The Last Page

by David J. Walker

  Calvin snapped off the radio. For a while the whine of the air conditioning was the only sound in the car. Lulled by the air blowing through the vents and the rhythm of his wheels on the highway, Calvin was startled by the abruptness of his father’s voice.

  “You start making the arrangements?”

  Calvin cleared his throat just loud enough. “Not yet.” He wasn’t sure what to expect. Would his father lay into him? Cuss him out?

  But all his father did was to wave a weak hand. “I guess I got to do it myself.”

  “Why don’t we talk about it later?”

  His father’s shoulders sagged and he closed his eyes. “I ain’t got many laters, son.”

  ***

  1950’s: Chicago

  The hot breath of the blues kissed Jimmy Jay Rollins when he was little, leaving him hungering for more. His mama—he never knew his daddy—took him to church in the morning and the blues joints at night. By the time he was seven, he was playing guitar licks with whoever his “uncle” of the moment happened to be, and by the time he left school at 16, he knew he wanted to play bass guitar.

  The bass wasn’t as flashy as the electric slide guitar of Little Ed or Muddy Waters, but it was the glue that held everything together. No one could play a 12-bar chorus without him; no one could start a lick or riff. The bass was there through every number, from beginning to end, setting the pace. Steady. Unrelenting. The lead guitar, saxophone, even the drummer could take a break; not so the bass. Willie Dixon became Jimmy Jay’s personal hero.

  By day, Jimmy Jay worked in a steel factory near Lake Calumet, but at night, he bounced around playing gigs on the South side. You could smell stale cigarette smoke and yesterday’s beer in the air, spot a few guns and knives if you looked real close. But none of that mattered when the music started. The Blues flowed through his veins, transporting him to a place where he could let go, soar above the world, tethered only by an electric guitar, wailing horn, or harmonica riff.

  He was jamming at the open mike set in the Macomba Lounge one hot summer night, a thick cloud of smoke, perfume, and sweat choking the air, when a wisp of a girl—she couldn’t have been more than 18—came up to the stage. She was wearing a red dress that skimmed her body just right. A curtain of black hair shimmered down to her waist, and her skin looked pale blue in the light. She tentatively took the mike and asked them to play in G, then launched into a bluesy version of “Mean to Me,” an old Billie Holiday song.

  By the middle of the second verse, people set their glasses down, stubbed out their cigarettes, and a hush fell over the room. Her voice was raw and unpolished but full of surprises. At first a sultry alto, she could hit the high notes in a silver soprano, then dip two octaves down to belt out the Blues like a tenor. At first he thought it was a fluke—no one had that range and depth. He tested her, moving up the scale, changing the groove, even throwing her a sudden key change. She took it all with a serene smile, bobbing her head, eyes closed, adjusting perfectly. Her voice never wavered.

  After a few numbers, the band took a break, and Jimmy Jay bought her a whiskey. As he passed her the drink, he noticed the contrast between her face, soft and round, and her eyes, dark and penetrating. Her name was Inez Youngblood, she said, and she’d just moved here from Tennessee. She was part Cherokee, once upon a time, but mostly mountain white.

  “A hillbilly?” Jimmy Jay joked.

  She threw him a dazzling smile that made his insides melt. “A hillbilly who sings the Blues.”

  “Why Chicago?”

  “I listen to the radio. Chicago Blues is happy Blues. You got Muddy Waters. Etta James. Chess Records. Everybody’s here. Sweeping you up with their music. There just ain’t no other place to sing.” Those dark eyes bored into him. “And I got to sing.”

  By their third drink, he began to imagine the curves underneath that red dress, and what she looked like without it. She had to know what he was thinking, because she smiled and started to finger a gold cross around her neck. Still, she didn’t seem put off. More like she was teasing him.

  Another set and half a reefer later, a fight broke out in the back of the bar. Inez, who was singing “Wang, Dang, Doodle” took it in stride, even when knives glinted and someone pulled out a piece. She just pointed to the fighters, asked the bartender to shine a spot in their direction, and leveled them with a hard look. The brawl moved into the alley. Jimmy Jay was impressed.

  It was almost dawn when they quit playing. Someone bought a last round of drinks, and Jimmy Jay was just thinking about packing up when Inez came over.

  “You’re pretty damn good, Jimmy Jay.”

  He grinned. “Thanks, Hillbilly. You got a set of pipes yourself.”

  She laughed. “We oughta do this again.”

  Jimmy Jay suppressed his elation. “I could probably get us a couple of gigs.”

  She nodded. “I’d like that.”

  He nodded, just looking at her, not quite believing his good fortune.

  She offered him a slow sensual smile. “Meanwhile, I got a favor to ask you, baby.”

  Jimmy Jay cleared his throat. “Yeah?” His voice cracked anyway.

  She turned around, and lifted her hair off the back of her neck. “Help me take off my cross.”

  She ended up in his bed that night. And the next. And the night after that. She might only have been 18, but she was all heat and fire. All he had to do was touch her and she shivered with pleasure. When he ran his fingers slowly up her leg, starting at that perfectly shaped ankle, past her knee, stopping at the soft, pliant skin of her thigh, she would moan and grab him and pull him into her. Sliding underneath, rocking him hard, like she couldn’t get enough.

  “You are my sweet man,” she would whisper when they stopped, exhausted and sweaty. “My sweet, sweet man.”

  ***

  They were a team for almost ten years. Inez, the hillbilly, soaring like an angel in one number, moaning like a whore in another; and Jimmy Jay, steadfast and sturdy, setting the beat, making her look good. Inez drove herself hard, and her talent grew. Her timing was impeccable. She rolled with the band, but could carry the show. If someone missed a chord, she covered them, and if they messed up their solo, she’d make light of it by singing scat, humming a chorus, or talking to the crowd.

  Before long they were headlining at places like the Macomba before it burned down, South Side Johnny’s, and Queenie’s. Their only disagreement was over Chess Records and the two white owners who wanted to sign them. Jimmy Jay was all for it—not only did his idol Willie Dixon work for Chess, but a record contract was something he’d dreamed of all his life. Inez kept saying they should hold out for a better deal. So far they had.

  Even Calvin’s arrival didn’t slow them down. Calvin was a good baby who turned into a good boy. The same face and nappy hair as his Daddy; the high cheekbones and coffee-with-cream skin of his Mama. Inez seemed thrilled. She cooed and sang to him all day, but if Jimmy Jay figured she might retire, he figured wrong. Calvin came with them to the clubs on the South and west side, even to Peoria and East St. Louis. They’d bring blankets and put him to sleep in the back room on a ratty sofa, sometimes the floor. When he was older, Jimmy Jay or Inez would drop him off at school before they went to bed themselves. Jimmy Jay didn’t mind. His own mama had brought him to all the Blues joints.

  Inez started calling them both her sweet men. Jimmy Jay would grin. They were happy. Real happy. Until the gig at Theresa’s.

  ***

  It was late autumn, and a chilly rain had been falling for two days, flooding the viaducts and lots of basements. Jimmy Jay and Inez were headlining at Theresa’s Lounge on South Indiana. The place wasn’t as upscale or as large as Macomba’s, and the regulars, mostly people from the neighborhood, treated the place like home, dancing and talking with the players during the set. Tonight the smell of wet wool mixed with the smoke and booze and sweat.

  A promoter from Capitol Records was in town and supposedly coming down that night. Inez was exci
ted—Capitol was huge, much bigger than Chess. Jimmy Jay was glad he’d talked a new lead guitar into playing the gig with them. Buddy Guy had just come up from Baton Rouge, and everyone was saying he was gonna change the face of the Blues.

  It was a knockout performance. No one missed a chord and the solos kicked. There were no amp or mike problems. Jimmy Jay and the drummer locked into a tight groove, and Buddy Guy’s guitar was by turns brash, angry, and soulful. Inez’s voice was as rich and mellow as thick honey. Even with the lousy weather, the place was packed, everyone swaying, dancing, bobbing their heads. It was like great sex, Jimmy Jay thought. Hot, sticky sex that trembled and throbbed and built, and ended in a long, fiery climax.

  During the break, a white guy came up to the stage. He’d been at one of the back tables, smoking cigarettes. With his baby face and eager expression, he couldn’t have been much older than Jimmy Jay. But his tailored suit and hair, slicked back with Bryl Crème, said he was trying to look well-off. He bought the band a round of drinks and nodded to Jimmy Jay. Then he turned to Inez and started talking quietly but earnestly. She looked from him to Jimmy Jay, then back at him. When she nodded, he took her hand and covered it with thick fingers. She didn’t pull away. After the next set, Jimmy Jay caught them talking behind his back. By the last set, Inez was favoring him with the same smile she’d shot Jimmy Jay the first night at Macomba’s ten years ago.

  By the time Inez left town with him a week later, the rain had changed to snow. Jimmy Jay went to fetch Calvin at school. When he got back, she was gone. At first he thought she was at the store, picking up something for dinner, but when she didn’t come home by six, an uneasy feeling swept over him. He checked the closet and drawers. Most of her things were gone. Except her gold cross.

  Word got around that she’d run away with Billy Sykes. He hadn’t worked for Capitol, it turned out. He did work in the record business, but dropped out of sight after he shorted some men who’d been financing a label with mob money. He reappeared a year later as a promoter. No one could say who his clients were.

  That winter Jimmy Jay sat for hours on the bed, running Inez’s gold cross and chain through his fingers. His mother moved in to look after Calvin who, at nine, was just old enough to realize his world had shattered. Word filtered back—someone had seen her in Peoria, someone else heard she was in Iowa. Jimmy Jay tried to play, but he sounded tired and flat. Inez was inextricably bound up in his music and his life; with her gone, it felt like part of his body—worse, his soul—had shriveled up and fallen off.

  One day Calvin came in and saw him on the bed, fingering the cross with tears in his eyes.

  “Don’t be sad, Daddy.” He came over and gave Jimmy Jay a hug. “I know what to do.”

  Jimmy Jay gazed at his son.

  “Mama just got lost. She don’t know how to get home. All we got to do is find her.”

  Jimmy Jay smiled sadly. “I don’t think she wants to come home, boy.”

  “Granny says every mama wants to come home. All we needs do is find her. Once she sees us, it’ll be just fine. I know it. “

  Jimmy Jay tried to discourage him, but Calvin clung to his idea like a leach to a man’s skin. He talked so much about finding his lost mama that after a while, his intensity infected Jimmy Jay. Could it really be that simple? Maybe Calvin was right. Sure Inez wanted to be a star, but she had a family. If they went after her, maybe she would realize what she’d given up and come home.

  The following spring Billy Sykes brought Inez back to Chicago for a show on the West side—no one on the South side would book her. She was singing with some musicians from St. Louis, Jimmy Jay learned. They were staying at the Lincoln hotel, a small shabby place near the club.

  Jimmy Jay waited until Calvin was home from school and had his supper. Then they both dressed in their Sunday best and took the bus to the hotel. Jimmy Jay slipped an old man at the desk a fiver and asked which room Inez Rollins was in. The man pointed up the steps. Jimmy Jay and Calvin climbed to the third floor and knocked on #315.

  A tired female voice replied, “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Inez. And Calvin.”

  The door opened and suddenly Inez was there, her body framed in the light.

  “Mama!” Calvin ran into her arms.

  Her face lit, and she clasped Calvin so tight the boy could hardly suck in a breath. When she finally released him, she turned to Jimmy Jay.

  “Hello, Jimmy Jay.”

  She looked washed-out, Jimmy Jay thought, although it gave him no pleasure to see it. Gaunt and nervous, too. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and her black mane of hair wasn’t glossy. He thought he saw a bruise on her cheek, but she kept finger-combing her hair over the spot.

  “Hello, Inez.” He looked around. “Where’s Sykes?”

  “He’s at the club. Getting ready for tonight.”

  Jimmy Jay nodded. He got right to the point. “We want you to come home. We are a family. Calvin needs you. So do I.”

  At least she had the decency to look ashamed. Her eyes filled. She gazed at Jimmy Jay, then Calvin. Then she shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Remember what I told you the first time we met?”

  “You told me a lot of things.”

  “I need to sing, Jimmy Jay. And Billy’s gonna make me a star.”

  Jimmy Jay saw the determination on her face, as raw as the first time he’d met her. His heart cracked, but he struggled to conceal his grief. He might have lost her, but Calvin didn’t have to. “Take the boy. He needs his mama. I’ll—I’ll pay you for him, ‘ifin you want.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Inez looked down at Calvin, trailed her fingers through his hair, and smiled. Calvin snuggled closer. “I’ll talk to Billy when he gets back.”

  Jimmy Jay nodded. “I’ll leave the boy with you. I’ll pick him up at the club when you start your gig. We can talk more.”

  Inez looked sad but grateful. Calvin looked thrilled.

  ***

  Two hours later, the band had finished setting up but there was no sign of Inez. Or Billy Sykes. Or Calvin. Jimmy Jay saw the uneasiness on the musicians’ faces, heard one of them say, “Where are those damn fools?”

  He retraced his steps to the Lincoln Hotel.

  No one was behind the desk when Jimmy Jay got there. He went up the stairs and down the hall. Music blared out from Inez’s room. The radio. Benny Goodman’s orchestra, he thought. He was about to knock on the door when he saw something move at the other end of the hall. Something small. He wheeled around and squinted.

  “Calvin? Is that you?”

  The figure trotted toward him. Calvin, looking small and lonely.

  “What you doin’ out here, son? Where’s your mama?”

  Calvin didn’t say anything, just shrugged.

  “Is she inside?” Jimmy Jay pointed to the door.

  Calvin nodded.

  “Is Sykes back?”

  Calvin nodded again.

  Jimmy Jay turned back to the door, leaned his ear against it. The music was loud. He knocked. No one answered. Probably couldn’t hear him above the music. He knocked again, and when no one responded, started to push against the door.

  “Inez, Sykes.... Open up!”

  Nothing. Except the music.

  Jimmy Jay looked both ways down the hall, then threw his weight against the door. It almost gave. He backed up, turned sideways, and rammed himself against it again. This time the door gave, and Jimmy Jay burst into the room.

  ***

  He was still holding the gun when the police arrived. Inez’s body was at the foot of the bed, but Sykes’ was half way to the door. A pool of blood was congealing under each of them.

  1982: Chicago

  Three weeks later, Jimmy Jay no longer had the strength to get out of bed. Calvin was putting in twelve-hour days. He knew it was an excuse for not dealing with his father, but he couldn’t bear to come home to a place where death hovered in the air.

  One night, though, was
different. As he trudged inside, Calvin heard music from upstairs. And laughter. When he climbed the steps, he saw that Jeanine had moved their stereo into Jimmy Jay’s room. An old album revolved on the turntable. His father was in bed, eyes closed, snapping his fingers. Jeanine was sitting in the chair smiling too, her head bobbing to the music. Calvin peered at the album cover. Chess Records. Muddy Waters.

  His father opened his eyes. “Hey, Calvin.” His face was wreathed in smiles. “There ain’t nothing like Muddy for an old soul. With Willie Dixon and Howlin’ Wolf on back up. Lord, it makes me see the gates of heaven.”

  “Don’t talk that way, Dad.”

  Jimmy Jay dismissed him with a wave of his hand. When the song came to an end, Calvin lifted the needle and turned off the stereo. Jeanine went downstairs, claiming dishes that needed to be washed.

  “Calvin,” his father said, “We can’t put it off no more. It’s time to talk about the arrangements.”

  Calvin stiffened. He dug in his pocket for his Luckys, pulled one out and lit it. He sat in the chair. “I don’t know why you want to be buried there.”

  His father eyed him. “She was my wife, Calvin. And your mama.”

  “She was white trash!” Calvin exhaled a cloud of white smoke. “White trailer trash.”

  “Don’t you ever talk that way ‘bout your mama!” His father’s voice was unexpectedly strong. “And she was from the mountains of Tennessee, boy,” his father added. “The Smoky Mountains.”

  But Calvin wasn’t mollified. “She ran out on us. You and me. She left us. And for what?”

  His father just looked at him. Then he turned his head toward the window. “She was my woman,” he said quietly, his burst of energy now dissipated. “And I was her sweet man.”