The Supremes Sing the Happy Heartache Blues

by Edward Kelsey Moore

  James snorted and said, “Since when have you been scared of anything?”

  “Since you stopped sleeping at night and started snapping at me and getting into fights.”

  James seemed to relax a bit then, and I thought maybe the worst had passed. He turned away from me and clutched the edge of the mahogany wardrobe against the far wall. “Odette, you shouldn’t have brought him here,” he said to the perfume bottles and cream jars on top of the wardrobe.

  “If you saw me drowning, wouldn’t you save me whether I wanted saving or not?” I asked.

  James said, “My situation with him is nothing like that.”

  “Yes, it is. You’re drowning, and you won’t admit it. The question is whether you’re going to trust me not to let you drown.”

  “No,” James said. “The question is whether you respect me enough to treat me like a man in my own home.”

  That stung me so bad that my throat went dry and my lungs felt emptied of air. I said, “You know I respect you. I’m trying to help you.”

  The buzzer on the oven timer sounded in the kitchen, calling what I hoped was an end to this round of our argument. “That’s the cake,” I said. “We could both use a good meal, and El’s a diabetic. He should get some food in him.”

  Buzzer or not, we weren’t done. James spun around toward me. For the second time in two weeks, I saw an expression on his face I didn’t recognize. This time, I had put it there. I’d hurt him. Insulted him. Cut him.

  He said, “This isn’t okay. I would never do something like this to you.”

  Before I could say more, James snapped, “I’ll be back later.” He stormed past me. I was still standing in our bedroom when I heard the sound of the garage door opening and the roar of the car engine.

  Mama was sitting next to El at the kitchen table when I got back downstairs. One of the many lovely things about my mother is that she rarely gloats. She watched me prepare plates for myself and my houseguest without offering a single “I told you so.” What she did say, midway through my meal with silent El, was “It’ll be all right with James. Just don’t wait for it to get right on its own.”

  She kept me company through the rest of the meal and as I saw El off to bed. My good mother left my side only to give me privacy as I sought solace in eating half of the cake.

  * * *

  I WAS IN bed when James returned. I’d lain awake watching the glowing red numbers of the digital clock, the way I did when he was late getting home from work. Sleep never came if he wasn’t beside me. From the day he had joined the state police, I’d been convinced that my staying awake kept him from all harm.

  As he’d done hundreds of times, James undressed in the dark. Pretending to believe I was sleeping, he climbed in next to me.

  I said, “Did you eat?”

  “Went to Earl’s.”

  We both flopped around in the sheets, trying to get comfortable. We pounded our pillows and wrestled with the blanket. James wound up with his back to me, as far away as he could be in our king-sized bed.

  I said, “I’m sorry. I know I did the wrong thing. I just couldn’t sit back and watch you be unhappy. I’ll never be able to.”

  James snorted. “So you’re saying you’re sorry but you still might do it again. That’s just about the shittiest apology I’ve ever heard.”

  “It’s an apology, though.” I slid over toward him and laid my fingertips on his back. “I’d sooner die than hurt you.”

  “I know.” He rolled over till we were facing each other. He gave me a peck on the lips, and then he escaped back to the other side of the bed. “What’s done is done. He can stay till next week.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The days El spent in our house zipped by quickly. That was partly because I’d thrown James, El, and myself into a situation that required us to be on the alert each second so we wouldn’t say the wrong thing and upset the delicate diplomatic balance in our home. Living on the edge has a way of making time go faster. Also, we had a stream of people in and out of the house, creating a constant buzz of activity.

  Barbara Jean dropped by daily, sometimes alone and sometimes with Ray. A physical therapist from the hospital came over to work with El every afternoon. Clarice was too busy practicing for her big show to come much, but she called each evening. We talked about El, her ongoing spiritual battle with Miss Beatrice, and the joys of grandmothering. We never once discussed her upcoming move back into the house with Richmond, and she didn’t have a word to say about what I could tell was near panic over the Chicago concert. I was already doing more than my share of pushing other folks to open up. I didn’t pester Clarice. Besides, I had a strong feeling that that dam would burst soon enough.

  Forrest Payne came by the second day El was with us and almost every day after that. He arrived laden with stories of the old days at the Pink Slipper to relive with El, most of them at least a little bit dirty. I’d thought I knew all the stories about Aunt Marjorie, but it turned out there were still one or two more. And they were doozies.

  The first night Forrest came by, we sat in the family room—Forrest, Miss Beatrice, El, and me. I’d served everyone lemonade, except Miss Beatrice. Though it was less than a week from the Fourth of July and sweltering outside, she drank her customary hot tea. She was visibly saddened by both the brand of Earl Grey in her mug and the low quality of the mug itself. Her frown deepened when Forrest mentioned my aunt.

  “Did you hear about Marjorie and the fire?” Forrest asked me.

  When I said that I hadn’t heard that story, he said, “The dancers were doin’ a patriot show with sparklers, and one of them accidently tossed her sparkler off behind the band. Next thing we knew, the curtains were on fire and the place was filling with smoke. You remember, El?”

  El said, “Yeah, I remember.” I saw him smile for the first time then, and I was looking at James with a couple of added decades.

  “Smoke was everywhere, and the customers started runnin’ for the front door. So many folks tried to squeeze out at once that they made a logjam and nobody could move. I started to think I was gonna die. But Marjorie barreled through the crowd, pickin’ people up and tossin’ them out of the way till she got to the head of the line and cleared the jam. She was a sight to see.”

  I asked, “Did anybody get hurt in the fire?”

  Forrest peeped out his high-pitched giggle and said, “That’s the best part. Turned out the fire was mostly smoke. Bubba, the sax player, opened his pants, peed on the curtains, and doused the flames. But since Marjorie was the real hero that night, we told everybody it was her that pissed the fire out. Marjorie bein’ Marjorie, she went along with the lie. Not a single person we told doubted it was true.”

  Poor Miss Beatrice was thoroughly scandalized. She’d only come with Forrest so she could lead a prayer at the end of their visit, but she had ended up being subjected to my cheap tea, a dollar-store mug, and a tale about dancing girls, urine, and Aunt Marjorie.

  The reminiscing tickled Forrest. His voice going even higher, he squealed, “Were you there when Marjorie chucked off her overalls and spun around the stripper pole?”

  He turned to me and said, “Big Marjorie yanked that pole clean out of the floor. I’m tellin’ you, the audience saw more ass in that five minutes than they’d seen all month.”

  Miss Beatrice launched into some heavy-duty entreaties to Jesus then. She prayed for a solid half hour. Forrest never did get to the end of his tale about Aunt Marjorie. On his way out the door, though, Forrest whispered in my ear that he’d finish the story the next time he saw me.

  With all the talking going on at the house, precious little of it was between James and his father. El was more of a talker than James, but that’s not saying much. James can make just about anyone seem like a chatterbox. El was downright animated when the conversation touched on music. He was proud of the places he’d played and the songs he’d written—150 of them, he claimed. The darkness that nearly always emanated from him lifted wheneve
r he spoke of his songs, his bands, or his guitar.

  James was the true music lover in our house, though he practically bit my head off when I suggested that he might have inherited his affinity for music from El. James had bought most of the recordings we owned. It was James, not me, who had decreed that our daughter, Denise, would become a pianist. He dragged her to lessons with Clarice every week for five years, until Clarice called a halt to the torture—Denise’s and her own. It was due to James’s desire to have musicians in the family that Jimmy and Eric tormented our neighbors with, respectively, the drums and the trumpet. James wasn’t interested in sharing much of anything about himself with his father. He made no mention of our amateur-musician children.

  We were having dinner on Friday night when I told El that it had been a surprise for us to learn that he was a musician. I thought that was a safe way into a topic they’d both enjoy. But there was danger in every subject where El and James were concerned.

  El froze with his fork at his lips. After he set his fork back on his plate, he stared at me as if he were in shock. “Ruth never told you I was a blues man?”

  James said, “Mama told me you played the guitar, but she never made it sound like it was a big deal. She didn’t tell me it was your job.”

  With no bitterness, as far as I ever saw, Miss Ruth had explained to James that El was a man who carried misery with him wherever he went. She’d told James that his father was a junkie. She’d been direct with him about how El had disappeared from their lives and left them without a penny. El knew all of that. I’d told him myself in the car ride to our house. But, amazingly, what El couldn’t bear to hear was that Miss Ruth had left out that he was a blues man.

  El said, “I suppose Ruth did what she thought was best. I just figured my music would be the one thing she would tell you about me for sure.” Then he said to James, “When I’m gone, I’d like for you to have my guitar. It has your mother’s name engraved on it.”

  James surprised me by angrily spitting out, “I don’t play the guitar.”

  Here it comes, I thought. He’s finally going to let loose the explosion that I had hoped to engineer. The truth would be spoken, or yelled, at last. The right questions would get asked, and some real answers might be offered. But James caught himself and added, in a calmer, more even tone, “I’m sure one of the grandkids would be happy to have it.” The subject was abandoned for a chat about the weather.

  After dinner the next night, El went to his room and brought out a picture of James as a toddler; he was sitting in his father’s lap, next to El’s leopard-spotted guitar. In the picture, smooth-faced young El was dressed in a tight-fitting shirt that showed off his muscular arms. His teeth, now deeply stained, gleamed white as he grinned at the camera. It wasn’t just that he had aged. In 1952, El’d had a wild energy about him that made you think the picture might burst into flame at any second. He was all vitality and light.

  The most remarkable aspect of the photo was that young El’s affectionate gaze was clearly fixed on his guitar, not on the child squeezed next to it on his lap. He looked at the instrument so intently that I wondered if the baby hadn’t been tossed aside the moment the camera’s flash died out.

  In a dreamy voice, El said, “I still remember when your mother took that picture. I had just got the camera, and I said, ‘Ruthie, I want a picture of me and my baby.’ It was a real nice day.”

  I am not, by nature, a forgiving woman. I hold grudges, and to be honest about it, I often enjoy holding them. But right then, as I listened to El talk about that day, decades ago, when his wife snapped a picture of him and his son, I knew I couldn’t maintain my hatred of him.

  El was a frail old man who wore his regrets like a weight around his neck. He deserved to wear that yoke, and I wasn’t making excuses for him or even thinking about granting him the forgiveness he hadn’t been man enough to seek from James. I just couldn’t stoke that furnace of anger like I had been doing. Here he was, smiling with nostalgia about his sweet memory of taking a picture with “his baby,” and nearly sixty years later, this pitiful man still couldn’t see how plainly the photo advertised to the world that his real “baby” wasn’t his son.

  CHAPTER 27

  Veronica stood in the lobby of First Baptist Church greeting congregants in advance of her pulpit debut. She was flanked by her husband, Clement, her daughter Sharon, and her grandson, Apollo. Her son-in-law had arrived at the church with his wife and child, but not long after he’d entered, Veronica had ordered him to go into the chapel and reserve seats for the family. He’d been given specific instructions as to which locations were, and were not, acceptable. No farther than eight rows away from the front. No closer than three. The family should be seen, but Apollo shouldn’t be so near the pulpit that his cuteness might detract from the solemnity of the occasion.

  They stood in a spot that Veronica had chosen after scouting the lobby for weeks. Their location, in front of the wooden kiosk where visitors signed the welcome book, provided excellent sight lines and was bathed in morning light from a window high on the east wall. Whoever was parked in the center of the shaft of light created by the window was imbued with an angelic glow. The sunbeam that suggested God’s favor produced a blinding glare that caused Clement and Sharon to squint. But Veronica, who had come fully armed for the weekly fashion battle her church was known for, sported a three-foot-diameter hat that successfully blocked the sun. The hat—like her dress, scarf, gloves, and shoes—was Barbie-accessory pink and featured a cascade of bubble gum–hued ostrich feathers that flowed down from its crown, creating a fluffy, domed effect. Summer fruit—peaches, strawberries, and pears—rendered in glass were artfully interspersed among the plumage. Perched atop it all were two small silver-and-white sequined doves. There had originally been three birds, but Veronica had removed one of them, fearing that the third dove pushed her headdress across the thin line that separated festive from ostentatious.

  Nadine Biggs, the wife of the injured pastor of the church, was among the early arrivers. When they made eye contact across the lobby, Veronica lifted a pink-gloved hand and waggled her fingers at Nadine.

  Sharon said, “Mrs. Biggs looks like she was up all night. The reverend must not be doing too well.”

  “That’s just her face, honey.” Veronica lowered her voice and added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was up late, though. I have it on good authority that she’s been sleeping with the choir director for close to a year. They say she’s more brazen than ever since Reverend Biggs has been laid up.”

  “No!” Sharon cried out.

  “Yes, indeed. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Nadine began walking toward Veronica, weaving her way through friends who all wanted updates on the pastor’s condition. As she approached, Veronica whispered to Sharon, “I heard her daughter steals from the collection plate.”

  She reached out and grabbed Nadine’s hand. “How is Reverend Biggs? I hope he’s making a speedy recovery.”

  Nadine said, “His progress is a little slower than we expected, but we’re hoping it’ll pick up soon.”

  Veronica took no pleasure in the prospect of Reverend Biggs being laid up longer than his doctors had estimated. She wasn’t that type of person. But Madame Minnie had predicted that Veronica would soon have her own church, and it wasn’t like the church could have two pastors.

  She laid a sympathetic hand on Nadine’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll be better in no time with an angel of mercy like you tending to him.” Then she said, “Have you met my grandson, Apollo?”

  Nadine leaned forward to get a good look at the baby. She gasped and said, “He is as precious as he can be. I love how his little bow tie matches your dress.” She congratulated Sharon and backed away to say hello to Clement. After telling Veronica how much she was looking forward to her sermon, Nadine excused herself and went to fill in other church members on the health of the pastor.

  Odette and James, Barbara Jean and Ray, and Claric
e and Richmond entered the church. Several people surrounded Clarice. Even from yards away, Veronica could hear them carrying on about the upcoming Chicago concert. Others shook Richmond’s hand as if he were still a football star. Women ran up to Barbara Jean and gushed over the simple blue sundress she was wearing. The same women turned to bat their eyes at Ray.

  What was wrong with these fools? They saw Barbara Jean and Ray every Sunday. Was it surprising that a rich woman owned a decent dress or that a handsome man looked as good today as he had seven days earlier?

  “That Clarice just can’t stand to have the spotlight off of her for one second,” Veronica said. “Insecurity is what it is. It’s sad. If you ask me, Barbara Jean looks cheap. That’s a very short dress for a woman her age.”

  “It’s like Grandma Glory used to say: all the money in the world can’t buy class,” Sharon remarked.

  When Clarice and the other Supremes stepped into Veronica’s sunbeam, they showered her with hugs and wishes for good luck. The men said their hellos and left to reserve seats in the rapidly filling sanctuary, leaving Clarice, Barbara Jean, and Odette behind.

  This was the first time Barbara Jean and Odette had seen Sharon since the birth of her son. She was fussed over and heartily congratulated. Odette tickled Apollo above the pink bow tie, which was partially buried in the folds of skin around his neck. He opened his mouth and bellowed, “Gaah!”

  Odette apologized for upsetting him, but Sharon assured her that Apollo’s unearthly howl was, in fact, a laugh.

  “He’s extraordinary,” Odette said.

  Barbara Jean added, “He’s all boy.”