Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  There was no point in denying it. There was no point to any of it.

  “Look at you,” said Aileen. “You’re blushing.”

  “No, I’m not. C’mon, let’s go.” But she couldn’t bring herself to walk away. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  “Boy, oh boy,” said Aileen. “Your mama won’t like that at all.”

  “Since when have I ever done anything that my mama liked?”

  • • •

  Leeba entered the control booth at Universal the following Monday afternoon. Evelyn and Leonard were with the engineer, seated in front of the window looking out onto Studio A. The reel-to-reel was rolling and Leonard asked Leeba to stick around, keep an eye on the clock.

  She liked being included on the sessions. It made her feel like she played a role in the music they were creating. Granted, it was a small role and she wanted to do more. She’d been writing songs in the evenings and on the weekends, so excited to play them for Leonard and Evelyn. One day, she thought she had hit on something, only to have Evelyn fold her arms and say, “It sounds like Doris Day.”

  “I know,” said Leeba. She’d done that intentionally. “It’d be perfect for Aileen.”

  “See, that’s your whole problem,” Leonard had said. “You gotta quit trying to sound like everyone else. You need to develop your own sound. And I know you love Aileen, but—”

  “Girl singers don’t sell records,” Evelyn had said.

  That was the end of that song. Their rejections stung, each one more than the previous, as if the cumulative effect was mounting evidence that she had no talent as a songwriter. She probably would have given up altogether had it not been for her time in the studio. Those sessions inspired her to keep going. She grabbed a coffee from the pot in back and sat off to the side on a stool, watching the magic take place.

  Since the “Bilbo” fiasco six months before, Leonard had been pushing to record more race records. Evelyn may have had her doubts about Negro music, but Leeba liked this new sound Aristocrat was going after. The rhythm was infectious. It got into your system and it wouldn’t let go. The only other time she heard this kind of music was down on Maxwell Street.

  That day they were recording a piano player named Sunnyland Slim. He wore a bowler hat and had the longest, most slender fingers Leeba had ever seen. He’d come up from the Mississippi delta and all you had to do was look into his sad, soulful eyes with their ashy circles underneath to imagine what he’d been through. Sunnyland Slim had arrived in Chicago about five years back and everyone said he was the best piano player in town. From time to time he sat in at the Macomba. That day Slim brought Ernest “Big” Crawford with him, a large, beefy man who held his upright bass close around the middle like he would a woman.

  Sunnyland Slim and Big Crawford were on the other side of the glass, laying down a song, “Johnson Machine Gun.” After a few takes, Leonard turned to Evelyn. “Something is missing. It needs a little duh-duh-duh-duh.”

  “‘Duh-duh-duh-duh’?” Evelyn cocked an eyebrow. “Could you be more specific?”

  “I don’t know what the hell it is. You know: duh-duh-duh-duh.”

  “Would that be guitar?”

  “How should I know? I just know that’s the sound this needs.”

  Evelyn rolled her eyes and hit the talk button so the musicians could hear her inside the studio. “Hey, guys, what do you think about adding a guitar?”

  Sunnyland Slim played a few chords and smiled. “I got just the cat.”

  He came into the control booth and made a telephone call. Fifteen minutes later a man wearing dusty overalls and an even dustier overcoat walked in with a guitar strapped to his back. He had a flat wide forehead, a full head of wild hair and a mustache so thin it looked drawn onto his dark skin. Sunnyland placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and made the introductions. “This here’s Muddy. Muddy Waters.”

  No time for pleasantries. Leonard ushered them into the studio and they went back to recording “Johnson Machine Gun.” Only this time, with the addition of the guitar, Leeba saw Sunnyland Slim and Big Crawford come to life. She watched Sunnyland’s foot stomp to the beat, his left hand vamping while his right hand hit the keys so hard they gave off a tremor. His fingers were flying so fast his movements blurred before her eyes. But as much as she admired his playing, Leeba had to admit it was the addition of that guitar player that made all the difference, and they nailed it on the first take.

  Since there was still time on the clock, Sunnyland said, “Let me try a little something. We been foolin’ with this here number—” He played a combination of chords. “Tell us what y’all think.”

  They weren’t rolling tape when Sunnyland kicked off the introduction and the guitar player jumped in with a lick that twisted and whined while his fingers raced over the strings, up and down the neck. It gave off a shock of reverb that sounded like a mechanical voice speaking. The guitarist, this Muddy guy, was sitting in a folding chair playing so hard he made the legs rock back and forth. He was playing up high on the frets, close to the sound hole. The only other person she’d seen play like that was Red Dupree. Muddy’s brow began to glisten with sweat and when he started to sing about a gypsy woman his voice grew so guttural and so intense he sounded unlike anyone else they’d ever recorded.

  When they finished the song, Leeba was sure that they were going to record Muddy, but instead Evelyn signaled the engineer, who hit the talk button and said, “That’s a wrap, fellas.”

  Leonard and Evelyn were both running late and asked Leeba to stick around and handle the paperwork, so she stayed back in the control booth with the contracts. Big Crawford and Sunnyland Slim signed theirs and were out the door, but Leeba noticed Muddy shuffling through the pages, picking up the pen and setting it down and picking it back up again.

  “Do you have any questions about the contract?” asked Leeba.

  “Can’t I just have my moneys?”

  “That’s what the paperwork is for, so you’ll get paid. Just go ahead and sign right there.” She pointed to the line.

  “I don’t wanna sign no papers.” He hoisted up his guitar and she thought he was going to leave.

  “But you won’t get paid and we can’t release the record unless you sign them. It’s a standard contract,” she said, trying to reassure him. “The musicians’ union drew it up. Not us. And it’s for your own protection. I swear it is.” She held out the forms to him.

  “What is all this?” He shuffled through the pages, scanning them again, turning the forms over. That was when Leeba realized what the problem was. Muddy Waters couldn’t read.

  She didn’t want to embarrass him so she took the pages from him and led him over to a chair in the control booth. “Honestly,” she said, “no one ever understands these forms. See this right here”—Leeba pointed out key sections—“this says ‘Session Agreement’ and it explains that you recorded one song on today’s date. It’s got the studio—Universal Recording Company—see?” She moved her finger down the page. “And there’s Evelyn’s and Leonard’s names right there. And over here—that’s the title of the song. This part over here is just a bunch of gobbledygook. No one ever reads that.” She smiled. It was true. “But this down here is important.” She pointed to a checked box. “It says ‘Type of Session: Standard. Three hours.’ And this part over here says ‘Session Fees: forty-one dollars and twenty-five cents.’ If all that is correct then you go ahead and sign it.”

  He took the pen and marked an X on the signature line. Without looking at her he said, “I ain’t stupid, you know.”

  “Oh, I know you’re not. Anyone who can play a guitar and sing like you did today is anything but stupid.”

  “I just never had no schooling. Ain’t never learnt my letters.”

  “When I first came to this country I didn’t know how to read or write in English, either,” she said. “I couldn’t even
speak it.”

  “You soundin’ all right now.”

  “That’s because I’ve been here a long time. But in the beginning I had to learn it all. If you want, I can show you how to write your name. It’s not hard.” Leeba took a clean sheet of paper and drew an M. “Now you try. Up down, up down.”

  Muddy paused for a moment before he mimicked what she did, letter by letter, until they had his name spelled out.

  “See, that’s you. That’s your signature. Muddy Waters.”

  He smiled, proud, more impressed by this than by what he’d done in the studio that day.

  “And now I have to ask—how’d you get the name Muddy Waters?”

  He laughed for the first time and gave her a big, wide smile. “My grandmama gave me that name on account of me always playin’ in the mud. I don’t know where the Waters part come from. That got picked up ’long the way.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “McKinley. McKinley Morganfield.”

  Leeba gripped his hand. “Well, you keep practicing your signature because, Muddy Waters, I have a feeling you’re going to be signing a lot of contracts.”

  EIGHT

  • • •

  “You’ve Got to Love Her with a Feeling”

  LEEBA

  Leeba passed a newspaper boy on the corner selling the evening edition of the Daily News. It was a Friday, the middle of March. The air was still cold but the days were gradually getting longer, giving Leeba a little extra time to make it home before sundown for Shabbos.

  Rush hour had begun, the traffic backing up on Cottage Grove as people scuttled about, the men with their attaché cases and overcoats buttoned high, the women adjusting their hats and gloves. Leeba spotted a tall colored man at the corner and her pulse lurched. His back was to her and all she could see was the broad shoulders, the guitar case in his hand. She quickened her step and as he crossed the street she saw the man’s face and stopped. Her heart sank a little and she was dumbfounded by her disappointment. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Red Dupree.

  She climbed the stairs of the El platform, paid her seven-cent fare and stepped on board the crowded train, standing the whole way, holding on to the ceiling strap. As she swayed back and forth while the car skated across the tracks, she wondered what had become of that guitar player. She knew Leonard had no interest in recording him, but his music haunted Leeba. Sometimes, when no one was in the office, she would listen to his demo, close her eyes and feel the power of his guitar playing surrounding her, his deep raw vocals pressing against her ear.

  She got off at the Pulaski stop and as she walked up Roosevelt Road she passed Rosenblum’s Bookstore, Silverstein’s Delicatessen, the kosher butchers and the synagogues. This neighborhood, here among her people, was where she was supposed to feel most at home and yet so often she felt that there was no place she belonged. She came from an Orthodox family and yet she found herself on the fringe of Judaism. Leeba considered herself to be an American first—a Jewish American rather than an American Jew.

  When she made it home that afternoon Leeba’s mother was in the kitchen. The scent of sautéed onions and garlic hung heavy in the air, with a slight hint of airplane glue from her father’s latest model. She watched her mother dunk a used tea bag—probably weak from the three or four previous cups—in the steaming water, her slippered feet impatiently tapping the checkered linoleum floor. Her mother lifted the tea bag from the cup and placed it on a spoon, wrapping the string around it to squeeze out the last drops. Mustn’t waste a tea bag with a little life left in it. When she looked up, Leeba saw the circles under her mother’s eyes. Those crescents were always there, though, no matter how much sleep she got. It was a family trait and now that Leeba was older she could see the hereditary darkness forming beneath her own eyes as well. They did her no favors. No one ever called Leeba Groski pretty or beautiful, especially when compared to Golda, petite, three years younger, and already married. It was still daylight, but her mother was anticipating the sunset.

  “Vos iz di shbs goy do azoy fi?” She pointed toward the bedroom.

  “Oy, Mama.” Leeba rolled her eyes. “The Shabbos Goy is here early because she’s also my friend.”

  Even after all these years, her mother still referred to Aileen as their “Shabbos Goy.” Every Jewish family in Lawndale had one. A Shabbos Goy was a gentile who came over on Shabbat and performed those chores that Orthodox Jews like the Groskis were forbidden to do: turn on and off the stove, the lights—even the icebox was off-limits because the light came on when they opened the door. Leeba’s mother paid Aileen a dollar a week to do these things and when Aileen finished with their house, she went across the hall and did the same for Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Moishe and then over to the Chesses’ house and from there to the Berkowitzes’ and so on and so on, down the block. She’d been doing it for years even though she wasn’t in the neighborhood anymore. She just jumped on the 14/16 bus, a straight shot from Maxwell Street to Lawndale.

  “I’ll be right in to help with dinner, Mama. I’m just going to get changed first and talk to Aileen.”

  “Put on something nice,” her mother said. “And do something with your hair. We’re having company.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “Just Avrom Yurzel.”

  Just? Leeba had known Avrom from her days at Marshall High School. He’d been popular, handsome, athletic, the kind that dated those girls who hogged the bathroom mirrors between classes to reapply their lipstick and rouge. Leeba had been infatuated with Avrom, sometimes following him home from class, feigning interest in a neighbor’s flower bed if ever he turned around. He was a tailor now with a shop on Maxwell Street. He was also a recent widower, his wife having died of a rare heart condition three months before.

  “Mama, don’t you think it’s a little soon to be inviting him over?”

  “The man has to eat. And besides, it’s Shabbos.”

  It was no use. Her mother was determined to rustle up every available male in Lawndale: old, young, sick, healthy, rich, poor, divorced, widowed. Her daughter was twenty-five and still single—it was a shand, what would people think. This was an old hurt between the two of them, scabbed over and picked at for so long it would never heal right.

  Leeba went down the hall to her bedroom and there was Aileen, sitting on the side of the bed, legs crossed with the top one swinging back and forth while she leafed through a magazine.

  When she saw Leeba she dropped the magazine and sprang to her feet, grinning. “Guess what? I got me a new singing gig. Down at the Trigger Club. They’re gonna start me off two nights a week.”

  “That’s good.”

  Aileen’s shoulders sank. “That’s it? That’s all you got to say?”

  “I’m sorry.” Leeba closed her bedroom door and leaned against it as if needing to support herself. “Mama just told me she invited Avrom Yurzel—remember him? She invited him for dinner. Tonight.”

  “Didn’t his wife just pass?”

  “You think that would stop my mama?”

  “She sure is wanting to marry you off.” Aileen plopped back down and stretched out on the bed.

  An inexplicable dread filled Leeba as she lay down next to Aileen, resting her head on her shoulder. “This is going to be humiliating.”

  “It’ll be okay,” said Aileen as she brushed her fingers back through Leeba’s hair. “Tell me something, you still thinking ’bout the guitar player?”

  Leeba closed her eyes and there he was for reasons even she couldn’t grasp. “Every day.” She wouldn’t have confessed that to anyone but Aileen, because her longing for this practical stranger embarrassed her. Did her heart know something she didn’t or was it just her desiring something she couldn’t have? Leeba looked at Aileen. “Have you ever been attracted to a white man?”

  “When we were growing up I used to think Leonard was pretty cute.�
�� She laughed and wrapped one of Leeba’s curls about her finger.

  “Seriously, have you?”

  “Sure,” said Aileen. “I see handsome, sexy white boys passing by on the street all the time. I see ’em coming and I watch ’em go.”

  “But what if you met someone—you know, someone special?”

  Aileen gave her a skeptical look.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” said Leeba, “but I feel something for him.”

  “Girl, every woman who looks at that man is gonna feel something. It’s called love. L-u-s-t, love.”

  Leeba laughed, insisting that it was more than that. “It’s his music. It’s the way he carries himself. I can’t explain it.”

  “Want my advice? Forget about him. Things between men and women is complicated enough—you don’t need to go borrowing trouble.”

  Leeba got up and went to the closet, screeching hangers across the rod as she sorted through her clothes, pulling out a navy blue utility dress with squared shoulders. She slipped it on and turned her back to Aileen for help.

  Aileen scooted off the bed and zipped her up. She glanced out the window and said, “Only half an hour till sunset. I gotta get ready to make my rounds. I got a whole lot of stoves to turn off and lights to turn on.” She laughed and pressed her forehead to Leeba’s. “Good Shabbos,” she said.

  Leeba responded with a smile and her customary “And God be with you, till we meet again.”

  After Aileen left, Leeba went down the hall to use the bathroom and afterward lifted the lid on the tank and pulled on the chain to make the toilet flush. They had one toilet in their apartment and it had been broken for so long that the extra step no longer fazed her. Leeba’s father had been saying he’d get to it, like the doorbell that no longer sounded and the radiator that clacked all winter long.

  She looked in the mirror and brushed her hair, only making the curls and ringlets frizz up more. She was reminded of the time Aileen put pomade in her hair. The two of them had locked themselves in the bathroom while Aileen braided Leeba’s hair just like she wore her own, in neat, tight rows.