Destiny's Daughters

by Gwynne Forster

  She spat out the taste of baking soda and heaved a long, heavy sigh. She had exchanged a cold and indifferent foster mother for a hot husband, but she had also swapped a bathtub and running water for a tin tub and an old iron pump on the back porch.

  “No point in going over all this old stuff,” she said aloud and headed for the kitchen to begin her day of drudgery.

  Josh stood beside the stove, drinking coffee, and he had begun his morning that way every day for the fifteen years she’d been married to him. Hot days, cold days, windy days, or rainy days. It didn’t matter. Josh got up, made coffee, and drank at least two cups of it before he said one word to anybody. As she watched him, he sipped loudly and lazily.

  “What day is it?” she asked him, hoping it wasn’t the day she went to Miss Elizabeth’s house to do the mending.

  Josh ran his fingers over his tight curls. “Let’s see. It’s the nineteenth of June.”

  “The nineteenth of June, you said?”

  He took another sip of coffee. “That’s just what I said. June nineteenth. Why?”

  Something clicked in her head, and she stared at him, shaken and nearly unnerved by the thought of what she might do, of what she was about to do. Her heart banged against her chest.

  “Why?” she asked him with both hands fastened to her hips. “Why? Because it’s June nineteenth, the day nearly a century and a half ago when the slaves finally got their freedom, and the day I’m getting mine. I’m gonna pull myself up out of this mire, and I’m going to stay up. You do as you please. Well, I’m going to get some of my own.”

  He set the cup down forcefully on the ancient Kalamazoo wood cooking range. “What the hell are you talking about, woman?”

  Now that she’d started it, she felt bolder and stronger. “I’m talking about this is as good a day as any for you to pack up and hightail it to your eighteen-year-old lover, though I can’t imagine what she wants with you.”

  He frowned and shook his head. For once speechless, and it gave her an urge to laugh aloud, but she didn’t. “Well?” she said, turning the screw.

  He seemed to recover quickly from the shock, for he shrugged carelessly. “Well, if that’s the way you feel about it, I got no reason to hang around here, but sure as you born, you’re gonna come crawling back.”

  This time, she did laugh. Laughed until she got the hiccups. “Man, you can’t be serious.” She laughed again. “Don’t forget to take your Viagra with you. You’re gonna need it for sure now.”

  “At the end of the month, you’re gonna wish you hadn’t been so rash,” he threw at her carelessly, as if he didn’t believe it himself.

  “You’re kidding, I hope. Man, I’ve been hanging on this thread of a rope too long. From now on, I’m getting some of my own.”

  “You gonna fall flat on your behind, too. How you gonna eat?”

  “Don’t worry about me. The few pennies I make will take care of me till I can shake the dust of Low Point, North Carolina, off my shoes. You get your things together and go on over there to Vanessa. She can have you.”

  She strolled to the front porch, sat down in the swing, and very soon, the late-morning breeze, sparse though it was, swept over her shoulders. As the sun climbed, the breeze began to die down, and she started singing. Singing and swinging. And she didn’t stop until Josh walked out of their front door with their only suitcase, two plastic shopping bags, and a knapsack. She ran into the house and grabbed the hat that hung on the back of a door.

  “Here’s your hat,” she called after him and tossed it into the dying breeze.

  “I thought I saw Josh leaving here this morning with a load like he was going someplace and wasn’t coming back,” Jessie Mae Woods, her nearest neighbor, said as she walked into Clarissa’s kitchen unannounced. “That was Josh, wasn’t it?”

  “You got eyes,” Clarissa said, “so why you asking me? I sent him over to that little tart, Vanessa. He’s been sniffing around her for months, and I just got sick and tired of it. Good riddance.”

  Jessie Mae seated herself for a long session of meddling and gossip. “Well, I declare. Girl, you go way from here. Gone, eh? Well, don’t let it get to you. He’ll be back.”

  Clarissa stopped ironing and stared at the woman. “Didn’t you hear me say I put him out? I don’t want him back. I don’t know what kind of diseases that little trollop’s got. The nasty heifer. Now you go on home, Jessie Mae, and let me get my ironing done. I have to go into town soon as I finish. We can gossip tomorrow morning.”

  “All right. You come over to my place, and I’ll fix breakfast.” Clarissa could hear in Jessie Mae’s voice the hope for a long and juicy gossip session, but her friend was in for a surprise.

  At sundown, Clarissa sat on the top, broken step of her front porch, totally alone for the first time in her life. No brawling, fighting foster sisters and brothers or harsh foster mothers, and no smiling, deceitful husband to crawl into her bed after wearing himself out with a girl half his age. Tears? She didn’t have any. As her fingers caressed the strings of her precious guitar that lay across her lap, ideas danced around in her head. Bold and daring ideas.

  Darkness set in, but she sat there, quietly immobile like a forgotten statue, occasionally slapping at the flies and mosquitoes and hating the stench of ripening chinaberries and the rotting manure in the freshly fertilized fields across the way, a stench brought to her on the shifting wind. A clear moon slid out from behind a cloud, and she sat there still, thinking about her life. When an owl hooted in the distance, she pulled herself up, went inside, and switched on the naked light bulb that swung from the ceiling in her bedroom. For a long while, she stared up at it and then looked away, sucking her teeth in disgust.

  “I deserve more than this,” she said aloud, “and God willing, by mid-July, I’ll be miles away from Low Point, North Carolina. I’ve got talent, and I’m going to find a way to use it.”

  Early Monday morning, Clarissa stuffed her guitar into its case, closed it, locked her front door, and set out on foot for the bus station about a mile from where she lived. During the two-hour ride to Raleigh, the state capital, she tossed ideas around in her head, couldn’t make up her mind, and finally decided to be herself—a country woman trying to make a living.

  She walked into Helbrose Studios and spoke to the receptionist. “Good morning, Miss. I came here to see Mr. Helbrose. Would you please tell him that Clarissa Holmes is here.”

  The woman stared at her. “I don’t have you on my list of appointments for today.”

  “That’s all right,” Clarissa said. “Nobody’s perfect. I forget things myself.”

  A helpless, flustered look came over the woman, who appeared to be around sixty. “Have a seat, Miss. I’ll . . . I’ll be right back. She reappeared, seemingly more nonplussed than when she left the room.

  “Uh . . . Mr. Helbrose said he can give you fifteen minutes of his time, and you’d better not waste it.”

  Clarissa removed her guitar from its case and followed the woman. “I don’t know what you told him, but the Lord will certainly bless you.”

  When she entered Helbrose’s office, the odor of stale cigarette smoke assaulted her nostrils, and the fumes caused her eyes to smart. Helbrose sat behind a huge, well-worn mahogany desk, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked, his manner brusque and uninviting.

  Clarissa didn’t answer, but ran her fingers over the strings of her guitar and let her rich alto voice pour forth “Stormy Weather.”

  The cigarette slid from Helbrose’s lips, and he braced his hands on the desk as he half stood, leaning forward, his mouth a gaping hole. “Do you know ‘Help Me Make It Through the Night’?” he asked when she finished.

  She had sung it a hundred times, and she sang it then as if she’d just learned about Josh’s affair with Vanessa Hobbs, as if she hadn’t a friend in the world, as if she were trying to climb up from a deep, dark pit. She sang it without re
alizing that tears cascaded down her face.

  “Where’d you come from?” he asked in a tone of wonder.

  “Low Point.”

  “You under contract to anybody?”

  She shook her head. “I just want to make a tape and get three or four copies to send out so I can get a job.”

  “All right. And I’ll give you some references. If you want a manager or an agent, I’ll be glad to take you on.”

  She didn’t know how good she was, although she knew she had a voice, but he seemed a little too anxious.

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the encouragement, and I sure do need those references. How much do you charge to make the tapes?”

  “For what you want, a couple hundred bucks.”

  She nearly sat on the floor. “Mr. Helbrose, I don’t have no two hundred dollars.”

  “All right. All right. I’ll make you a demo plus two copies of those two songs, but I want a hundred bucks up front and another hundred within three months. He took a form from his desk drawer, crossed out a line, and handed it to her.

  “You’re going to be famous, and don’t forget who got you started. Sign this.”

  “Can’t you give me at least four copies?”

  He shrugged and lit another cigarette. “With business as slow as it is, why not? Time was when the kids wanted to be singers—now, they just want to rap, and I’m damned if I’ll sink to making rap demos. Go on in the studio across the hall. Edgar will get you started.” She read the contract, signed it, and went to find Edgar.

  Three hours later, with the demo tapes in her pocketbook, Clarissa stopped at the receptionist’s desk. “You got a phone book?” she asked, then stood there and copied the phone numbers of every person whose last name was Holmes. In the lobby of the building, she found a pay phone and called each one of them but, as usual, none was a female triplet or knew of a woman who was one.

  Near the entrance to the lobby, a man stood behind a desk marked INFORMATION, so she walked over to him. “How are you today, sir? I hope you can help me out.”

  His raised eyebrow failed to intimidate her, and she produced for him the broadest smile she could muster. “Where’s a public library, sir? I have to walk to get there, so I’d appreciate directions to the nearest one.”

  He walked with her to the front door and pointed. “About seven blocks straight down there. You can’t miss it.”

  “I sure do thank you, sir. I’m hoping this is going to change my life.”

  “You’ll need more than hope, I expect,” the man replied. “Anyhow, I wish you the best.”

  She hadn’t spent much time in libraries, and about the only thing she knew about them was that they contained all kinds of information. She went to the first person she saw behind a desk.

  “I need help, ma’am,” she said in a strong voice, hoping that help wasn’t restricted to people with white faces.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” the woman said. “What are you looking for?”

  With the librarian’s help, Clarissa located jazz clubs in Washington, D.C., Kansas City, Missouri, Chicago, and New York City. Later, she sent a demo tape to each along with a letter requesting a two-week singing engagement in exchange for food, rent money, and transportation to and from work. She received immediate offers from three clubs, chose The Limelight in Washington, D.C., left her house in Low Point behind, and headed for her future.

  “You sound great on those tapes,” Buck Ryan said to Clarissa when she arrived at The Limelight and introduced herself. “But these recordings can be faked. Let me hear you.”

  Exhausted from the seven-hour bus ride and dry-mouthed, she knew it was then or nothing, so she asked for a glass of water, drank it, and cleared her throat a few times. “Anything special you want to hear, Mr. Ryan?”

  He leaned back in his chair and regarded her suspiciously. “Anything? Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you? Sing me some Billie Holiday.”

  Nothing could have pleased her more. She sang four songs popularized by the famous singer, and ended with “God Bless the Child.”

  “It’s a deal,” he told her. “I got you a room and breakfast at the Phyllis Wheatley YWCA. Here’s your weekly bus pass, and you ought to be able to eat lunch for a hundred dollars a week. You can eat dinner here. What kinda clothes did you bring with you? My entertainers look good.”

  “I’m a poor woman, Mr. Ryan. I don’t have no fancy clothes.”

  “Hmm.” He rubbed his chin. “We’ll see. Be ready to start tomorrow night. Jimmy will take you over there. It’s not far, about six blocks.”

  She checked into the room, hung her clothes in the closet, and opened the only other door that didn’t lead to the hall. A bathroom with a tub and a toilet. Her very own bathroom. She raised her eyes toward the heavens and spoke aloud. “From now on, every time I move, I’m gonna better myself. Every step I take is gon’ be a step up.”

  She went downstairs to the first-floor lounge, got a telephone book, wrote down the telephone number of every person listed as Holmes, and telephoned each one, but the trail to her sisters proved as elusive as ever.

  “How long’ve you been here?” a tall, dark, and handsome woman who she estimated to be around her age asked her.

  “I came today. You know where I can buy some lightweight black cloth? I need a long skirt, and I can’t afford to buy one.” After explaining why she needed it, she added, “I have a pretty black crocheted top that I can wear with it.”

  The woman seemed to think for a minute, and then her face brightened. “I’m not much with a needle and thread—I teach eighth-grade humanities. Let’s run up to U Street and see what we can find. My name is Cindy Ross. Let’s go.”

  By midnight, Clarissa had made a long, slim black-jersey skirt that suited both her five-feet-nine-inch svelte figure and the black top she had crocheted years earlier.

  “Not bad,” Buck Ryan said of her attire when she arrived for work at six o’clock the next evening. “How you gonna do this? Did you bring any music?” When she shook her head, he said, “I reckon you play the piano as well as that guitar.”

  “No, sir. I can play a little by ear, but truth is, I’m just gonna sit and sing. All I need is my guitar and a stool, the highest you got.”

  He stared at her, all the while drawing on his cigarette and blowing the smoke over his shoulder and away from her. “Okay, we’ll try it your way. Ever use a mike?”

  “Only when I made the demo tapes.”

  He handed her a microphone and went to the back of the club. “Sing something.”

  She sang a few lines of “Back In Your Own Back Yard.”

  “Right on, babe! From now on, you use a mike. It puts a nice, sexy come-on in your voice. Eat your dinner, and you can get a sandwich, pie or ice cream, and something to drink after your last show. Be ready to sing at eight o’clock.”

  I’ve got two other offers if this doesn’t work out, Clarissa told herself when she walked out on the stage and looked at the noisy crowd. “Thank y’all for coming,” she said into the microphone, mostly to assure herself that when she opened her mouth a sound would come out. She plucked a few notes on her guitar, hammered in syncopation, and wrapped her sultry alto around the words and music of “Early One Morning.” Within seconds, a hush swept over the room and, by the song’s end, the patrons were standing, applauding and yelling for more. Her second and last show ended at midnight, an hour and a half after the scheduled time.

  “Here’s a couple hundred,” Buck Ryan said to her when she went to her tiny dressing room. “Get yourself a couple of sexy evening blouses and another skirt. And from now on, you supposed to sing an hour, you sing an hour. Not a minute longer if they clap till they burn up their hands.”

  She frowned at him. “But I thought—”

  “You do like I say, unless you want to wear out your voice. Two hours of singing six nights a week is more than enough. Get something to eat. Jimmy will drive you to the Y.”

  She tried to fathom hi
s attitude toward her, but how could she read a man she didn’t know? “I guess I did pretty good, huh?”

  He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and turned away from her to expel the smoke. “You saw how the people reacted, didn’t you? Eat something, go home, and get some rest.”

  The crowd at The Limelight grew larger with each succeeding night, and by the end of the week, Clarissa could hardly believe her eyes when patrons stood along the wall as the club overflowed with them, and Ryan had to turn them away.

  “You got a couple of television appearances,” Buck told her one evening when she arrived to work.” I told ‘em, you charge twelve hundred, but you gotta join the union. Fill out this form, and I’ll get you your union card.”

  “Twelve hundred what?”

  For the first time since she’d met him, she saw him laugh. “Dollars, babe. Dollars. TV pays good money.”

  “But I have another week working with you.”

  “Yeah. I’m getting a lot for nothing. You sign a contract with me, and I’ll pay you a thousand a week.”

  So much so fast. She’d better watch it. “Thanks, Mr. Ryan. I’ll think about it.”

  “You’ll what?” he shouted. “I just want you to sign something that says you won’t sing in any D.C. club but mine.”

  “Suppose somebody offers me more?”

  “Make it six weeks at twelve hundred a week. Okay? By that time, the whole country will know who you are.” It wasn’t enough, she knew, but it was her first job and, to her mind, she owed the man.

  She agreed, finished her snack, got into the car with Jimmy, and hummed “Amazing Grace” all the way to the YWCA.

  “How’s it going, girl?” Cindy asked her at breakfast the next morning. “I see you made The Herald. Nice little piece they had on you.”

  Clarissa buttered a piece of toast and smeared it with grape jelly. She missed the buttermilk biscuits, sage sausage, grits, and scrambled eggs that she always had for breakfast back in Low Point, but people in Washington said sausage and biscuits—made with hog lard—were unhealthy, so she ate the toast and poached eggs and made herself like it.