by Renée Rosen
“Don’t worry,” Leeba assured him. “She’s friendly. She just gets excited when we come home.” Leeba turned the lock and grabbed Sophie by the collar to stop her from trampling the boy. “C’mon in,” Leeba said. “It’s okay. She won’t hurt you.”
He sidestepped inside, keeping a watchful eye on the dog. When Sophie had calmed down, she padded over, sniffing the familiar scent of Red’s old guitar. That was when Leeba saw James smile for the first time. An infectious, innocent smile. “Can I pet her?” he asked, every bit the little kid he really was.
“Sure.”
James tentatively reached out his hand, but when Sophie barked, he pulled back and gripped the guitar again.
“It’s okay. She’s just playing.” Leeba set the mail and her pocketbook down on the kitchen table and reached for James’s hand, guiding it over Sophie’s fur. “There, see?”
It didn’t take long for Sophie and James to warm up to each other. He’d set his guitar down and was petting the dog with both hands when the telephone rang. Leeba stepped into the kitchen to answer it and barely got a hello out before Aileen started in. Muddy had given her a wristwatch and you’d think it was a diamond ring by the way she was going on about it.
“. . . and it’s fourteen-karat gold . . . with seventeen jewels . . .”
Leeba shifted the phone to her other ear, smiling as she overheard James playing with Sophie in the other room, going, “You a good girl. Yes, you is, yes, you is . . .”
“Wait till you see this watch,” Aileen said. “It’s the prettiest thing I—”
“Listen, I hate to cut you off,” said Leeba, “but the boy Red’s giving lessons to is here. Let me call you back after Red gets home and then you can tell me all about the watch.”
After Leeba hung up with Aileen and came back out to the living room she found James rolling around on the floor, giggling and playing with Sophie. Leeba went over to the table, closed the clasp on her pocketbook and shuffled through the mail.
“Word on the street,” she said, “is that you’re a pretty good bluesman.”
James laughed and buried his face in Sophie’s fur. “Did Red tell you that?”
“Sure did.”
Leeba asked James who his favorite blues musicians were.
“I like Lead Belly, Charley Patton, Tampa Red, Robert Johnson . . .” He was still petting Sophie and rattling off names when Red came through the front door, rousing the dog’s excitement all over again.
“Well, I see you’ve all met,” said Red, reaching over to scratch Sophie’s ear, patting her loins and making her tail swish back and forth.
“Yeah. James and I had a smoke, a little chitchat.” She nodded with a wink. Red smiled and Leeba was pleased to see him in such a good mood. She attributed this to James being there, because normally he came through the front door grumpy and complaining about the glue fumes.
Red patted Sophie again and turned to James. “Have you been practicing, Curly?”
“Wait till you see.” James swung the guitar into his lap.
“Well, c’mon now. Show me what you got.”
James played the low E and adjusted the tension on the tuning knob and then did the same thing with the A and D strings.
“Now, before we get started,” said Red, “tell me again, what’s the most important thing to remember about being a bluesman?”
“Protect your hands,” said James.
“That’s right. And clean those fingernails once in a while while you’re at it, too. Now, let’s start with some pick work . . .”
James began playing the chromatic scale to warm up. He kept going over it again and again. After that they must have spent twenty minutes practicing the chord changes in one song. It was tedious, but Red told James that was the only way to learn.
Leeba had worried when Red first started giving these lessons that he would feel slighted, being relegated to teaching rather than playing. But watching him with James for the first time put that fear to rest. She hadn’t seen that look of satisfaction on her husband’s face in so long. Not since he’d last played. It was almost as if James was an extension of Red. That little boy was giving Red a second chance at creating music.
They ended their lesson that day with James playing and singing “I’m a Steady Rollin’ Man.”
Leeba had a good feeling about James, until the next morning when she reached into her wallet and found that the twenty-dollar bill was gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
• • •
“Every Day I Have the Blues”
RED
The kid had let him down. And it wasn’t so much about the money, though Red and Leah could have used that extra twenty bucks. It was more the boy’s lack of respect and regard for everything Red had done for him. Giving him his guitar, giving him lessons, encouraging him to stay in school. Red felt betrayed and he was angry about it.
The next day when Red got off the El, beat and irritable from a long day of work, he spotted James across the street, outside the pool hall. He was hanging around out front with a bunch of older boys. Red took a drag off his cigarette, tossed it to the curb and sprinted across the street.
“Hey, man,” said James, a broad smile rising up on his face. “Whatchu doin’ here? Hey, guys, guys, take a look—this here’s Red Du—”
“We need to have a conversation,” Red said, interrupting James’s introduction. “Come with me.”
James dropped the smile, dropped the glib attitude and followed Red. When they turned the corner, out of view from the other boys, Red grabbed hold of James by his collar. “Why’d you do it?”
“I didn’t do nothin’.” James tried to pull away, but Red held him in place.
“You lie to me and you’ll only make it worse.” Red tightened his grip. “You think you’re such a tough guy, huh? I’m gonna teach you a lesson and it won’t be on the guitar.” Red crouched down, forcing James to look him in the eye. “I thought we were friends. Why’d you do it? Why’d you go into Leah’s wallet and take that money?”
James gave him a defiant, hard glare, his lips set tight, not a shred of remorse visible on his face.
“That wasn’t your money. You knew it was wrong. So why’d you do it?”
Still James gave him nothing and Red realized this kid was harder to reach than he’d thought. “So, what, now you’re gonna be a liar on top of being a thief?”
James just sneered at Red.
“I’ll tell you what, if you’re gonna act like that you and me are through. No more lessons. You’re on your own.” And as he said that, Red felt a stab of guilt because this kid was already on his own and that was part of the problem. No one was looking out for him.
Red was sure that James was going to say something, but instead he stuffed his hands into his pockets, hung his head low, turned and walked away.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” Red tried again, hoping the boy would turn back around. “You’re just gonna walk away ’cause you’re too much of a coward to admit what you did. You know a man owns up to his mistakes. You’re behaving just like a little baby.”
James kept walking and when he turned the corner, Red knew he couldn’t let him go. This boy needed him. Just an apology, one “I’m sorry,” and all would be forgiven; but when Red had just about caught up to him, James saw him coming and took off running.
Red stood helplessly on the sidewalk watching until the boy disappeared in the distance. What was the point in going after him a second time? Obviously James didn’t want Red’s help, even if he needed it.
• • •
Red had just arrived at work, taking his place on the assembly line, waiting for Smitty at the next station to shave the edges off the cork backings and send them down the conveyor belt to Red, whose job it was to glue them to the soles. The hardest part of the job was dealing with the glue fume
s. They got up in his sinuses, made his eyes water, his nose run and his head throb. He began gagging as soon as Smitty sent him the first cork.
As Red ran his shirtsleeve across his eyes to clear them, he thought about James. It had been a week since Red had seen him, and even though he had told James they were through, Red had still waited for over an hour at the musicians’ union hall the day of their lesson hoping James would show. When he didn’t, Red had wandered through the neighborhood looking for him, but James was nowhere to be found. Red didn’t know anything about disciplining children and feared he’d come down too hard on the kid. Yes, he wanted to teach him a lesson, but now he regretted how he’d handled the situation.
Red slathered more glue on the next cork and fell into a coughing jag.
“You okay there?” Smitty called over. His skin was as black as coal and sleek with sweat.
Red nodded, recovering. “These fumes are gonna kill us,” said Red.
“You know they’d never make a white man do that job.”
“Why don’t they just lynch us,” Red called back. “It’d be a lot faster.”
Smitty laughed bitterly and Red gagged a few more times while he brushed glue on the next cork backing and the next and the next. Five more hours of that and it was lunchtime.
Red headed into the cafeteria, took a seat at one of the long tables and pulled a sandwich from a brown paper bag. Billy Moore, the oldest of the Moore brothers who owned the business, was standing around with the supervisors, keeping tabs on the workers, making sure no one took even a minute longer than they were entitled for their break. Billy Moore was one of the meanest sons of bitches Red had ever known. With his pockmarked red face, big wide forehead and pointy chin, he reminded Red of a strawberry.
Red looked at the sandwich Leah had packed for him that day, brisket left over from the night before. He loved her brisket, but the fumes had killed his appetite. Still he knew he had to put something in his stomach if he was going to make it till quitting time.
He had just forced himself to take a bite when Smitty came out of the lavatory swearing and went up to Billy Moore.
“There’s no soap in the washroom,” said Smitty. “I’d like some soap so I can wash my hands before I eat lunch.”
“Why do you need soap, boy? You can’t tell if your black hands are dirty or clean anyway.” Billy snickered and looked over his shoulder, soliciting laughter from the supervisors.
Smitty tried again, his voice rising above the mocking. “I said, I’d like some hand soap for the washroom.”
Red watched in amazement. He had known Smitty for about six months, and he’d never before stood up to the boss man. He’d always been as meek as could be, doing whatever they told him to and never complaining, not even in private to Red.
“Clock’s ticking, boy,” said Billy. “You want soap or you want to eat your lunch? ’Cuz I’ll dock your pay for every second you’re late.”
Smitty gave up and took the seat next to Red, muttering, “They’d treat a goddamn dog better than they treat us.”
Red set his sandwich down. “What’s wrong with you? You’re gonna get your ass fired if you keep that up.”
“I don’t care. I might just up and quit on that racist.”
“Man, what has gotten into you?”
Smitty peeled back the top slice of bread on his sandwich, gave a look and shoved it aside.
“Seriously, man,” said Red, “what has gotten into you?”
“I’m done putting up with their ways.”
“And what choice have you got? A man needs to work and it’s the same just about every place you go.”
“Yeah, well, we’re fixing to change all that.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
Smitty crumpled up his paper bag and gave Red an exasperated look. “Where have you been, man? You got the NAACP, you got CORE—I joined up and I’m glad I did. They’re all talking about how it’s time to put an end to how our people are being treated in the workplace.”
“So what are you saying? That you’re prepared to get yourself fired because you joined the NAACP and CORE?”
“I joined the Urban League, too.”
Red wasn’t surprised. He knew that lately more and more Negroes were joining organizations like that.
“With all those newspapers you read,” said Smitty, “I’d expect someone like you would get involved.”
“Me?”
Smitty turned and looked him square in the eye. “Why not you? I’ve been to a few meetings now, and I get it. Like they explained to me, we’re all part of this. You do nothing and you’re part of the problem. You stand up and you become part of the solution.”
Red didn’t respond. He felt ashamed, like he’d been dodging his responsibilities as a colored man.
Smitty wasn’t done yet. “You can sit back and take whatever the white man throws at you, or you can make a stand, do something to change things. The choice is yours.”
But there was no choice in the matter. From the time he was a young boy, going into that candy shop and being told they wouldn’t serve him, Red had known the way he was being treated was wrong. Why was he putting up with it now?
He turned to Smitty. “So when’s the next meeting?”
THIRTY-SIX
• • •
“It Hurts Me Too”
LEEBA
Leeba had spent her day reviewing dozens of publicity photos they’d taken of Chuck Berry. His wavy black hair had never looked so lush, the devilish twinkle in his eye never more alluring, and yet Leonard didn’t like them. He had decided to hire another photographer and redo the photo shoot. It had been two weeks since they’d recorded Chuck’s song and Leonard wanted everything perfect and in place before he would release it.
When Leeba got home that night the apartment was dark and Sophie was waiting by the door, her tail thwacking against the wall, her paws stomping as she playfully yelped. Leeba was petting her as she turned on the lamp, calling out for Red. “Red? Red, are you here?” She checked in the bedroom, looked out on the back porch. No sign of him.
That was strange. Red started work at six in the morning and usually got home long before Leeba did. She wondered if maybe he was working a second shift and had forgotten to tell her. Or maybe he purposely hadn’t told her because he knew she’d try to talk him out of it. She still felt guilty that he had to work there at all, aware that it was her fault he wasn’t performing anymore.
Sophie was circling in front of the door, needing to go out, and Leeba took her for a walk. As they wandered the neighborhood she wondered if Red was over by the schoolyard or if he’d maybe gone down to the musicians’ union hall looking for James. She knew Red felt his attempt at discipline had backfired. Leeba tried to make him see that James was a troubled boy, but Red didn’t want to let him go.
After Sophie had chased some birds and a squirrel they headed back inside. Still no Red. She fed the dog and watered her houseplants and was about to pour herself a glass of wine when Sophie starting barking a beat before Leeba heard Red keying into the apartment. Leeba was relieved and when she saw the cheerful expression on his face as he walked in she was surprised.
“Are you okay?” she asked after kissing him hello. “I was worried. I didn’t know you were working a double.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh.” She was taken aback. Where had he been? A bar? No, he wasn’t drunk. Did he go listen to music? Doubtful. Had he found James? Perhaps.
Red led her to the couch and sat her down. She felt her stomach drop. She had no idea what was coming.
“My granddaddy used to say, ‘You’ve been in the cellar for so long you forgot what fresh air is like.’ And I feel like tonight I was finally getting fresh air. I could breathe.”
“I don’t understand. What’s going on with you?”
He reached
out for her hand and looked into her eyes. “I was with a group of people tonight—a group of strangers—and, Leah, I felt like I found a home. A place to take everything I’ve been holding inside of me.”
She’d never heard him speak like this before and it confused her. “What are you talking about?”
“I found a place to bring everything I’ve been feeling my whole life. I’ve been wronged, denied, insulted—and why? Because I’m colored. I’ve always known it was wrong, but I didn’t know how to do anything about it. But tonight I was surrounded by people who are willing to stand up for themselves. We don’t have to sit here and quietly accept the way we’re treated. I’ve made up my mind—I’m not going to take it anymore.”
He couldn’t contain his energy. He stood up and began pacing. “I wasn’t put on this earth to be treated like I’m inferior. This isn’t what God intended for me. Or for any other Negro.” He turned and faced Leeba again. “I joined the NAACP tonight. I’m through sitting on the sidelines. There was a force in that room tonight and if we pull together I know we can start to set things right.”
She saw the passion and energy blazing inside him, a light she hadn’t seen from him since he’d stopped playing music. She thought about how Jews in Europe had been so passive when the Nazis mistreated and abused them. It struck her that Negroes in this country couldn’t afford to make that same mistake. “I think you’re doing the right thing,” she said. “I’m proud of you.”
They stayed up talking late into the night. Mostly he was talking, and she was listening, trying to understand. Some of what he said she easily related to, but still she knew Red’s experience as a black man in America was different from what Jews in Europe had been through. There was no one gathering up Negroes and putting them into death camps here. The problem was more insidious than that. And she knew that, as much as anti-Semitism and racism had in common, Red’s growing up in the Deep South was very different from her family’s experience before immigrating to America. The only way to support Red was to respect that difference.