Livvie's Song

by Sharlene MacLaren

  And that’s when it struck her. Unless her ears failed her, someone upstairs was playing a harmonica. Could it be Will Taylor? The stage was directly overhead, and she was often able to make out specific tunes. Sometimes, she even hummed along if the song was familiar. With her head tilted back and eyes gazing upward, she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, then lowered herself to the edge of her bed and listened with rapt attention. From “‘Oh, Dem Golden Slippers,” the band moved into the mellow-sounding “Deep River,” followed by “Oh! Susanna,” and then straight into “Dixie.” The ease with which Will Taylor moved from one tune to another—if he was, indeed, the harmonica player—astounded her.

  With nary a second more of deliberation, she buttoned her shirt again, hurried to the door, where her shoes were waiting, slid her feet into them, and scampered out the door and up to the third-floor landing.

  ***

  In the shadows of a big oak tree, Clem watched people come and go from the third floor of Livvie’s Kitchen—large, boisterous groups, cozy couples arm in arm, and everyone in between. Each time the door opened, the music swelled in volume, and he could have sworn that a mouth harp took the lead. He knew only one person who could wail on a harp like that, and that was Will Taylor. From what he could tell, the place looked to be a popular Saturday night hangout. Folks had parked their cars and buggies in every available spot along the street. He wondered who owned the building. From his dimly lit hideout, he’d watched Will escort that pretty little dame upstairs to the second-floor landing, and he figured there were several apartments on that level. After that, when Will had skipped back downstairs and in through the rear entrance to the restaurant, Clem had circled back to the front to watch from across the street. Good thing he’d snuck off before Will had opened the front door, or he might have been spotted, and he couldn’t have that. Well, not yet, anyway. Oh, he intended to confront the guy, but there was safety in numbers, so he’d wait till Hank and Rudy arrived, when they would put their plan in motion. He only hoped that Hank would do his part. Fool had gone all skeptical on him lately.

  Clem took a drag on his smoke and smirked to himself as two lovebirds sauntered past, giggling and whispering to each other, completely oblivious to his lurking. For some reason, he thought about Florence and his total lack of affection for her. Oh, he supposed he’d felt something at some time, but that had been several years and even more adulterous affairs ago. Sweat beaded on his brow and under his armpits as bile welled up in his gut. He spat, just missing his boot. Man, that woman packs a wallop! Not for the first time today, he ran a rough hand over his torn cheek, still swollen from that wretched candlestick. Thing probably weighed ten pounds. He should have gone for his gun after she’d flung it at him, but he’d figured she’d go for hers, as well, and he hadn’t been sure who was the faster shot. So, he’d stumbled out of the house instead, cursing at her even when he was out the door, holding his face as blood squirted out between his fingers.

  Blamed brainless woman! That was the last he’d seen of her, save for a quick glance the next morning. And, with a little luck, he would never have to lay eyes on her again. He’d spent the night in the vacant building next to their apartment, nursing his wound as best he could with a couple of rags. In the morning, a noise outside had brought him to the window, and he’d watched her jump inside a cab, probably to go pick up her kid from her mother’s house. When the cab had disappeared around the bend, he’d rushed next door, grabbed the belongings he needed to survive, and taken every dollar and cent he could find, even those hidden in jars and under cushions. Then, he’d hit the pavement running, all the way rejoicing that he was through with that nagging swine. Let her get her blasted divorce, he thought. She’ll hear no argument from me. It was high time he found a woman who showed him a little respect, who doted on him and catered to his needs. Flo had never been able to acknowledge that men have needs. More bile had gathered in his throat, and he hurled a wad of it out into the night.

  Across the street, the door off the second-floor landing opened, and he watched with interest as that pretty little vision of femininity from the restaurant stepped outside, locked her door, and then dashed up to the third floor, her shoulder-length, burnt golden hair flying haphazardly behind her. She wore the same knee-high dress as before, which showed off her shapely calves. Now, there was a woman who could soothe his hankering.

  Clem sniffed, dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground, and snuffed it out with his heel. Man, he could use a good stiff drink about now. Once the sun set entirely, he’d scope out the whereabouts of Orville Dotson, the man whose name and address Fred had scrawled on the folded piece of paper he’d passed to him. Apparently, this Dotson fellow operated a still outside of town, and he was anxious to try his product. With a little luck, he’d be drinking himself into a stupor tonight.

  Tomorrow, he’d call Hank and Rudy and tell them to get their sorry backsides to Wabash—the sooner, the better. A treasure of jewels lay hidden somewhere, good chance nearby, and they had a right to their shares, no matter that Will had served time while they’d gotten off scot-free. That’s what he got for being a numskull.

  ***

  Livvie put a fist to the center of her chest and held her breath. Goodness gracious! Hadn’t she vowed never to set foot in this wretched dance hall? Other than to check for shattered windows, broken chairs, and the like, she never came up here.

  The door was open just a crack, and Livvie peered inside, seeing nothing but the backsides of folks who swayed and clapped to the musical strains of “Dixie.” Gazing over their heads, she looked at the stage and, sure enough, saw Will entertaining the crowd with his toe-tapping rendition of the popular tune. Mercy, but he could play that thing!

  By now, folks had started singing, their bodies still moving with the music:

  I wish I was in the land of cotton,

  Old times there are not forgotten,

  Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land.

  In Dixie Land where I was born in,

  Early on a frosty mornin’,

  Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land.

  Why, I haven’t sung that song since…I don’t know when! she thought. She’d had no reason to sing. Now, though, her lips tingled, almost aching to mouth the words.

  The energetic clapping and lively singing continued as Will’s harmonica-playing soared with fervor. Before she knew it, Livvie found herself standing close to the stage and heard her less-than-stellar singing voice join in the chorus. Oh, but it felt good to sing at the peak of her lungs!

  Then I wish I was in Dixie, hooray! hooray!

  In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand to live and die in Dixie,

  Away, away, away down South in Dixie,

  Away, away, away down South in Dixie.

  Another verse commenced, followed by the chorus and then another verse. When the song finally concluded, Livvie clapped and cheered right along with everyone else—until reality hit her with a giant thud. What was she doing, smack in the middle of this crowd of exuberant partiers? And what would Frank say? Livvie had been raised to believe that dancing was a sin, and Frank had been adamantly opposed to it, as well. Initially, he’d refused to rent out the upstairs space to bands and such, but the need for extra money had eventually overruled his qualms. Still, he never would have dreamed of setting foot inside this dance hall on a Saturday night.

  She wondered how Will Taylor, a churchgoing Christian, could do such a thing with no compunction. Overwhelmed with regret, she began slinking backward toward the door. And that’s when she made eye contact with Will. A moment after their gazes locked, he started to step down from the stage, eyes still trained on her.

  Someone called out, “Hey! You know ‘Bill Bailey’?”

  Will paused, turning in the direction of the voice. “Yeah, but I think I’m played out,” he said.

  “Aw, come on! You’re just gettin’ started,” someone else lamented.

  “You got some talent there, Mr. T
aylor,” said one of the band members.

  “Is that what they call a ‘C’ harp?” Sam Campbell asked. “How long you been playin’ it?”

  Will held up the harmonica for the crowd to see. “Yep, she’s a ‘C’ harp, but I play a number of other types. It’s just that this ten-hole ‘C’ instrument is most compatible. And I’ve been playing since I was about this high.” He pointed near his waist.

  Livvie turned around and started walking toward the exit, hoping no one would recognize her. She made it to the door and was about to pull it open when she heard someone call out, “Well, look who’s decided to grace us with her presence!” The voice belonged to Ted Barnes, who owned and operated the Eagles Theater. “Good to see you, Mrs. Beckman. You come up here t’ dance, did you?”

  She pinched the skin at her throat and turned. Why did the entire room have to get so quiet? One would have thought they’d all seen a ghost fly across the room! “No, I just heard the music and…grew curious, that’s all.” She looked straight at Will. “Very nice playing, Mr. Taylor. I had no idea you were so gifted.”

  “Well, thank you, ma’am,” he said with a grin and a slight bow.

  “He’s gifted, all right,” said a dolled-up woman as she stepped into the light of the stage and looped an arm through Will’s, sending a wave of hushed whispers across the room.

  Livvie recognized her as Marva Maxwell Dulane. The two of them were close in age, but they’d never been friends, as Marva had often badgered her in school and made fun of her “puritanical” ways. Her blatant dislike of Livvie had never faded, something Livvie didn’t understand but had long since quit trying to figure out. Divorced and living on the outskirts of town, Marva had a reputation as the town trollop, and, truth be told, she made her plain uncomfortable.

  “If he can cook half as good as he can play that mouth harp, I can see why you hired him to run your kitchen,” Marva cooed, sidling up cozily to Will as if she’d known him a long while. Could she be any more brazen?

  Livvie tamped down a lump of irritation with Marva and Will and pasted on a smile. “Hello, Marva,” she said with a sweetness that almost sickened even her. “Good to see you.” Lord, help me resist the temptation to say something unseemly. It was a pitiful prayer, she knew, but she was out of practice, after all.

  “And you,” Marva drawled coolly. “Although, I must say, you’re the last person I would have expected to see up here.” She looked around the room and snickered. “We’d better tame it down, folks. Livvie’s a little too clean for the likes of us.”

  Yet no one else laughed.

  “Actually, we all might be a little too clean for you, Marva Dulane,” said Quinn Baxter, pushing his way forward through the masses as a round of good-natured chuckles arose. “I think it’s great Livvie joined us. It’s about time she let her hair down.”

  “Yes, indeed,” someone else said.

  “You’re right, Quinn,” said another.

  “Um, thank you, everyone.” Her cheeks burned. “If you’ll excuse me, though, I think I’ll go back downstairs. Good night.”

  There was a chorus of “Good nights,” and Livvie smiled. But her face dropped when she saw Will wriggle his arm free of Marva’s and step down from the stage, as if he intended to follow her.

  “Mr. Taylor, you ain’t leavin’, too, are you?” asked the man everyone called Berk. “We’re just gettin’ started up here.”

  “’Fraid so. I didn’t come here with the intention of performing. Like Mrs. Beckman, I was just curious. But you folks have given me a real nice Wabash welcome, so I thank you.”

  “You’re mighty welcome, son. You stop on by any Saturday night, and we’ll put you on this stage,” Berk said.

  “I might just do that, on one condition: that you all get yourselves to church the next morning. Me, I’ve been going to that Wesleyan Methodist church a few blocks over.”

  “I swear, when I even walk past a church, the building starts to tremble!” said a gravelly voice Livvie recognized as Orville Dotson’s.

  “Yeah, the Lord don’t look so kindly on that business you run on the side, Orv,” spouted someone she didn’t know. She did, however, know that he was referring to the illegal still on Mr. Dotson’s property. This prompted a wave of laughter and murmurs—the perfect opportunity to escape unnoticed.

  Livvie slipped out the door and onto the landing, remarking to herself how brave Will had been to encourage folks to go to church. Dance halls were not exactly considered ideal sites for evangelism.

  The air had cooled some, she noticed as she descended the stairs, and an orange glow of sunset still flirted with the horizon. Outside the door to the second floor, she reached inside her pocket for her keys, keeping her eyes on the alley below. A sudden chill chased up her back at the sight of that stranger she’d spotted earlier, still puffing on a detestable nicotine stick, his tall, chunky frame leaning against a thick tree trunk. His eyes looked as if they could burn her skin.

  Was it mere coincidence that she’d seen him twice in the same evening, or did he have ill intentions toward her? If so, what were they? And, more important, what was the reason for them? She had never seen this man before and couldn’t imagine what interest he might have in her.

  Feeling a surge of rare boldness, she returned her key to her pocket, marched to the end of the landing, and leaned over the railing. “Is there something I can help you with, mister?”

  He didn’t acknowledge her but tossed his cigarette to the ground and snuffed it out with his shoe. Then, he gazed up at her for a lingering moment, his face expressionless, before turning and starting down the alley. Seconds later, he had vanished into the murky shadows.

  ***

  Blast! He’d wanted to walk Livvie down to her apartment, maybe even speak a few more words to her. Perhaps, a conversation wasn’t out of the question, if he left now and knocked on her door. But, before he was able to make any headway, Marva Dulane snagged him by the arm again.

  “You can’t possibly leave yet, Will Taylor. We haven’t even gotten acquainted.”

  “Uh, Miss Dulane, you should know—,” he began, but Quinn Baxter and several others cut him off mid-sentence as they crowded around to talk about his fine playing and barraged him with all kinds of questions, from where he’d gotten his instrument to how he’d come to play it with such skill. He’d intended to tell Marva that he knew her type too well and had even dated women like her before the Lord had come into his life. It was just as well that he hadn’t. Her type was not wont to be convicted by such a statement.

  Several minutes later, the band members reconvened on the stage and picked up their instruments for another set. This distracted Marva, or appeared to, and Will tried to excuse himself.

  “What about that dance, Will?” she asked, ignoring his attempt.

  “Look, Miss Dulane.” He raised his eyebrows at the pesky woman. “I think you have me wrongly pegged.”

  “It’s actually Missus,” she corrected him, “but that’s all right. I’m divorced. Call me Marva.”

  He sighed. She was a determined thing; he’d give her that. “All right. Marva.” Her long eyelashes made several up and down sweeps, slow and deliberate. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. Heck, at one time, he would have considered her a catch. But ten years in prison had changed his heart and altered his perspective on many things—his taste in women, for one. Nowadays, a woman like Olivia Beckman, not a minx like Marva Dulane, had the power to turn his head. Of course, he had no business looking at a woman of Livvie’s caliber. Shucks, he wasn’t even interested!

  Marva’s eyelashes kept fluttering up at him. If she played her cards right, she could probably find herself a good man, but he was pretty sure the way she played didn’t attract the “staying” kind.

  “Sorry, Marva. I’m not your type.”

  She set her hands on his shoulders and used her thumbs to play with his shirt collar. “You sure? I got the feeling you’re not as innocent as you’d like us to think you are.
You might be a church boy now, but you weren’t always, were you? Fess up, Will. You can tell Marva.”

  He quickly stepped out of reach. “You’re a crazy woman, you know that?”

  A hysterical giggle spilled out of her. “A few have told me as much, but I don’t mind. Shoot, maybe they’re right.”

  He gave a soft chuckle to cover his irritation. “You ought to go to church yourself. You’d soon discover you’re looking for happiness in all the wrong places.”

  “Pfff, all that church stuff doesn’t interest me, Will. And, don’t worry; I’m plenty happy.”

  “Well, good. Then, you don’t need me.”

  He started to turn, but she seized his arm—a little too hard for his liking. “But that’s where you’re wrong, Will,” she said, her voice husky. “I love a challenge, and that’s what I see when I look into your baby blues.”

  Unbelievable. He shook his head several times. “Good night, Marva Dulane.”

  This time, she let him go.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but righteousness delivereth from death.”—Proverbs 10:2

  The Family Feast kickoff at Livvie’s Kitchen was fast approaching, and preparations were under way. Cora Mae had had the brilliant idea of decking out the restaurant in red, white, and blue streamers to commemorate the upcoming Fourth of July holiday, and Livvie had purchased enough red and white gingham from the milliner at Beitman & Wolf Department Store to fashion a pretty tablecloth for each table. After the Fourth, the streamers would come down, but the new tablecloths could stay year-round.

  Sally and the boys had busied themselves making more colorful posters to advertise the event, then traipsed all over town to tape them up in the windows of stores, banks, service stations, and the post office, and to nail them to lampposts. Nate had wanted to put a sign in the window of another diner, Sky Blue Restaurant over on Canal Street, but Sally had explained that the competition wouldn’t look too kindly on that idea. His standard “Why?” followed by “What’s ‘competition’?” had obliged her to explain as best she could, in terms that a six-year-old would understand. “Well, if a girl likes a certain boy, and then along comes another girl who also likes him, well, that’s competition. They’re both competing for the same boy.”