groaned. “Where you going to put ’em all, Mr. Stuart?”
“Don’t know,” Will admitted. “Didn’t bring near enough sacks, and we can’t leave ’em out in the weather. Might rain and that would be a mess.”
“We got plenty of sacks. I’ll ride over and get some.”
“That’ll answer, Dent,” Will nodded. “Christie, you go with Dent. Stop by the house and get what sacks we got left, and bring something to eat and some fresh water.”
“All right, Pa.” Christie got into the wagon with young DeForge, and he spoke to the team. The Stuarts’ house was only half a mile away, and the DeForges’ place wasn’t far down the road. They went to the DeForge place, collected a mountain of sacks, then went back up the road. Dent lolled in the kitchen while Christie got fresh water in gallon jugs and made a quick lunch. He was watching her carefully and without warning came over and put his arm around her.
Christie gasped and struggled to get away, but he held her with an easy strength. His eyes danced, and he said, “Hate to see a woman wasted—especially a good-looking one like you!” He ignored her protests and kissed her. Christie was like a child, and as he ran his hand down her back, she found herself stirred—as she never had been with Mel Tolliver. The touch of DeForge’s lean, strong body pressing against her suddenly aroused some emotion that both frightened and excited her. His lips were firm, and he pulled her even closer—and then something like fear came to her and she wrenched herself away.
“Denton DeForge . . . you ought to be ashamed!” she said, her voice unsteady and her breast heaving.
“Of what, Christie? Of being a man?” DeForge had been surprised by the return his kiss had brought. He had admired Christie’s trim figure and clean features for a long time—but she had never given him any encouragement. Now he said, “Mel doesn’t kiss you like that, does he?”
Christie’s face flamed, and she snapped, “That’s none of your business! Now, leave me alone, Dent!”
“Sure. Never force myself on a woman.” Dent spoke the truth, for there were enough women to satisfy him who didn’t fight. He accompanied her out to the wagon, and when they were halfway back to the peanut fields, he said impassively, “Sorry if I acted wrong, Christie. But a man needs a woman—and a woman needs a man.” When she didn’t answer, he urged, “Don’t you think so, Christie? I mean—it’s the way God made us, ain’t it?”
“That . . . that’s for married people!”
Her answer intrigued the young man, and he thought of it as the mules plodded along, their hooves lifting small clouds of dust. The sun was hot, and the sky was decked with thin streamers of clouds. He studied them for a time, then turned to her, curiosity in his eyes. “But don’t you like being kissed? I mean, there ain’t no magic in a wedding, Christie. A man and a woman, they got their cravings before they stand up before a preacher, don’t they?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Dent. It’s not proper.”
DeForge was young, but he had learned a great deal about women. They had been, more or less, the major study of his life since he had passed his middle teens. He had seen all kinds of girls and now quickly categorized Chri
stie: She’s afraid of men, I reckon. Seen a few like that. Never seen one this good-lookin’ who was so skeered though. He cut his eyes around, admiring the firm lines of Christie’s body and noting the smooth texture of her skin. But somehow I think she’s about as skeered of herself as she is of men. I got thefeelin’ when I was kissin’ her that she really wanted to let go—but was afraid of what she might do if she cut loose.
And then they were back beside the thresher. DeForge reached up to help Christie down, but she ignored his hand, stepping to the ground herself. This little action was noted by Lenora, and when Christie had helped unload the sacks and came to bring her some fresh water, she asked abruptly, “Dent try to get you, Christie?” And when Christie stared at her with a reddened face, she said, “Don’t be embarrassed. That’s the way he is, you know.” She took a sip of the cool water, then lowered the glass. “Did he kiss you?”
“Yes—but I fought him off!”
“He’s a fine-looking fellow. Did you enjoy it?”
“No!”
Lenora lifted her eyebrows. “Why are you so mad? Don’t you enjoy flirting a little?”
“Lenora!” Christie was shocked. “I can’t believe you’d take up for him.”
“He’s a fine young man—a little wild, of course. But God will take care of him pretty soon.”
“He drinks, and he . . . he’s been with every floozie in the county!”
Lenora unknowingly echoed Dent’s words. “He’s a man, Christie. A hot-blooded young man, true, but he’ll make a good husband when God gets through with him.” She was troubled by the incident and not for the first time felt that there was something not quite normal about the way Christie stood aloof from men. She had tried to get the younger woman to talk, but there was a wall between the two—at least on this one subject. She’s not going to be happy with Tolliver. The thought touched her, as it had before, and she began to pray as Christie went back to work. Lord, give her whatever love she needs, because she’s headed for some kind of bitterness if she doesn’t have it!
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