Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  The light changed and Benson held out his hand and gave Red a strong shake. As he crossed the street Red thought about what the Swingmaster had just said and he realized that without a job he’d probably ruined their chances of adopting James. Benson was now about a half block away and Red took off after him. He caught up with him at the next light.

  “I’ll take it,” he said, puffing, trying to catch his breath. “I’ll take the job. And thank you.”

  • • •

  On Red’s first day he arrived at the radio station remembering the last time he’d been at WGES. That was when he was Red Dupree the bluesman. The Swingmaster had had him on his show to talk about his records and fans had lined up outside the station hoping to meet him and get his autograph.

  Now he was just another man reporting for work. Benson showed him where to hang his coat and walked him into John Dyer’s office. Dyer was the general manager and Red had met him before, but the man didn’t seem to remember. Or if he did, he didn’t care who Red Dupree once was. He just looked at Red through the smudges on his thick bifocals, handed him a broom and told him to sweep the floors.

  “And when you finish that you can start cleaning the john.”

  Red thought about all the forms he and Leah had been given in order to start the adoption process. Seemed like every other page he was asked to write down his employer and salary. He needed this job and so he did as he was told.

  Later that morning as he was coming out of the men’s room with a mop and bucket he heard a familiar voice in the lobby. His heart quickened. It was Leonard Chess. He was talking with Benson, the two of them discussing Bo Diddley’s new record, “Who Do You Love?”

  Red darted into the storage room, ashamed of how far he’d fallen. He couldn’t bear to have Leonard see him working there, cleaning out toilets.

  Even from inside the room, he could hear Leonard’s booming voice. “We gotta get Bo on your show,” Leonard was saying now. “And I’m counting on you, motherfucker, for heavy rotation.”

  Red heard Benson laughing in response just as Dyer walked into the storage room. Red quickly busied himself, stacking a couple boxes of paper clips. Dyer looked at the shelves and removed his eyeglasses, squinting at Red.

  Don’t fire me. Please don’t fire me.

  Dyer began wiping his bifocals on his necktie.

  Red held his breath.

  “That’s good,” said Dyer, gesturing to the shelf. “This place could use some organizing. I think you’re gonna work out fine here, Red.”

  FORTY-TWO

  • • •

  “I Feel Like Going Home”

  LEEBA

  The day after Christmas, Leonard and Phil took advantage of a slow business week to organize the move from Cottage Grove to 2120 South Michigan. Leeba had been putting in fourteen-hour days packing up files and master tapes, sorting through old contracts and royalty statements. Phil had told her to take the day off and she’d protested, but he’d insisted.

  Schools were closed for Christmas vacation and James was at the apartment with her that day. He was in the living room, restringing Red’s old Stella, sitting next to the Christmas tree. The tree was puny, a runt, as Red called it. Though Leeba loved the colorful bulbs and sparkling tinsel and lights, she was conflicted about having a Christmas tree—even a tiny one—in her home. She had put a Star of David on the top and hoped that God wouldn’t strike her dead for it. She hadn’t even bothered with a menorah that year. The ritual of lighting the candles held no meaning for Red or James. She wasn’t sure it held any significance for her, either, anymore.

  She was admiring the tree as James plucked the low E string. It was sharp and he was tuning it when the phone rang. She was hoping it would be Aileen. They hadn’t talked at all over Christmas. She and Red had invited her for dinner, but she never showed. Leeba didn’t know what was going on with her these days.

  Leeba picked up the phone mounted to the wall in the kitchen and as soon as she heard Aunt Sylvie’s voice, her heart stopped. Her aunt always called once a week with an update on her mother. They’d just spoken the day before. Everything had been fine. Why was she calling back so soon?

  “Oh God,” Leeba said. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” She braced herself, leaning against the kitchen counter, her legs already turning to rubber.

  “Relax. Everything’s fine,” said Aunt Sylvie. “I’m only calling because I thought you’d like to know that your mother was asking about you.”

  “She was?”

  “And don’t you dare tell her I said so. But yes, she was asking.”

  Leeba felt a flicker of disbelief followed by a flood of gratitude. God had heard her prayers; He’d been listening all those nights when she’d cried, begging for her mother’s forgiveness.

  “I think now would be a good time to go see her.”

  The next morning Leeba was there. She was nervous, not knowing what she’d say or where to begin. As she entered the apartment she took a moment to look around: the photographs on the walls, an umbrella leaning in the corner, her father’s slippers just inside the doorway. It was all as she remembered it. Nothing there had changed and yet Leeba’s entire world was different.

  She inched inside and found her mother in the living room, sitting in her favorite chair watching TV. She’d lost weight—her housecoat was huge on her—but aside from that she looked far better than she had when Leeba had visited her at the hospital six weeks before.

  Her mother’s face lit up when she saw Leeba standing in the doorway, but she quickly caught herself and fixed her eyes on the Today show. She was crazy about Dave Garroway.

  “Gutn morgn, Mama,” Leeba said tentatively, taking another step closer.

  Nothing.

  “Gutn morgn,” she said again, louder this time. “Mama. Hela?”

  Still nothing. She’d come here to make peace, but her mother’s disregard incensed her. Leeba cut in front of the TV. “Mama, ikh—”

  “Shah—” Her mother held up her hands.

  “What do you mean, shah—you can’t understand what they’re saying anyway. How long are you going to punish me? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Her mother’s eyes flashed wide. “You go and marry a schwartze and you don’t think you’ve done anything—”

  “Enough!” Leeba cried. “What do you know about my husband? You’ve never even given Red a chance.”

  “And why should I? Where did I fail with you? Your sister would never have done something like that.”

  Leeba slapped her hands to her sides. “Quit comparing me to Golda. You’ve been doing that to me my whole life. Do you even know who I am? Do you even care?” Leeba was shaking she was so angry. “I know you hated that I was Papa’s favorite. I didn’t need to be your favorite, too. I just wanted you to love me.”

  Her mother’s mouth dropped open and Leeba saw the color leave her face, saw the lines around her eyes and mouth deepen. And then her mother did something she almost never did. She cried. Leeba was shocked. She had broken something in her mother and she instantly regretted it.

  She was sobbing now. “You were my firstborn. My first. There’s something in a mother’s heart for her first. When I carried you, I had such hopes for you. The first time I held you, I saw myself in your eyes. How can you think I didn’t love you?”

  Leeba swallowed hard. Her mother had never spoken to her like this.

  “I know I may not have always been a perfect mother. I know I was hard on you—harder than I should have been. But the one thing I know for certain is that this isn’t the life I wanted for you.” Her mother squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to stop the tears.

  “But it’s the life I want. I chose it.” Leeba went to her side and reached for her mother’s hand, but the fingers went stiff as she formed a fist, pulling away.

  “Oh, Mama—”

&
nbsp; She shook her head. “I can’t accept him. I just can’t.”

  “Then at least accept me. Please, Mama?” By now Leeba was crying, too. She reached over and hugged her, but her mother didn’t respond. “I didn’t do this to hurt you. I love you. But I love him, too. Just tell me you’ll forgive me. Please, Mama? I need that much.”

  Her mother couldn’t say the words. Leeba knew she couldn’t, but she felt her mother’s arms open and pull her in. And that was enough. That had to be enough because she knew it was all she’d get.

  • • •

  Leeba stared into her compact and dabbed her eyes. It still looked like she’d been crying an hour later as her El car approached her stop. She touched up her mascara, snapped the mirror shut and walked from the train to the offices on Cottage Grove one last time. She went inside, stepping around the boxes in the hallway.

  After months of remodeling the new space, 2120 South Michigan Avenue was ready for Chess. The guys—Muddy, Wolf, Walter, Chuck, Bo and some of the others—were all hanging around the office while they packed things up. Mimi Cooke was there. So was Aileen, who was in a bad way. Her lipstick was smeared on her front teeth, her hair was matted down and her dress looked like she’d slept in it.

  “We missed you at Christmastime,” said Leeba, giving her a hug.

  “Yeah, sorry I didn’t make it over.” Her eyes were locked on Muddy, who was chatting with Mimi.

  “I just saw my mama,” said Leeba. “I think she might actually be coming around.” When Aileen didn’t react to that at all, she gave up trying to have a conversation with her. Aileen knew how miserable Leeba had been about her mother’s rejection. But Aileen was so focused on Muddy she didn’t hear a word Leeba said.

  Aileen was clearly there only to keep an eye on him and Mimi, unlike the other guys who had come to pay one last visit to the place where they’d gotten their start. Some of these guys had recorded their first demos in that makeshift studio. Some had heard their voices over a set of speakers for the first time inside those very walls. Leeba thought about Red and the day he first sang “Cross Road Blues.” His records used to be on the wall next to Muddy’s and Wolf’s and Little Walter’s. Now his weren’t even up and the others were on the bottom below the Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley records that were framed with little gold plaques next to them.

  Phil went to a storage closet and pulled out some old Aristocrat records from Tom Archia and Andrew Tibbs. “Remember this?” he’d say, holding up a 78, or a copy of Billboard that mentioned them, or some old dusty photographs of Leonard and Evelyn, smiling. Smiling! Leeba never remembered the two of them doing anything other than arguing.

  While Phil pulled plaques and photographs off the walls, Leonard stayed hunkered down in his office. Phil said he was finalizing numbers for the move, trying to straighten out a mix-up with the telephone company.

  Leeba stuck her head inside his doorway. Leonard was at his desk, the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. “Are you on hold?” she asked.

  “Motherfuckers. They say they don’t have the order for the additional lines.”

  “Why don’t you have your secretary do that?”

  He shook his head. He looked pale and washed out, with gray circles under his eyes.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “No.” He switched the phone to the other ear.

  “Well, you need to eat something. You drink any more coffee, you’re going to burn a hole in your stomach. What do you want? A bagel? A Danish?”

  “I don’t want anything. I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re such a grouch.”

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” He held the receiver away from his ear, looking at it like that would shorten the wait.

  “How about some juice?”

  “Out.” He pointed toward the door.

  “Okay, I’m going, I’m going. Jeez.” Leeba held up her hands in surrender and backed out of his office. She went up front and took food orders from the rest of the guys and headed across the street to Deutsch’s one last time. It was snowing outside, typical of Chicago in December. She bundled up for the short walk.

  She placed the order and looked around at all the holiday decorations. She saw where someone had stuck a finger in the artificial snow on the window and spelled out Noel. She supposed it didn’t matter. In another couple of days, right after New Year’s, all the garland and bows would be coming down anyway. Her only wish for the New Year was to be awarded custody of James. It had been a month since they’d filed all the paperwork with the Illinois Department of Public Health—the division that handled all adoptions. She was told it was a lengthy process and the wait was agony for them.

  The order came up fast and fifteen minutes later she was back with bags of food, buttered Kaiser rolls, egg sandwiches, bagels and Danishes. After she’d handed out everyone’s orders she took a sandwich back to Leonard’s office.

  “Okay, whether you want it or not . . .” She pushed his office door open. He wasn’t there. She went back out to the others. “Hey, where’d he go? Where’s Leonard?”

  “What do you mean, where’s Leonard?” Phil unwrapped the waxed paper from his egg sandwich. “He’s in his office.”

  Leeba went back and stepped inside. No, he wasn’t there. She heard the others out front reminiscing. As she looked at the photos on Leonard’s wall, the records stacked on the credenza, a strange sensation crept up on her, starting at the crown of her head and settling into the pit of her stomach.

  “Leonard? Lenny?” She inched farther inside his office and that was when she noticed the coffee running off the lip of the desk, dripping steadily onto the floor. His cup was overturned. A cigarette was resting in the ashtray with two inches of unbroken ash.

  “Leonard? Leonard!”

  She rushed forward and gasped, letting out a shriek. His wingtips were sticking out from under the desk. She sprinted around to the other side and there he was, lying on the floor, his face covered in perspiration, his hair plastered to his scalp. He wasn’t breathing.

  “Phil—come here. Quick. Somebody call an ambulance!”

  FOUR

  • • •

  1957–1964

  FORTY-THREE

  • • •

  “Blues Before Sunrise”

  LEEBA

  Leeba watched the pallbearers lower the casket into the ground. The dirt they shoveled on top rained down the sides and into the grave. As clouds overtook the sun, casting long shadows, she glanced up. Muddy, Walter, all five members of the Moonglows, Howlin’ Wolf, Willie Dixon, Jimmy Rogers, Chuck Berry, Sunnyland Slim and Otis Spann kept their heads bowed, their yamulkes in place. Each was there for her, to pay their respects to a woman they didn’t even know. What would her mother say if she knew there were almost as many Negroes at her funeral as there were Jews?

  Leonard was still in the hospital recovering from his heart attack, but Phil was there along with Sheva and Revetta. Leeba stood clutching her father’s hand, noticing that he’d put his wristwatch on upside down. That was the sort of thing her mother would have caught and corrected. The face of his Timex upside down broke her heart. She turned away and there was Red standing on her other side. Golda was incensed that he was there, but Red was her husband and he belonged there.

  As they lowered the casket into the grave she heard Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Moishe crying. She herself still hadn’t cried for her mother. Anger, frustration, sadness, yes, but tears? They just would not come.

  Her mother had been improving and Leeba was certain—they all were—that she had beaten the cancer. And then, out of the blue, just one week after Leonard suffered his heart attack, Leeba got the call from Golda.

  Her mother was already gone by the time Leeba made it back to Lawndale. And by then the mechanics of funeral planning had already been set in motion. Burial arrangements, meeting with the rabbi, d
eciding who should give the eulogy, did they have enough pallbearers—Uncle Moishe couldn’t do it. Eli would, and of course Ber was there. What about Avrom. Avrom? Was Golda out of her mind? Next there was the matter of where to sit shiva. Why, Golda’s big house, of course.

  As they were leaving the cemetery, Aileen came up to Leeba and put her arm about her waist. “What’s your sister gonna do now when all these Negroes end up in her living room?”

  They found out later that afternoon, when Golda relegated the Negro mourners to the basement. Leeba, along with Phil, Sheva and Revetta, were the only whites in the room.

  Red smiled and said, “Unbelievable. Golda managed to segregate her house today, didn’t she?”

  Leeba held up a flimsy paper plate. “God forbid she should let a Negro eat off her good china.”

  “Did y’all try this gel-fight fish?” asked Walter.

  “It’s ‘gefilte,’” said Sheva. She was pregnant again, expecting her third child, and Leeba tried not to let her envy show for she did truly appreciate Sheva being there that day.

  “Ga-fill-tah, huh?” Walter took another bite. “Sure is good.”

  “You should try the lox and creamed herring,” said Willie.

  “That’s Jewish soul food, motherfuckers,” said Phil with a laugh.

  Leeba heard herself laugh, or maybe she only thought she did. She was in a fog even when her father and Aunt Sylvie came downstairs. They were the only members of her family who dared to venture to the basement where the schwartzes were.

  Her father, in his thick Yiddish accent, addressed them all with his hands clasped, his eyes filled with sincerity. “I want to thank you for coming today. I know how much your being here means to Leeba. She’s blessed to have such good friends.”

  When her father finished, Red went over and shook his hand. “I’m sorry about Mrs. Groski.”