“How they sound all liquored up! Do right!” Garnett was louder than ever in fact.
All his jugs were empty. Giving his money to Ladd and Elisa to hold was sensible, but why’d he go and tell Leroy to refuse him a jug or two on credit?
“Evil don’t take a rest,” Garnett hollered.
Aidan covered his ears and crept in the back door. A cross breeze set the bottle tree to tinkling up front. He stumbled over a kettle into the kitchen table and almost knocked his banjo onto the floor. He swung it above his head, batting the air.
“Hell fever and damnation had to be the Baptist preacher.” A haint quoting what he wrote in his journal — if that didn’t beat all, she seemed to be carrying on right outside his front door. The spirit-catching bottles tinkled with her breath.
Aidan tottered onto the porch. “Preacher fell down his own well.” He banged his banjo into the colored glass. He was ’bout to smash it against a post, but Princess was braying like a banshee. Him acting a fool never spooked the mule like that before.
“Twisted-hand Sheriff Harry was carrying a torch,” Garnett said. She couldn’t have been more than a few feet behind him.
Aidan’s heart pounded, and blood banged at his temples. He swirled at the creaky sound of rotten floorboards fixing to give way. In broad daylight, Garnett Phipps was sitting in the busted rocker on his porch, swaying back and forth in a broken rhythm. She was shades of black, white, and gray, like a photograph ’cept for a purple orchid in her swamp grass hair and sparkly red flecks in dark eyes. Her skin was little more than mist. The dress she wore was a muddy river, flowing from her neck to her bare feet and back up again. A mojo bag dangled at her waist, burning fiery red, same as her eyes. She showed him a mouth of pearly teeth and held a misty hand toward him. Aidan lowered the banjo. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to hightail it out of there.
“You didn’t need to see their faces, Aidan. You know who they are.” She gestured for him to come closer.
He couldn’t move. “Peanut farmer shot hisself in the head.”
“Bringing up the rear and ready to skedaddle, was a tall, broad figure — Hiram Johnson or Jerome Williams.” Her voice got softer. She broke off rocking. “Am I lying?” She sounded a moment like Redwood.
Riders in dark robes tore through flames, racing by Garnett and off into the fields. A black stallion reared, almost throwing its pale faced rider, who turned toward Garnett. The orchid in her swamp grass hair caught fire.
“Hiram’s just a stand-around-and-do-nothing coward, like me.” Aidan took a step closer. “Must’ve been Jerome, hanging in the back.”
“They all swore an oath.” Garnett stood up. Her breath was swamp stink, greenbrier, dead breath. “You heard it too, didn’t you, up in your hunting perch? They swore to leave the colored in peace, leave my family in peace. Else the boneyard baron would claim each one of their sorry souls long ’fore their time. Look at Jerome.”
“What you want? Me to be a murderer too?” Aidan shouted.
Garnett drew her mouth to a thin bloody line.
Aidan looked down. “I came too late to stop Jerome, to save your gal, or save myself.”
“The dead be counting on the living. You’re all we got left.”
The rocker moved back and forth. Garnett had vanished, but a purple orchid was on the seat. The fire hadn’t made it no nevermind. Aidan gingerly picked the flower up, sat in the rocker, and hugged his banjo.
Eleven
Chicago and Peach Grove, 1907
Redwood clambered up narrow stairs from the smelly little dressing room to a dim backstage corridor. Her feet barely touched the ground. Over two years on the run, but here she was with The Act, performing a few spots from the headliners at the Prince Vaudeville Theatre in Chicago! Out front, an excited crowd poured in. Milton always watched the buck dancers and pantomime as the audience took their seats. Eddie was hiding somewhere from a jealous musician who caught Eddie kissing his gal and feeling her behind. Redwood sucked her teeth, disgusted. Eddie had no sense of time and almost missed their call last night. He was probably up to nothing good again.
She dashed by jugglers and fire-eaters fixing to go on. A young novice blew flames into the flies and got scolded in Greek by seasoned members of his troupe. They wiped ashes from their white shirts and shook their fists. Redwood dodged Chinese acrobats tumbling and racing up the walls. A Chinese dragon puppet with ten legs and a long red silk tongue licked her feet. A scaly tail curled ’round her waist. The Chinese act was on next, so escaping the dragon was easy.
“Eddie?” she whispered at them, stepping away from the tail.
The dragon shook its enormous head. Whitefaced clowns in raggedy harlequin costumes peered at her, arms and shoulders drooping in exaggerated shrugs. Two dogs from the animal act paced with Molly the trained mule, as if they had stage fright too.
The Prince Theatre offered a collection of entertainment acts from ’round the world. A tenor who’d sung for the president of these United States sat in the wings with eyes closed, lost in music. Theodore Jordan and Sarah Nelson practiced the entrance for a romantic sketch they’d performed for royalty in Europe! Redwood almost couldn’t believe she was running backstage with such a fast crowd. Every which way you turn, thrills and razzle-dazzle, and Eddie was fixing to mess up their golden opportunity.
“I’ve lost a rabbit. You’ve lost Sambo,” the Magician said. Was he making fun of her? “The audience will boo.”
“I don’t plan on cooning forever,” she said to him.
“It’s an unlucky Friday, the thirteenth of the month.” He reached in his hat and his hand came up empty. “Watch yourself, gal.”
Not bothering to ask after Eddie, Redwood plowed through the Irish dance troupe — they never talked before going on, just worked their feet. The green room had been commandeered by a French equestrienne and her skittish white horse. Redwood poked her head in and out quickly. The lady was whispering French in the horse’s ear and stroking his neck like they were lovers. Eddie wouldn’t have lasted a minute in there. Redwood was covered in a light sweat. Behind all the flats and a mountain of props a young white man leaned out the stage door and declaimed Hamlet, Macbeth, and Lear. He shouted his final speech with a gray wig, a gnarled staff, and a mouth full of cotton. Was he supposed to be funny or not?
Eddie was nowhere in sight.
The Wild West pageant had assembled — horses, wagons, and blackface savages brandishing tomahawks. Redwood searched the actors’ faces. Blackface could turn you into anybody, even your own Chinaman or Negro self. Saeed, a Persian acrobat playing Chief Blood Curdle, smeared war paint on his bare chest. Seeing Redwood, he smiled.
She tugged long black braids ’til they were straight on his head. “Ain’t you a sight?”
“Not for long.” He shrugged. “I get killed first thing.”
“Have you seen Eddie?”
“He was hiding in the stagecoach, but I told him you all were about to go on.”
“Thanks.” She squeezed his hand. “You goin’ watch me?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He made a bow to her. The other savages poked each other, certain that Saeed was sweet on Redwood. Saeed tugged her waist and whispered in her ear, playing romance to the hilt. “Perhaps tomorrow we could —”
“Sure.” Redwood raced downstage to Milton shaking out tension beside Eddie.
“Where have you been?” Eddie hissed at her. “You ’bout to miss the call.”
“He just got here too,” Milton said dryly.
Redwood shrugged and peeked through the heavy red velvet curtain. The theatre was jammed, ’cept for expensive box seats set off from either side of the stage. Nobody sat under the painted cherubs that flapped tiny wings and strummed harps. Sightlines at that angle were terrible. Redwood burped up a bubble of tension. With all the rehearsing they’d done, she’d do fine, but who was there to see her shine?
“Remember, you have to love whoever comes out and pays their dime.” Milton r
ead her like a favorite poem. “Do your best, give ’em the time of their lives.”
“Don’t worry,” Eddie said. “Chicago is just people, no different than anywhere.”
“We’re two spots from the headliners tonight,” Redwood said. “We got their undivided attention.”
The dusty curtain parted, and the bright electric chandelier went out quickly, a fountain of jewels, melting away to nothing. The theatre’s leaky roof, ratty seats, and rickety balcony came into sharp relief. A sea of scowling white faces floated in the darkness as the stage lights washed away distant details. The last act had left them sour.
Redwood, costumed as a dapper young city man, danced to lively music between Milton, dressed as a uniformed railroad porter, and Eddie playing a good-for nothing Sambo — colorful patches, comical shoes, and a floppy hat with a hole in it. Both men were done up in blackface — sooty dark skin, juicy red grins from ear to ear, wide eyes bugging out in fright or glee. Redwood wore regular makeup that highlighted her handsome features under the intense stage lights. Her dress coat, cane, and hat gleamed — not His Honor the Barber, but close.
Less than a minute into their routine, the front rows grew restless and bored, ’fraid they were in for just another coon show. They cussed and spewed insults in Polish, German, Italian, Russian…Chicago was a town of immigrants, onstage and off. People had run to the windy city from everywhere in the world. Redwood tried to listen underneath the alien words to catch their spirit, how Mama taught her. That was the best way to work a spell on folk who were foreign or even home grown.
The music got carried away. Tripping over a luggage cart, Eddie got tangled in a mountain of tumbling suitcases and carpetbags. A demon of disorder, he cartwheeled and somersaulted ’cross the stage. Everything he touched went flying, and Milton ran ’round catching one heavy thing after the other. Redwood sang a sweet nonsense ballad. Milton prevented mishap from befalling her ten times including a big chest landing on her head. Finally, he got snagged by a twirl of her cane and went soaring through the air. Eddie scratched his chin at Milton’s sudden disappearance and handed Redwood the last bag. Oblivious to Milton’s labors and the dangers she’d escaped, Redwood gave Eddie a big tip. He did a jig, tapping his feet on the stage floor like it was a drum. Milton crashed on the overturned suitcases to an explosion of applause.
Milton stood up and fell down ’cross the stage as the audience laughed and cheered. Redwood observed him with undisguised panic. Finally offstage, Milton crumpled, obviously in real pain. Unconcerned, the musicians played the intro for their next song.
Eddie gaped at Milton in the wings, but quickly recovered his grin. He grabbed Redwood who was ’bout to run offstage. They struggled ’til she flung his arm away with such force he landed on the ground — on the down beat. The audience howled.
Saeed back-flipped on stage between Redwood and Eddie. Bare-chested, covered with stripes of war paint, and sporting a loincloth, a feather headdress, and beaded moccasins, he threatened them with his tomahawk. The musicians took their cue from him and played Injun music. Saeed cavorted upstage and down, screeching as he patted his mouth. This supposed war cry was echoed by Injun enthusiasts in the audience. Eddie acted as if Saeed’s entrance and his fight with Redwood were part of the show. The musicians played the song intro again, while Saeed and Eddie circled Redwood, Injuns riding ’round a wagon of white settlers. A white rabbit hopped across scattered suitcases, and the audience hooted. Redwood finally gave in to the improvisation and, with Eddie and Saeed adding harmony, sang a popular favorite:
Come right in, sit right down
and make yourself at home.
You’ve found the place you’re looking for,
there’s no more need to roam.
The sign reads “smallpox” on the door
but a welcome mat lies on the floor
So come right in, sit right down
and make yourself at home.
Saeed improvised an acrobatic dance, more Persian than wild Injun. He leapt into the air, twisting and tumbling in an elegant, exotic ballet. Redwood’s dapper young man, not to be outdone by a savage, set down her cane and cartwheeled and back-flipped ’cross the stage. Eddie did bumbling antics and fell on his behind, trying to upstage them. No one paid him any mind.
Saeed dashed ’cross the floor, ran up Eddie’s bent back, jumped from his shoulders, and swung from a prop street light down into the balcony box seats stage right. Eddie saw Redwood running for him and turned to escape her. Too slow. She jumped on his back and using their combined momentum leapt for Saeed. He caught her at the waist and swung her into the seat next to him. Sweat made his blackface glisten as he grinned and whispered, “Don’t ever scare me that way again.” They posed like elegant dignitaries enjoying the show.
The stunned audience didn’t take a breath for almost a minute.
Eddie broke the mood shouting, “If any y’all good patrons think you can run up my back too, y’all better have another thought coming.”
In a storm of applause, Redwood rushed out the box door. Saeed jumped down to the stage and bowed with Eddie as the curtain dropped in front of them.
Aidan, his ratty hair pulled into a pigtail, his clothes rumpled but not filthy, stood in Ladd and Elisa’s doorway. He was close to sober, yet standing up straight without trembling and weaving still took considerable effort. Ladd opened the door. Aidan would’ve run away, but he spied Elisa hovering behind her husband.
“Evening, Mr. Cooper,” Ladd said.
Without saying a word, Aidan held the sweetgrass basket out to Elisa. His hand shook, but he managed not to drop it. Elisa pushed past Ladd and took it, touching his fingers and then squeezing them. Inside the basket was a carved wooden box stained deep burgundy. She held it up to the light.
“Thank you, Mr. Cooper, that’s fine work,” she said. Ladd nodded agreement. “We haven’t seen you for weeks.” She took his arm. “Don’t you want to come in?”
“No Ma’am.” He slipped away from her. “I just come by to say thank you. To your face.”
“You’re skinny as a will-o-wisp. Ain’t you been eating, Aidan?”
Hearing her say his name he could have wept. “My appetite’s not what it used to be.” He turned to leave, but was mobbed by Iris and her cousins Jessie, Tom, Bill, Becky, and Ruby. He got who went with what name on the first round.
“Where’s your banjo?” Iris said as they dragged him inside. “You should leave it here for us to keep safe.”
Elisa closed the door.
“Can’t you get that darn window open? It’s a sweatshop in here,” Milton said.
In the cramped dressing room they all shared — the only one for colored at the Prince Theatre — Milton fell out on a divan. His left arm was stuck in his jacket sleeve. The rest dragged on the floor. His shirt was half out his pants and unbuttoned to the waist. Sweat streaked his blackface makeup. Redwood, dressed in Aidan’s clothes and her face clear of makeup, sat down on a stool next to him to wrap his swollen ankle.
“Hold still,” she snapped, not angry at him, but at the healing she couldn’t do.
Eddie, out of makeup and costume and in handsome evening attire, struggled with a tiny window. The glass cracked when he finally shoved it open. He brushed his hands together, clearing off the dust. “We were awful tonight. They goin’ fire us,” he said.
“Audience didn’t notice a thing,” Milton replied.
“You only did the one number.”
“Didn’t you hear ’em cheer?”
“For Saeed, wild Injun to the rescue, not…the air is worse outside than in.”
“That’s Chicago for you,” Milton sighed. “Eating rotten pigs with every breath.”
Eddie slammed the window shut. Dust flew up his nose. He sneezed in Redwood’s direction. “Milton’s got a bum Achilles ankle, what’s your excuse?”
“I don’t know.” She started the bandage again. What would Aidan think of their Injun shenanigans? What’d she thin
k? “And you putting on the good face every night, no matter what…”
“That’s the show,” Milton said. “Didn’t I warn you?”
“Why you taking Eddie’s side?” Redwood grumbled.
“You want to lose the audience? Go back to Tennessee?” Eddie snorted.
“Doing shows in Chicago is not what I imagined.” She set Milton’s ankle on a stool.
He flinched. “Not feeling like a feisty Blues singer, huh? Maybe you’re not suited for nigger shows.”
Redwood cut him a sharp glance. “I am disappointed,” she admitted.
“Persian skunk was dying to show off.” Eddie said. “You can’t break Saeed’s heart, Red, he don’t go with women.”
“So? You done tole me that a dozen times at least.” Redwood didn’t want to fool with love anyhow. “A man could do a lot worse.”
“You want to be one of them whores, laying down for whoever can pay?” Eddie picked his way through open suitcases, oversized shoes, several Sambo costumes, and a stack of fright wigs. He stood over Redwood, fuming. “Or do you want to wash nasty floors and dirty drawers like all them other sad Negroes? Or marry some poor colored fool on his knees, blinded by love, ignorant as all get out, smelling of dirt and praying to a fire and brimstone god, so Miz Sequoia will love him ’til doomsday? Cooning ain’t no worse than that.” He loomed over her, half-truths and spit on his lips. “What you got to complain ’bout?”
Redwood stood up, eye to eye with Eddie, so mad she could catch fire. Milton gripped her, but she shook loose. “Eddie, you don’t know what I want, what I dream.”
A tap on the door startled them. Saeed stuck his head in. “Are you all decent?”
Before anyone answered, he came in. Without blackface, Saeed was a few shades lighter than Redwood. His angular features and haughty expression were far from the savage buffoon he played. Tonight he was dressed as a fine Persian gentleman. His voluminous blue and gold pants came in at the ankles and turned a walk into a strut. A blue and purple embroidered belt rode high on his waist, accentuating his muscular chest and broad shoulders. Embroidery accented the flowing sleeves of his short jacket and the blue and gold turban on his head. He cut a fine figure. Redwood determined to have a costume such as this very soon.
Redwood and Wildfire Page 20