“Okay. Decision. We go with Mud Island as the place.”
“I agree. Briley, what else does the book say about Ptah and Sekhmet? Anything about ceremonies of rebirth that have been enticing the lunatic fringe from New York?”
“A little. At least I believe if someone wanted to find a way to make up a ritual and was willing to skew what he read, he’d find what he needed here.”
“Go on.”
“Well Ptah is represented by the Apis bull who gives life on earth. Oh hell, he’s a fertility bull. That does not bode well for any female involved in this ceremony.”
“Crap. That could be what Anna meant when she said Denise wouldn’t be harmed if she cooperated. I guess that means . . . ”
“I know what it means.” Briley’s face was grim.
I took the book from him then scanned the entry. “There’s more that’s not quite so nasty. There are words that can be read from the Book of the Dead to bring Ptah to life in the body of whoever’s tryin’ to be reborn. Interesting. Ptah’s daughter is named Anat. That’s close to the name Anna and that makes sense. Anat runs around with her hair in a pretzel ‘do,’ likes being naked – great for a madam – is a wiz with a crossbow. Here ya go. She’s represented by a lion.”
“Anything else?”
I smiled. “Well, the only good news is that it looks like if one wants to enjoy a really wang/bang ceremony that cakes and ale are supposed to be brought to an altar. That sounds less violent than crossbows and lions. Possibly even tasty.”
I gasped.
“What?”
“Lotus blossoms!”
“What about them?”
“It says lotus blossoms symbolize rebirth and are associated with Ptah and Sekhmet.”
“So?”
“So guess what got delivered daily to my room?”
“Ah. Do you remember the first time they showed up?”
“Day after the Ellingsford party.” I said. “Super. Our Ptah wannabe could be any of the men who were there that night.”
“I guess it’s useless to speculate tonight on who’s behind this. It’s more important to get Denise and Nevin back – and keep you safe as well. Let’s get some sleep. We’ll find a way to get to Mud Island in the morning, long before these cretins set up for their ceremony.”
“I totally agree.”
I kept the book in my hands as we made our way upstairs to our separate rooms. We parted company at his door. Briley did not try to kiss me good night and I didn’t try to initiate any physical contact. It was as if we’d made a silent pact to shelve any romance or relationship stuff until Denise and Nevin were safe.
“‘Night, Briley.”
“Good night, Mel.”
I opened the door to my room, donned the gown I’d borrowed from Bettina’s extensive wardrobe, then I lay on the bed for thirty minutes staring at the ceiling. Sleep was further away than the 21st Century.
I jumped up and pulled on my basic black top and gaucho pants. This was my town. It was unfamiliar in many ways because of the time period, but it was still Memphis. Same city where Savanna and I used to hit the downtown area for music any time of year and hour of night. Beale Street club patrons might be surprised to see an unattended girl, but this was also the suffragette era and I felt sure my great-aunt had broken more than one tradition in this city. I should be able to get in somewhere and listen to some blues and honky-tonk piano.
I tiptoed down the stairs and let myself out the front door. The bars of Beale were easy walking distance. I set out at a moderate pace.
Someone was following me. I could feel it. I walked faster. They walked faster.
Fine. I’d burned down a whorehouse this night. I could face a would-be mugger. I had my boots on and I wasn’t afraid to deliver a kick where it would hurt most. I whirled around and looked directly up into Briley McShan’s blue eyes.
Chapter 23
“Damn! You just scared me into another century! What are you doing, stalking me?”
“I wasn’t stalking you. Well, not at first. I couldn’t sleep, so I came out for some fresh air. Next thing I knew, I was watching you trotting down the street by yourself as though you hadn’t a care that girls have been grabbed the last few months and you’re next on the list.”
I snorted. “That’s in New York. This is my hometown and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit up in a room and stew and fret all night when I can go out and hear some jazz and get all this stress worked out of my system.”
“Well then, since arguing with you is a completely useless enterprise, I’m going with you.”
Briley matched the rhythm of my stride as we headed toward the bright lights of Beale. I could hear the wail of saxophones and sense the vibrations of drums already.
We stopped at the first saloon we came to that had its doors flung wide and welcoming for the patrons. We stepped inside and were hit by the most deafening silence I’d ever heard in my life. Not a sound came from any of the customers. All of whom were African-American. I’d totally forgotten that at this point in Memphis history, Beale Street bars were owned by whites, but the patrons and the musicians were black. I suddenly understood how alone Bert Williams, the phenomenal entertainer whose performances I’d enjoyed so much at the Follies, must feel every night he came to work among none but white faces.
Thinking of Mr. Williams gave me the courage I never would have thought I could dredge out of my body. It would be fifty stinkin' years before any real integration swept my hometown, but I decided then and there I was going to make a start.
Briley nodded cordially to the gentleman who was seating customers. The man nodded back, then politely asked if we cared to have a table up front or in the back.
“Front,” was Briley’s response. He smiled. “The young lady is quite a musician herself and I’ll bet she’d appreciate sitting close to the band.”
Our maitre d’ escorted us past silent mouths and shocked faces to a small table facing the band. We’d interrupted a break. Only the clarinet player was seated.
Our host looked embarrassed. “We don’t serve hooch, here, y’all know? But we got set-ups. Cokes mostly.”
Briley nodded. “Something cold will be fine. Ginger ale?”
The man continued to stare at Briley. He seemed amazed. I felt confused. I couldn’t believe we were the only white customers to ever wander through Beale Street in search of good music. The maitre d’ didn’t appear concerned about any possible violence. He almost seemed amused. But he took the order for the ginger ales, left, then quickly came back with the drinks.
“Welcome, y’all to Ronnie Reds, finest establishment on Beale Street featurin' the best music in the South.”
We smiled and said thanks. Briley paid. We sat quietly, sipping our drinks while wondering if any of Ronnie Reds patrons were going to challenge our presence.
Apparently not. All the customers had returned to the business of talking, laughing, calling greetings and pouring what had to be whiskey from flasks into “set-up” bevarages of cola or ginger ale.
I looked around Ronnie Reds. It basically it was the same atmosphere as any Beale Street club Savanna and I had enjoyed for years. Crowded, small tables, noisy with the strong scents of sweat and perfume eminating from all sides. There was however one major difference. Smoke. It had been bad enough at Francy’s. This was lethal.
I coughed as I tried not to inhale. My lungs rebelled all the same. “Briley, yes, you’re skeptical and yes, you don’t want to hear about time travel but I’m going to open my big mouth because I must say that a huge thing I miss about my era is the ban on smoking. I’ll probably get emphysemia simply from this night alone. I wonder when the band will be back?”
Briley grinned. “I’m not sure it matters.”
He pointed to a man sitting at a table in the middle of the bar. He’d just pulled out a harmonica and had started to play, of all things, "Nobody." Everyone began to sing, Briley and I included. I knew every word. Briley knew every word
. Within minutes patrons were on their feet and the harmonica man started playing tunes more appropriate for impromptu fox trots and Castle walks. Briley extended his hand.
“Care to take a turn around the floor, Miss Flynn?”
“Love to.”
It was even better than dancing with Briley back at Francy’s. No stares, no jealous females or males glaring at our backs and no gossip swirling as to the relationship between the new Follies chorine and the stagehand.
Briley held me close as Mr. Harmonica played "After You’ve Gone." Other couples were in similar clinches. I hoped they were as happy with their partners as I was with mine. Just to have Briley’s arms around me and inhale a scent that was his and his alone made my head spin more than the smoky room.
The musician switched to "Til We Meet Again," and I felt oddly comforted. This wasn’t my time, but this was my guy. If I had to stay in 1919 ‘til it turned 1920 and beyond, I could live without my cell, CDs and DVDs. I was more and more certain I couldn’t live without Briley McShan.
Applause broke out. I turned. The band was back from their break. The sax player who apparently doubled on clarinet made room for the drummer to get back to his trap set while the bass player plucked a string or two to see if it had stayed in tune during his absence.
Briley gestured to our table and began to escort me back. I sat down on the chair he’d politely pulled out for me, then looked up to say “thanks.” Briley stood, frozen, with both hands still gripping the back of my chair. His jaw literally had dropped. He was staring at the band.
I peered around him since he was now blocking all musicians from my sight. I half expected to see Mr. Bongo or Izzy or Ziegfeld or even Geb. But the man my escort was staring at wasn’t anyone I’d met before, although his looks were startling in their resemblance to one Briley McShan.
I stood too. “Briley?”
“Dear God! It’s Frank! It’s my brother, Frank!”
The man Briley had just referred to sat at the piano. He appeared oblivious to anything but caressing the keys.
No wonder we’d been stared at when we’d first entered Ronnie Reds. Everyone in the place must be able to see these two were brothers even with what had to be an eight-year age difference. Briley didn’t wait for the band to start. He strode the seven feet it took to reach their makeshift platform then stopped right next to the man seated on the narrow piano stool. The musician turned to look up at this customer who dared invade his space.
I barely heard Briley whisper, “Frank. It’s me. It’s Briley.” The emotion coming from Briley was so raw, so intense, and so powerful that for the second time since we’d arrived, total silence filled the club.
Frank McShan stared up into his brother’s eyes. He stood. He was not as tall as Briley, the hair had some gray flecks strewn among the black, but the two were obviously closely related.
For a moment neither man said a word. Then Frank began to sob. Not cry. Sob. And Briley reached out and held him as all around loud cheers and salutations rang out.
Briley turned and faced the audience. He didn’t need to gesture for silence. There was an immediate quiet as every person there waited to hear what he had to say.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I’ve been in your marvelous city only one day. And it’s been pretty momentous; one of the more unusual I’ve spent in my life. I won’t take up your time but I did want to tell all of you that this is my brother, Frank McShan, a war hero and a good man who has been lost for over two years. And now, and now . . . ” Briley choked.
Cheers and congratulations rang out again as the brothers embraced.
The clarinet player, an elderly gentleman who was clearly the leader of the band, signaled to the bass player and the drummer and the three began to play "I Found the End of a Rainbow." Then Briley and Frank stepped down and Ronnie Reds’ patrons politely returned to the business of chatting, smooching, smoking and drinking.
“Mel. Uh, I’d like to introduce you to my brother, Frank MacIntrye.”
I grinned. “Hi, Frank. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from little brother Briley here. I can’t tell you how very, very glad I am to meet you.”
He smiled. Though he and Briley had similar looks, the smiles were different. Frank’s held a sadness I hoped to never see appear on Briley’s face. But there was also a sweetness that instantly made me like him for himself, as well as for being the brother of the man I’d fallen in love with a week ago when I landed in this century.
“Melody. What a delightful name. I’m very pleased to meet you as well.” Frank sank down into Briley’s chair. “I don’t know what just happened. I must tell you both, I haven’t been aware of much of anything but my music for a very long time.”
Briley grabbed a chair from a nearby table and pulled it over next to Frank’s. The customers did not protest. Hugh grins accompanied assenting nods as they watched the brothers, who continued to stare at one another in amazement.
“You were at Camp Gordon, Frank. Do you remember that?”
He shook his head. “Vaguely. I was in a hospital there. But I kind of lost touch with who I was. I recall wandering away one afternoon when we were taking exercise around the camp. I hitched a ride with a businessman from Nashville. He brought me to Memphis. I seem to remember telling him I was a musician and he said Memphis was the place to go. Before that, I do know I was in the hospital in France. You were there, I think, and there was a beautiful, sweet, sad French girl who’d lost her husband only days before. She told me I had a head wound.”
Briley shook his head. “I can’t believe you recall that.” He glanced at me. “It was Denise. She helped me take care of Frank after Michel passed away. Must have spent a good month sitting with big brother and telling him stories.”
Frank straightened. “Denise. Yes. That’s it. Denise Dupre. She was like my guardian angel. I felt as though as long as she was there I’d be okay. It’s funny. I got to Memphis and I don’t recall anything about the Camp or even about the war. But I’d always see her face in my dreams, even if her name had become a blur.”
Briley opened his mouth to speak and I shook my head and silently mouthed “not yet.” We couldn’t tell this man that a woman he’d thought about for over two years was missing and about to be involved in some sick ritual in less than a day.
Frank looked at Briley, then at me. “I’m so astonished about seeing you and remembering who I was and who you are, I forgot to ask what in blazes my brother and a pretty young lady are doing in a Memphis saloon on this night?”
“It’s a long story. And we’ve had a long day.” He suddenly laughed. “Mel here burned down a local whorehouse this afternoon so any other stories seem tame in comparison.”
“What? You did that? I saw what was left as I was headed here tonight.” He grinned and stifled a laugh. “There wasn’t much to see but rubble. Why on earth?”
I held up my hand. “Like Briley says. Long story.”
Briley interrupted before I could start to explain. “I tell you what, Frank. Looks like your band mates are waiting for you to get on that piano stool again. Why don’t you join them and play some tunes and we’ll take you back to Melody’s, uh, cousin’s house once you finish? Or would you prefer going back to wherever you’ve been staying?”
Frank smiled. “I would love to sleep in a real home again, even if just for a night. I’ve been holed up in a ratty rooming house far too long. It’s cheap, there’s breakfast provided, but it’s not exactly our Brooklyn home.”
Briley nodded. “Mel? Would that be all right with Teresa?”
I quickly said yes to the question of lodging. The Flynn house was large and my aunt’s heart even bigger. I knew Teresa could find an extra space for Briley’s literally long-lost brother.
Frank stood then resumed his place with the band. But before he sat down in front of the piano, he turned and called out to his brother. “Briley? Benny, our fiddle player, took a gig up north about a month ago, but left one of his fiddles in the b
ack. Care to join us? We’ve been sorely lacking in strings since then.”
Cries of “Play, man, play!” could be heard throughout the bar.
I laughed at him. “You have no choice. The fans have spoken. Looks like the McShan brothers are back in action. I, for one, am beyond excited to hear you both! Rock this house!”
Briley hopped onstage. The bass player who handed him a well-worn violin with all strings intact. Briley spent a few moments tuning it, then nodded to Frank. “Your pleasure is?”
Frank laughed out loud. “In honor of your beautiful, fiery companion, Miss Melody, how about 'There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight?'”
Chapter 24
The next few hours soon became a repeat of the extra-curricular activities I’d been engaged in all last week. People dancing, people singing, people smoking, and people drinking. The main - and sad - difference between the Memphis partygoers and those in Manhattan was that these great folks at Ronnie Reds would have been serving drinks instead of buying them at Francy’s. But the laughter and the fun were the same. Even better with no snooty jealous chorines hassling me and feeling lots of serious good will from everyone around.
I even got to join the band to play piano for a few tunes. I was careful to keep them in the proper era, although I did sneak in "Burn Down the Mission," claiming it was a new tune from San Antonio, Texas.
There was another element in common with after-hours parties in New York. The operative word was ‘after.” It was five in the morning by the time Frank, Briley, and I headed for the Flynn house.
The brothers had been talking almost non-stop since we left Ronnie Reds, catching up with the last two years. I stayed silent, happy to hear voices filled with so much love and care.
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