by Renée Rosen
When Leeba had tried sneaking out of the apartment, her mother blocked the door. “You’re not going anywhere with that hair,” she’d said. “You look like a schwartze.” Her mother had pulled her over to the kitchen sink, ran her head under scalding water and tried to undo the braids. The next day she took her to the beauty parlor and had Leeba’s hair cut short, cropped against her head. Now she wasn’t just taller than the boys, but her hair was shorter than theirs, too. And her mother wondered why she had no dates.
Leeba set her brush down. It was no use. She pulled her hair back, holding the curls in place with a set of combs, and went into the kitchen to help her mother.
She’d just finished setting the table when Golda and her husband arrived. Even seven months pregnant with a belly out to here, her sister was beautiful. Her golden brown hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few silky strands hanging down. And it only made sense that Golda would have married a man as handsome as Ber Lefkowitz. Dark haired, dark eyed, with broad shoulders, like Avrom he’d been one of the most popular boys in the neighborhood. Ber and his father owned a furniture store and Golda’s big home on Independence Boulevard was ongepotchet, overdone with decorative pillows and lampshades, gaudy artwork and statuettes.
“So I heard Mama invited Avrom.” Golda walked around the table, straightening a napkin here, a knife there. “Whatever you do, don’t mention the dead wife.” Golda plucked a glass from the table and held it out to Leeba. “There’s a spot on this one.”
“Kitchen’s right there where it’s always been.” Leeba pointed over her shoulder.
Golda gave her a harsh look. This was about so much more than a spot on a glass.
“Fine.” Golda narrowed her eyes. “I’ll do it myself.”
“Fine.”
Moments later Avrom arrived, followed by Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Moishe. Cousin Eli had long since moved out of the neighborhood and rarely joined them anymore for Shabbat. Leeba’s mother brought out a tray of mismatched shot glasses while her father opened a bottle of schnapps. Her mother drank to Avrom while the others toasted the Shabbos. The schnapps was strong and Leeba felt its heat rising up to her sinuses and spreading down the back of her throat. Uncle Moishe raised his empty glass, coughing while comically pounding his chest.
Just before sunset everyone took their seats at the table, lighting the candles and saying the prayers over the bread, the wine. Uncle Moishe sat at one head of the table and Leeba’s father at the other. Both brothers were balding and had the same dark round eyes that always made them look taken by surprise, along with the sloping nose that Leeba had inherited. Aunt Sylvie had been a head turner in her day, but now she was plump and doughy, standing barely five feet tall.
Avrom tasted the chicken soup. “Delicious,” he said as he dabbed his lips with his napkin. “Did you hear that they’re holding a big Zionist meeting this Sunday?”
“It’s going to be at Temple Beth Shalom,” said Ber.
“Leeba made that soup,” her mother said, tapping Avrom’s arm.
“Three hundred people they’re expecting for this,” her father added.
“She’s a wonderful cook, you know,” her mother said.
Avrom smiled at Leeba. “It’s delicious.”
“Well, thank you.” She smiled back. But she did not make the soup, and as soon as her mother went into the kitchen, Leeba followed her. “Don’t be so obvious,” she said. “Quit trying to sell me.”
“A little sell is such a terrible thing?” her mother said. “Would it kill you to encourage him a little?”
Leeba wadded up a dish towel and threw it on the counter before returning to the table with the brisket.
After dinner they all bundled up and went to shul for Friday night services, and on the way home Leeba found herself walking next to Avrom, the two of them trailing behind the others. Every half block or so her mother glanced back at them.
“You do know she’s planning a shidduch here, don’t you?” Leeba said, finger waving to her mother, who abruptly faced forward.
“Of course.” Avrom laughed. “That’s what mothers do. Anyone with a daughter over the age of twelve has invited me for dinner. You can’t imagine how many Shabbat dinners I’ve attended. I had six Passover Seders and I’m already booked up for the High Holidays.”
They laughed and lapsed into an awkward silence as they walked beneath the streetlamps. The tree branches swayed in the breeze. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. She could think of nothing to say.
“The truth is,” he said eventually, “I’m not ready for any shidduchs. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.”
“No apologies needed. I’m sure you must miss your wife terribly.” She offered him a sympathetic smile. As they walked along in silence the ache in her chest grew stronger. The truth was that she was lonely. Yes, she’d been caught up lately in thoughts of Red Dupree, but that was a fantasy. Nothing would ever come of it and she knew it. And after years of denying, of doing her best to suppress any need, any want, she knew deep down that she longed to fall in love. She wanted a family of her own and, looking at Avrom, she felt a twinge of disappointment. She didn’t necessarily want him, but it would have been nice to at least be wanted. By someone.
NINE
• • •
“Sweet Home Chicago”
RED
Red stumbled over to the sink and stared into the rust spot where the faucet dripped. The ice-cold water he splashed on his face hit his skin like needles. The light coming through his only window had changed since he’d lain down and now the sun was casting long shadows across the spider-cracked walls. No one could tell him that his family’s shack back home was any worse than this dump he was living in on Canal Street. They called it a kitchenette. Just one room, with a bathroom down the hall that everyone on the floor used and no one bothered to clean. Didn’t have a drop of hot water in the place. Cockroaches were a given, in the drawers, the closet, camped out in every dark corner. The occasional mouse or rat scurrying across the floor was no big deal. He slept on an old mattress he’d found out in an alley, thin and lumpy, but it was better than sleeping on the hardwood floor.
He hadn’t meant to doze off. He and Walter had been playing late the night before at the Tuxedo Lounge and Red had been dragging all day on his job at the brickyard. When he got home from his shift, he lay down on the mattress and opened the Defender to read about Blatz Brewery hiring an all-Negro distribution company. He drifted off while he was reading.
He splashed more water on his face. Man, he was beat. And to think he thought sharecropping was hard. Trying to make it as a musician was nothing like he’d expected. Working all day and gigging all night, grabbing an hour or two of sleep here and there. Dropping off demos to people who didn’t listen or didn’t like what they heard. He was getting himself worn through and at the end of each week he barely had enough rent money. Chicago was supposed to be the place where magic happened. So where was it? Back home everyone told him he was something else, but up here he was just someone else. Everybody had a guitar or a sax or a harp and everybody was damn good. But it took more than just being good.
He stared into the basin, wondering what his mama and sisters were doing at that very moment. He pictured them sitting on the porch, their radio tuned to the gospel station, while his friends across the way drank beers and listened to the baseball game, cheering whenever Jackie Robinson got up to bat. What would they say if they saw him now? Red couldn’t help but remember those big dreams he had about coming to the city. He’d pictured himself making lots of money, living in a big house and driving a fancy car. He’d been in Chicago for a year and thought for sure by now he’d be making records and hearing his songs on the radio. It was easy to get discouraged.
And yet there were things about Chicago he’d never give up. Knowing he could walk through the front door of a restaurant and sit wherever he liked was a fe
eling he never wanted to lose. It gave him the dignity he’d been denied in the Deep South. No “White Only” and “Colored” signs to remind him that he was second class in the eyes of white folks. Here he had an actual library card and was free to take out any book he wanted. Back home they didn’t have many books so he’d read newspapers instead. He read every paper he could get his hands on—didn’t matter if they were a day or two or even a week old. He just liked seeing those words, saying them inside his head. He read a lot of articles about Chicago and now that he was here he was taking advantage of the city. Especially the nightlife, the clubs, the music—if he had the time and the money he could have seen a different player each night. That energy was what kept him going. Red reached for a towel to dry his face and when he opened his eyes he jumped back startled, hands raised, heart hammering. Little Walter was pointing a gun at him.
“Man, put that thing away. You scared me half to death.” Red’s hands were still up in surrender.
Walter found this funny. He was laughing. “Big-city livin’, brother. You gotta remember to lock your door behind you. Never know who might come and getcha.” He howled and twirled the trigger guard around his finger like a cowboy.
At times Red questioned what he was doing with Walter. The kid couldn’t pass up a prank or turn away from a challenge even when he had no chance of winning. The scar above his eyebrow and the signs of a nose broken in too many places were proof of that. Yet he’d come to Red’s aid when he first arrived in town. He’d always be grateful for that and in turn Red took it upon himself to keep an eye on Walter. After all, Walter was still a kid, nine years younger than Red, and he needed someone to set him straight when he got out of hand. But more than anything else Little Walter was the best harp player Red had ever heard and the two of them were developing a small following around town.
Walter gave the gun another twirl on his finger.
“Stop doing that. What’s wrong with you, man?” Red threaded the towel through the rack. “Why are you carrying that thing anyway?”
“Maybe ’cuz I ain’t big and tall like you,” said Walter as he stuffed the pistol into his waistband. He looked in the mirror hanging off a bent nail and brushed his palms through his hair. “C’mon now, hurry up. We already gettin’ a late start.”
That night Red and Walter went down to the Macomba Lounge to hear Tom Archia play. The outside of the club wasn’t much to look at, just a sign and a doorman, Big Gene, who was even taller than Red. Red and Little Walter went inside and the place was swarming with prostitutes and drug dealers. If you could get past that, you could sit down with a slab of ribs and listen to the best music in the city. Leonard Chess and his brother packed them in seven nights a week.
When they first arrived Red saw Leonard at the bar. “Working on a new demo for you, Mr. Chess,” he said.
“Yeah, you do that. What’ll it be?”
Red might as well have told Leonard he liked his tie. The man just didn’t care about Red’s music. So he ordered a whiskey and joined Walter at a table up front. They were listening to Archia singing “Fishin’ Pole.” Red had seen Archia perform it at the Macomba before and had heard it on the radio at work when the boss man wasn’t around and they switched the dial to the Old Swingmaster on WGES.
Red was enjoying the show, when a couple of whores sidled up to their table. Walter started working on them, trying to get a freebie. “C’mon, baby,” he said to the one girl who had lipstick on her teeth. “Just as good for you as it is for me.”
“Now, if I give it away to you, I gotta give it to your friend here, too.” She gave Red a seductive glance.
“You ain’t gotta give me nothing,” said Red, tucking his hands beneath his thighs. “I’m not interested.”
“What’s the matter?” she said, purring into his ear. “Don’t you like girls?”
“I don’t like girls I have to pay for.”
Eventually the hookers gave up and moved to the next table. The hour turned late, but the Macomba was just getting started. The place was elbow to elbow with musicians. They’d come inside, set down their guitars and horns just long enough to put a drink between them and their last gig before they’d go on stage to jam with Archia. It was that kind of place and Red liked it because you never knew who might show up. He’d seen Big Joe Turner there and Tampa Red, too.
It was going on three in the morning and Little Walter was on the verge of passing out when he saw something that sobered him up fast.
“Lord have mercy.” Walter whistled through his teeth. “Would you take a look at that.”
A woman came into the club and everyone turned her way. She had a presence that commanded the room. Even the women’s eyes were glued to her. She was a beauty, tall and curvy with skin so light she could have passed for white.
Walter didn’t waste any time. He swaggered over and sweet-talked her into coming back to their table.
“Red Dupree,” said Walter, “say hello to Miss Mimi Cooke.” Walter held out the chair for her while Mimi held out her hand to Red. “Let’s get this little lady a drink. Whatchu drinkin’?”
“Martini. Gin. Splash of vermouth.”
She was still looking at Red even though she was talking to Walter.
“You heard her,” said Walter, giving Red a jab. “Go on now, get our friend here a drink. And I’ll take another while you’re at it.”
Red knew Walter was a mean drunk and if you challenged him you were only asking for trouble. Even though Red shouldn’t have wasted what little money he had on a round, it was easier to get the drinks. As Red stood up he felt Mimi’s eyes scanning all six foot four of him. The way she smiled undid him.
He thought maybe Walter hadn’t noticed until he said, “Go on now, Red. Go get us them drinks.”
As pretty as Mimi was, Red wasn’t going near that and not because of Little Walter. Women like Mimi were trouble. Too beautiful for their own good. Red knew a woman like that would spend your money, sleep with your best friend and still make you want her even as she was breaking your heart.
Besides, plenty of other women wanted to keep Red company. Seemed like all he had to do was pull out his guitar and they came around like bees to honey. He wouldn’t have believed it possible back when he was a boy reeking so from the fields that none of the girls would sit next to him in school. And even on Sundays after he’d bathed and put on his clean church clothes he’d carried the shame of his own stink, afraid to even smile at a girl.
He was seventeen before he’d ever been kissed and it was by an older woman from the neighborhood that he’d only known as Miss Washington. But when she’d reached for his hand and led him to her bedroom, where a red scarf was thrown over a lamp, casting a moody glow, she told him to call her Jasmine. He’d stayed in her bed that night, incense burning and scented oils on the nightstand. Just before dawn he sneaked back home, falling into a deep, satisfied slumber, only to wake the next morning convinced that he was in love. And his feelings multiplied each time he thought of her, every time he saw her. Before he knew it she had taken custody of his heart. He’d been sneaking in and out of her place for a month when she put a stop to it. She’d met someone, someone older who played guitar in the juke joints around Merrydale and Monticello.
Red had been crushed. He’d gone home and cried like a baby, his innocent heart open and raw. When he couldn’t get up to do his chores or go to school the next day, his mama checked his forehead for fever. He’d moped around for weeks and the only thing that made him feel better was picking up his Stella. He’d been sure there’d never be another Jasmine until he started performing. Then the girls came to him. He didn’t have to say a word. They were smooth and silky with curvy bodies; some smelled like vanilla or wildflowers; others were musky, citrusy—always different, each one a new present to unwrap.
So why was he so disappointed in the mornings, eager to find his clothes and leave? Sometime
s he caught himself thinking about that woman from Aristocrat. He’d seen her one day that winter when he was playing in Jewtown, but she didn’t seem to notice him. Just as well. White women equaled danger. His friend Boggs back home took up with a white girl and when her kin found out they bashed his head into the side of a tree. Boggs was never the same afterward. He talked slow and forgot his thoughts, couldn’t even tie his own shoes, and all because of a white woman. Red wasn’t about to risk that. Even if they were up North now. He glanced back at the table. Mimi smiled at him. Red didn’t know what he was looking for, but he knew it wasn’t Mimi Cooke.
He went back to the table with the drinks and set them down, sliding the martini to Mimi and the whiskey over to Walter.
“So where’d you come from, Mr. Red Dupree?” Mimi asked, her lashes fluttering over the rim of her glass.
“He’s from Louisiana,” answered Walter. “Been here, what now, ’bout a year?”
Red kept quiet. He knew Walter was trying to get Mimi’s attention.
“And what about you?” asked Walter. “You ain’t from around these parts. I would have remembered you. That’s for sure.” He clanked his glass to hers.
“I’m from Alabama. Montgomery.”
“Alabama? So what you doin’ up here in Chicago?”
“Singing.”
“You a singer, huh?” Little Walter reached for her hand. “I bet you do sound good.”
She laughed, pulled her hand away and took out a cigarette. Walter lit a match for her, but she ignored his gesture, leaning over the candle instead and giving Red a clear view of her cleavage. “I do sound good,” she said, looking in Red’s direction. “So what do you boys do?”
“I’m a musician,” said Walter.