by Maxine Clair
Downstairs at the breakfast table, David had been brushed and shined like a new penny—long navy-blue pants, suspenders, plaid shirt. Just what she would have him wear. She had to hide her tears, pull herself together.
“Aren’t you handsome?” she said to him, and saw his face cloud over.
“Momma said the children at your school wear high-tops,” he said.
October looked under the table to see his new Buster Brown high-tops that he didn’t like.
She wanted to reach over and touch his face. “They do,” she said. “And they look nice. You’ll see—everybody will have them on.”
“Don’t matter if they don’t,” Gene said. “They cost enough for you to wear till high school.”
Vergie sat down to her toast and bacon. “Eat your oatmeal,” she told David. “You won’t get anything else until you come home at noon.”
“I can’t have a lunch bucket?” David asked, eyes so beautifully hurting in his brown round face.
Vergie shook her head. “I told you already, David, you come home for lunch. Every day. Next year you’ll have to stay all day. Then you can take a lunch bucket.”
October guessed this was as good an issue as any to work up jitters. David’s eyes swam and he sat with his arms folded, hands stuffed in his armpits.
“Don’t you start,” Vergie told him. “We’ve been through all this, David. Now eat your breakfast.” October was undone, and she could tell that Vergie was, too.
Vergie gave him a slice of her bacon. “Here, eat some protein. Noon is a long way off.”
October asked him, “What’s your teacher’s name?” but he just hunched his shoulders.
“You know her name, Davy,” Gene said.
It occurred to October that she might know her. “I know a lot of teachers,” she said.
David munched his bacon. “I think it’s Miss Borders,” he said.
“Juanita Borders?” October asked, and Vergie nodded.
Her heart jumped. Some little something she could give him. Juanita Borders had gone to Emporia two years behind her; October remembered her as smart.
“I know her, David,” she said. “I knew her when we were kids. I knew her when she was in college. She’s very nice.”
His eyes brightened. “Will she whip us?”
“No, no,” October said.
Vergie said, “Nobody’s going to whip you unless you act up, so just be good and you won’t have anything to worry about.”
“We’d better get to gettin,” Gene said. “It’s twenty till.”
Vergie pinned David’s name, address, and telephone number inside his pants pocket with instructions that he not move an inch from the school door until she came to walk him home. And they prepared to leave.
School opened at nine o’clock. This first day, Gene had planned to go to the mill late, just so he could see David off. October had put off her trip to Kansas City by one day, just so she could see David off. Vergie had bought a new skirt and blouse for the walking-to-school look, just so she could see David off.
And where was school? Harrison Elementary. One of the newer schools, built like a rambler with wings off in a couple of directions, a front lawn, and the playground out back. The three of them walked David the three blocks in the warm September morning, Vergie and Gene holding his hands, October behind them, carrying his satchel. Anyone watching them would have thought David had some kind of handicap.
Too, too tiny, October thought. What did he know about the world? If anything happened, how would he know what to do? Look what happened to Emmett Till down in Mississippi. The picture of his mangled face with a bullet hole in his forehead leaped up in her mind. Fourteen. Tied to a cotton gin fan and dumped into the river, all because nobody in Chicago had thought to tell him about whistling at white women.
She couldn’t think of a single minute that David had been out of their sight. Someone—Frances, Maude, Vergie, Gene, October—had always given him what he needed before he knew that he needed it, figured out what scared him and kept it at bay. October hoped that Juanita Borders was as patient as she was smart.
Bare bulletin boards were surely not a way to welcome little children to school, even though they did make everything else seem orderly. In the doorway of the kindergarten classroom, Juanita Borders stood, directing traffic, and October rushed to say hello.
“October!” the teacher said. October still held David’s satchel. “I didn’t know you were back here,” Juanita said. October turned to say that this little family of three was her reason. “Oh,” Juanita said. “Is this your son?”
“This is my sister, Vergie, and her husband, Gene, and their son, David,” October said.
Vergie stepped up. “I’m Mrs. Parker, and this is Mr. Parker,” she said, correctly. “David is our son.”
Juanita stooped to look into David’s face. “You can go on in and sit wherever you like,” she said. “Is that his?” She took David’s satchel ushered him into the classroom, and left the three of them standing without something to talk about.
When she returned she told them, “You-all won’t need to bring him to the room every day. Take a look at the playground. You can bring him there half an hour before school if you want to.”
“Um-hmm, okay,” Gene said.
No one had had time to feel how it felt for David to be out of their sight. They all hesitated to scout out the playground just yet. Finally, Gene stepped inside the classroom to wave good-bye to David. And since he did, Vergie did, too. And though October fought the impulse, she decided to see David one last time that morning sitting at his square little table with three other children, among many other square little tables filled with other children, all with eyes wide, each wondering who those three people were, standing at the front of their classroom waving at that little boy in the suspenders.
Very little could compare with that First Day of School in Ohio, and so a dull beginning to the school year in Missouri came as no surprise. Teaching third-graders gave October a measuring rod for David. He couldn’t yet print his name, but in three years, he would be learning cursive writing, long division, state capitals. Perhaps by then, things would have changed, and she would be the one to help him with his homework, introduce him to the world of history.
Sudden weeping, though, was a surprise. David seemed already lost to her. Vergie and Gene were not travelers, and now David was in school.
Maybe someday, somehow, she would have him as her own son again; maybe she wouldn’t. In the meantime, if it meant spending only summers and holidays with her in Missouri—some holidays, anyway—she could see how everyone would benefit.
Vergie and Gene would just have to bring David to Missouri more. That was all. She rehearsed the words she would tell Vergie the next time they talked. Their family was too small to be out of touch, and October shouldn’t always have to be the one to do the traveling. David should see some of her life, too.
On the heels of August in Ohio, October tagged along on a night out with Donetta and Kenneth. Since she and Arthur had parted ways, she had found that coupledom was a closed club, and that she used to fit in without knowing or caring how and where. Now, she was back to being the extra woman. And not a life-of-the-party type either.
On Kenneth’s birthday, Donetta worked in a night at the Blue Room as a part of Kenneth’s surprise. A jazz group that he supposedly liked were headlining, and Donetta wanted a party—everybody had to show up. And so she did.
October had this so-so winter white suit that she thought might do for the occasion. Winter white could always be dressed up or down; she wasn’t trying to impress anybody. Before she left for the club, she checked the mirror and saw it could be better, but it would do.
Once or twice, as a big night out, Arthur had brought her to the Blue Room—enough times that if she wanted to,
she could hold a conversation about this or that piano player, this or that jazz album. She read the papers. Charlie Parker’s death was still a pall over the jazz world. She knew the big names—Miles Davis, Sonny Stitt, Dizzy Gillespie—and what instruments they played. She had swooned a time or two over Erroll Gamer, and heard men talk enough about Bud Powell to know what it meant to “romp” on the piano. She still had her favorites—Dinah, Ella, Sarah, Count, and Duke.
Turns out they were a party of nine, and October felt right at home with Donetta’s coterie of teachers-with-boyfriends. The Blue Room really was blue—walls, tables, chairs—with eerie, iridescent light that stepped the club up to surreal.
According to Kenneth, the leader of Jazz, Inc., had just won some kind of award. If October hadn’t been just passing time, she would have been tuned in enough to make the connection. One man in the quartet that was Jazz, Inc., did get her attention, though, as he walked through the club and stepped up on the bandstand.
“That’s Leon Haskins,” she said. What a surprise that Leon had come this far already.
“Yeah,” Kenneth said. “This is his group.”
Cora’s old lawyer friend, Alvin—whom October remembered from the Thanksgiving at Cora and Ed’s—said, “That’s right,” and he pointed to October. “You were there, too, Thanksgiving. Now I remember. Lonny signed a contract with Blue Note right after that.” He chuckled. “We knew him when.”
To see Leon headlining at the Blue Room with his own combo was turning a nothing party into a night out. He’s made it, October thought. Good for Leon.
As they played each number, she hummed the melody underneath. Eyes glued to the bandstand, the men at the table had a serious stake in every note. Fancy fingerings. They leaned in, heads bobbing with the rhythm, and October saw that if all else failed, she could take her cue from them.
Whenever Leon did some big thing like making a way-out barrage of notes just fall out of his horn, or when, from out of nowhere, the man on the piano made a sudden connection, the men yelled like they had gotten church-happy. Leon was good.
As the players left the bandstand after the first set—Donetta had said they were staying for two—Alvin yelled out to Leon and waved, trying to catch his attention.
“I’ll bet he doesn’t remember me,” he said. “That was three or four years ago, wasn’t it October?”
“At least,” she said. But she herself was watching Leon make his way through the tables and the crowd of awestruck people. Fans. He looked older, neater, polished. Some dark slacks with pleats, and a white shirt with his cuffs rolled up. The mustache and goatee were gone. His hair didn’t have a part in it. Yes, his face had filled out, like he was eating regularly. His mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t. He was different.
“Hey, man,” he called and waved to Alvin but didn’t seem bent on coming over to their table.
“He doesn’t remember me,” Alvin said.
The first-show crowd began to thin, and second-show people began filling up the tables. October and Donetta had to go to the ladies’ room. When they got back to the table and got situated again, Leon just walked up from nowhere and leaned over to October. Put out his hand and joked.
“Hey, I’m Lonny Haskins, Ed’s brother—remember me?”
She put her hand in his, “I remember something about a long ride to St. Louis.”
She introduced him to Donetta and Kenneth, and Alvin finally had his chance.
“You don’t remember me,” Alvin said, “but we all met the same Thanksgiving Day. You had a gig in the Ozarks—remember?—and came up to Ed’s for dinner.”
“Right,” Leon said. He looked at October. “If it wasn’t for you and me, they wouldn’t be married, right?” Leon sat down and looked at her, not soft, more like he was trying to remember if she was the same woman. Why did she wish she had worn something with the arms out?
Then Leon said, “Let me get the drinks,” and motioned to the waitress.
Now Alvin and Kenneth and the rest could pull out their whole bag of jazz-ese about Leon’s “axe-playing.” They went through the ranks of players and tunes and who stole what from whom. Mostly, October listened.
Leon thanked them for noticing and then turned to ask her if she heard from Cora these days.
“She’s busy with a new baby,” October told him, “but we still call each other every now and then.”
“If you’re here after the show, maybe you can catch me up,” he said. Donetta touched her foot under the table.
“Um-hmm, sure,” October said. Donetta didn’t know it, but October and Leon went back a ways. Ed was the only person in the world who came anywhere near brotherly to October, and if Leon was anything to her, he was a long way down from Ed.
“I hope y’all dig the next set,” he said, getting up and pushing the chair under the table.
“Nice talking to you, man,” Alvin said and Leon left.
One more thing. Right in the middle of a number during the second set, Leon worked in a few bars from Mendelssohn’s wedding march. October smiled. And she had to clap.
At the end of the second set, Donetta had Kenneth’s wallet out and was piling dollar bills on top of the check so fast, October thought she was teed off about something. But no, she just hurried everybody out of their chairs and into the crowd leaving the club. Everybody except for October.
“Call me tomorrow,” she told her. “We need to talk.”
Leon found her waiting. Judging from the way he was decked out, he had finally gotten the combination right: suave Camel overcoat, fancy green alligator horn case swinging into the air saying hello. And there was an older man with him.
“This is my man Foots,” Leon said. “He thinks he’s my manager, so I let him hang around with me sometimes....” And he turned to the older man. “Say hello to Miss October Brown,” he said.
The older man looked like a has-been, with a rim of white hair around his bald crown, thick glasses, and a worn-out suit and shirt. He just nodded hello. October couldn’t help noticing that knots of arthritis on his knuckles had stretched his black skin crisp, and she thought of Maude.
“You don’t mind if we drop Foots off at the hotel, do you?” Leon asked.
When they got to the Akers Hotel and Leon let his manager friend out of the car, the old man reminded Leon, “We’re supposed to leave at nine tomorrow. Don’t let us have to come looking for you.”
Little did he know, October had no plans for that kind of night, and she hoped Leon didn’t either.
Leon drove off, talking about being hungry. “You can’t come to Kansas City and not have some barbecue,” he said, driving like it was his private road.
“I grew up on these streets,” he went on, crossing over Brooklyn and going toward Twelfth Street. “Rexall’s used to be right on that corner.”
They turned into The Paseo, with its parkway trees and mowed grass. When they got to the comer of Eighteenth, he told her, “Once when I was a junior flip, I ran into Bird, right here, me and Ed. Bigger than life, that was Bird.”
They saw the horde of people trying to get into Bryants at that hour and decided on take-away. Take away to October’s place was what Leon meant. But it was fine. She knew that Leon didn’t have family close around. Maybe she was the next best thing. He seemed excited enough.
At her apartment she got out of her white suit and put on a pair of slacks and a blouse. Eating barbecue was a down-home kind of thing you did with your house clothes on, licking your fingers. She heard him in her kitchen rattling glasses and nosying in her cabinets and in her refrigerator for lemonade.
When she came out to the kitchen, he had found his way to the bottle of rum, and no, he didn’t want plates—whoever heard of using plates? What you do is you just spread out the butcher paper on the table. “You got napkins?” and “Boy, even these pickles
look good,” and he sat down and yanked off both of them a bone.
Fun, almost. October had the next best thing to kin in her house. At her kitchen table, they pried square slices of sandwich bread off slabs of ribs, cleaned the sweet meat off the bones with their teeth, licked their fingers, and found some decent “sounds” in her little-nothing collection.
“Tell me about Ed’s baby,” Leon said. She told him what she knew—when the boy was born and what he weighed. Cora had wanted to name him after her father, but Ed had won out. They called him Eddy Junior. Cora had said that Ed worshipped this baby and had gotten up for all the night feedings.
“That’s Ed,” Leon said.
Why did October sense that it had been a long time since Leon had talked to his brother? That until that night maybe Leon didn’t even know they had had a son?
She found her picture of Eddy Junior at four months and handed it to Leon.
“He looks just like me,” Leon said, handing back the picture.
She looked at it again. “A baby is a precious thing,” she said.
“When he gets big enough to catch a ball, his uncle will come play with him.”
“Think of all the things you’re missing out on,” she said.
“Yeah,” Leon said. “I’ll catch him later. Ed and Cora aren’t going anywhere.”
What did Leon know?
“Tell me,” she said, changing the subject, “what it was like to win your big award.”
“You mean the Newport thing?” he said. “It was sweet, real nice. I wish Ed could’ve been there.”
“Tell me about it. Who gave it to you? What did you have to do to get it?”
“What did I have to do to get it?” He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “I had to play my horn at the Newport Jazz Festival. And I had to play it good, because all the critics were there. It’s something you have to see.” He swigged his lemonade rum and put down the glass.