by John Berendt
“Johnny’s own lyrics are the best, though. It’s hard to think of anything more beautiful than ‘When an early autumn walks the land and chills the breeze and touches with her hand the summer trees….’ That’s poetry. And ‘Like painted kites the days and nights went flying by. The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky.’”
It was because of Johnny Mercer that Emma started singing. Until she met him she played the piano and that was all. Mercer kept telling her, “Go ahead and sing.” But she was afraid. She told him she had no range. “That’s all right,” he said, “just sing softly. You don’t have to hit every note. Sing low and skip and cheat a lot. If you can’t reach it or don’t know it, skip it.” He showed her how she could change keys instead of going up an octave for the second verse of “I Love Paris.” He even helped her cheat with one of his own songs. She was having trouble with the line “I wanna be around to pick up the pieces when somebody breaks your heart”—she could not drop down for the second syllable of “somebody.” Mercer told her to sing the same note for all three syllables.
She was still dubious about singing, though. Then one evening she started an engagement at the Quality Inn and found a microphone and sound system all set up. “Oh, look,” Mercer told her, “you’ve got a mike. Now you can sing.” And she did. Years later she found out that Mercer had arranged for the mike to be there and paid for it too.
Emma recalled how over the years she had played piano for plain folks and dignitaries, for three presidents, twenty governors, and countless mayors. She had jammed with Tommy Dorsey and accompanied Robert Goulet. She recalled the day, years ago, when playing piano every day of her life had become a necessity. It had happened on a Sunday morning when her youngest son, upset about having broken up with his girlfriend, dropped Emma and her husband at church and then drove into the woods, set a rifle butt against the floorboards, turned the barrel to his chest, and fired. He collapsed on the steering wheel, sounding the horn. Someone heard the horn and came running. The boy lost a lung, but his life was saved, at a cost of $40,000. Emma had to work day and night to pay the bills. The near tragedy only served to intensify her faith. “What if the bullet had gone just a fraction of an inch to the left or right? What if he had not fallen on the steering wheel? The Lord must have been with him,” Emma said. “I have to go on believing for that reason alone.” Even after she had paid the hospital bills, Emma continued her nightly appearances. It had become her life.
We arrived back in Statesboro shortly after seven-thirty. Before going home, Emma stopped at the home of her ninety-year-old aunt to bring her a box of food she had taken with her from the country club. Her aunt came to the door in her nightgown and nightcap; she’d been listening to the radio broadcast of the evening sermon at the Baptist church. Emma went inside for a few minutes and tucked her in bed. Then, more than twelve hours after her day had begun, she drove home.
“There’s another wonderful thing about being able to play music,” she said. “It’s something Johnny Mercer told me. He said, ‘When you play songs, you can bring back people’s memories of when they fell in love. That’s where the power lies.’”
On the basis of attendance alone, Emma’s piano bar was an unqualified success. Financially, however, the bar did not do very well. Joe’s inclination to give people free drinks was one reason. In addition to that, many of Joe’s old creditors saw the bar as a chance to recoup some of the money he owed them. They would come in for an hour or so of drinking and then leave without paying. But even so, Emma’s should have made more money than it did. Joe sought the advice of Darlene Poole, who knew the bar business inside out.
Darlene had worked as a barmaid in a number of local saloons and was engaged to the owner of a successful club on the southside. She and Joe sat at a table having a drink. “You got a nice setup here,” she said. “The blue-rinse-and-foxtrot crowd finally have a place to go. Can’t hardly go to the Nightflight, can’t go to Malone’s, can’t go to Studebaker’s. You got ’em all to yourself, honey. Nice going. Plus I see you’ve got Wanda Brooks coming in here. Broads like Wanda are what I call insurance. With her bumping into everybody and knocking drinks over left and right at three bucks a shot, you can’t help but make it work. Now, if you can just keep the freeloaders out and stop giving away the liquor, you should do all right. Just make sure nobody’s glass stays empty too long.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” said Joe. “Gotta get Moon to pour drinks faster.”
“Moon?!” Darlene whirled around and looked toward the bar. Then she looked back at Joe. “Shit, Joe, you didn’t tell me you had Moon Tompkins tending bar!” Darlene leaned closer to Joe and lowered her voice. “Moon’s your problem, honey.”
“Why do you say that?” Joe asked. “He seems okay to me. Maybe a little slow.”
“Moon Tompkins has done three years for bank robbery,” said Darlene.
Joe laughed. “Yeah-yeah,” he said.
“And it wasn’t just one bank, either. It was two.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” said Joe. His laugh turned into a curious smile. He looked toward the bar, where Moon Tompkins was pouring vodka into a row of four tall glasses.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought old Moon had it in him.”
“How in hell did you ever let him in here as bartender?” Darlene asked.
“Emma hired him. I guess he didn’t put the bank job on his résumé.”
Darlene lit a cigarette. “I suppose you heard about the armed robbery at the Green Parrot restaurant last week?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Moon did it.”
“Oh, come on!” said Joe. “Are you sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“But wait a minute,” said Joe. “How could you know it was Moon? They haven’t caught the robber yet.”
“I know,” said Darlene. “I drove the getaway car.”
Joe had nothing against convicted bank robbers—or getaway drivers either—but he felt foolish entrusting his cash register to a dedicated thief. Moon was using the most rudimentary of all scams—making more drinks than he rang up—and when he did ring up drinks, he often propped the check on the cash register so it hid the numbers. “You can bet he’s pushing the No Sale button whenever he does that,” said Darlene, “and slipping twenty bucks in his pocket.”
Joe decided that the wisest thing to do would be to catch Moon in the act, confront him quietly, and allow him to quit without a fuss. He would not tell Emma anything about it, because the idea that she had been in business with a bank robber might give her a heart attack. Joe asked two friends to come to the bar the following night and keep careful count of all the drinks Moon served. During the day, however, word leaked out that later that night Moon Tompkins would be caught with his hand in the till at Emma’s, and by the time the bar opened a festive crowd was clamoring to get in and watch the sting unfold as if it were a sporting event.
“Good gracious, we’re having a lively night,” said Emma. Customers ordered drinks at a furious rate, hoping to encourage Moon to steal more than he had ever stolen before. The more drinks they ordered, the merrier the mood became, and by midnight it seemed that Emma and Moon were the only people in the bar who were unaware of the sting in progress.
The customers called out their orders:
“Hey, Moon! Gimme a stinger! Ha-ha! What better drink for a sting than a stinger!”
“I’ll have a Rob Roy, Moon!”
A half hour before closing, Moon took the trash barrel out to empty it in the dumpster and never came back. When Joe stepped behind the bar and opened the cash drawer, it was empty. Moon had cleaned it out.
Moon’s disappearance did nothing to dampen spirits at Emma’s. It only served to heighten the level of hilarity. At closing time, there was nothing Joe could do but tell Emma what had happened, that Moon had taken all the money and run.
“My goodness me!” said Emma. “Did he really?”
&nbs
p; “I’m afraid so,” said Joe. “And I guess it’s a good thing we’re rid of him, because it seems he’s done this kind of thing before. He’s a bank robber.”
“Oh, I know all about that,” said Emma.
“You knew?”
“Why, of course,” she said. “Moon told me about it when he first came looking for a job. He didn’t try to hide it, and I told him I admired him for that. I thought he deserved a second chance in life. I think everybody does. Don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Joe.
Emma got into her car and then pulled out onto Bay Street, headed for Statesboro.
As was his custom at this hour of the morning, Joe led a few friends back to his house, where, according to the fire captain’s report later in the day, someone dropped a lighted cigarette into a wastebasket shortly before dawn and caused the fire that nearly gutted the house.
Joe was the first to smell the smoke. He ran through the house rousing people from beds and sofas and herding them into the street.
“Is everyone out?” the fire captain asked.
“Everyone I know about,” said Joe.
“You mean there might be people in your house you don’t know about?”
“Captain,” said Joe, “there have been times when there were people in my bed I didn’t know about.”
It was widely assumed that Joe Odom had set his house on fire to collect the insurance money, even though he no longer owned the house. Joe’s landlords asked him to vacate the premises at once, not so much because of the fire but because Joe had never paid them any rent. A week later, Joe took what furnishings he could salvage and moved into a large Federal-style brick townhouse at 101 East Oglethorpe Avenue, a few blocks away. His new next-door neighbors were Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Bell. Mr. Bell was the retired chairman of the Savannah Bank, former president of the venerable Oglethorpe Club, and a respected historian. Mrs. Bell was an intellectual and a member of a distinguished Savannah family. In view of his august new neighbors, Joe’s friends anticipated that life at his new home might perforce be a bit more modulated than it had been at 16 East Jones Street.
And perhaps it was. But before long, neighbors began to notice that visitors were passing through the unlocked front door of 101 East Oglethorpe Avenue in a steady stream, that tour buses were pulling up in front at noontime, and that pleasant piano melodies could be heard spilling out of the house day or night but especially at times when the city was otherwise utterly still.
Chapter 7
THE GRAND EMPRESS OF SAVANNAH
An unnatural calm descended over Jones Street after Joe Odom’s move to Oglethorpe Avenue. No longer could Joe’s sweet serenade be heard floating over the garden walls. In the stillness, it occurred to me that it was time to buy a car. I wanted to see more of the environs of Savannah, but I proceeded carefully in the matter of wheels.
Savannahians drove fast. They also liked to carry their cocktails with them when they drove. According to the National Institute of Alcoholism and Alcohol Abuse, more than 8 percent of Savannah’s adults were “known alcoholics,” which may have accounted for the disturbing tendency of motorists to run up over the curb and collide with trees. The trunks of all but one of the twenty-seven oaks that lined the edge of Forsyth Park on Whitaker Street, for instance, had deep scars at fender level. One tree had been hit so many times it had a sizable hollow scooped out of its trunk. The hollow was filled with pea-size crystals of headlight glass that glittered like a bowl of diamonds. The palm trees in the center of Victory Drive had the same sort of scars, and so did the oaks on Abercorn.
I had never owned a car. Living in New York I hadn’t needed one, but the idea appealed to me now. If I was going to drive a car in this environment, though, it would have to be a very big and heavy one. It would probably have fins.
“I’m in the market for an old car,” I said to Joe. “Something big and roomy. Nothing fancy.”
An hour later we stood looking at a 1973 Pontiac Grand Prix. Its metallic-gold body was dented and flecked with rust. The windshield was cracked, the vinyl roof was peeling, the hubcaps were missing, and the engine was well into its second hundred thousand miles. But it ran well enough and it was big. It did not have fins, but its hood was so long it looked like the foredeck of an ocean liner. The man was asking $800.
“It’s perfect,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
Now I was completely mobile. I drove south of Gaston Street (breaking Joe’s second rule). I took excursions into South Carolina. I sailed past the trees with the scars on them and shared the road with drivers who sipped from traveler cups and lurched from lane to lane. I felt perfectly safe in my rolling metal fortress, rusted and dented as it was. Nothing and no one could get to me, and nothing and no one did—with one very notable exception. Her name was Chablis.
When I first laid eyes on her, Chablis was standing by the curb, watching me intently as I parked my car. She had just come out of Dr. Myra Bishop’s office across the street from where I lived. Dr. Bishop was a family practitioner. Most of her patients were conservatively dressed black women. Those whose gaze happened to meet mine usually nodded solemnly and moved on. But not Chablis.
She was wearing a loose white cotton blouse, jeans, and white tennis sneakers. Her hair was short, and her skin was a smooth milk chocolate. Her eyes were large and expressive, all the more so because they were staring straight into mine. She had both hands on her hips and a sassy half-smile on her face as if she had been waiting for me. I drew up to the curb and rolled to a stop at her feet.
“Ooooo, child!” she said. “You are right on time, honey.” Her voice crackled, her hoop earrings jangled. “I am serious. I cannot tell you.” She began moving slowly toward me with an undulating walk. She trailed an index finger sensuously along the fender, feeling the hollow of each and every dent. “Y-e-e-e-s, child! Yayyiss … yayyiss … yayyiss!” She walked on past me and continued all the way around the car, inspecting its condition and laughing. When she got back around to me, she leaned in the window. “Tell me somethin’, honey,” she said. “How come a white boy like you is drivin’ a old, broken-down, jiveass bruthuh’s heap like this? If you don’t mind me askin’.”
“It’s my first car,” I said.
“Oh! I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. If I did, I’m sorry. I truly am. I did not mean to do that. I just call it out, baby. Whatever way I see it, I just call it out.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “I’m just practicing my driving skills before I go out and buy a Rolls-Royce.”
“Aw right, honey, I can dig it! You are traveling in disguise, baby, you are incognito. Yes, I can dig that, child. I surely can. And you know, honey, when you drive a car like this, you don’t get nobody fuckin’ with it. Ain’t no stereo for nobody to rip off. Ain’t no fine paint job for nobody to scratch up with no key, honey.”
“That’s true too,” I said, opening the door to get out.
“Oh, child, don’t you be doin’ that!” she said. “Don’t you be haulin’ ass with me standin’ out here like this!”
“But I live here,” I said.
“That’s okay, baby. You can practice your driving skills some more on the way to takin’ me home. Okay? ’Cause Miss Myra’s shots is gettin’ ready to kick in, honey. I can feel ’em. I am serious. And these feet are about wore out.”
There seemed to be no doubt in the young woman’s mind that I would take her home. I mumbled something on the order of “Well, sure,” but it was unnecessary because she was already getting into the car when I did.
“I live downtown by Crawford Square,” she said. “It won’t take but a few minutes.” She settled into the seat and looked at me. “Ooooo, child, you are some kinda handsome! If my boyfriend wasn’t living with me I would hit on you for sure. I am serious. I like my white boys, and that’s what I have plenty of waiting for me at home, thank goodness. My boyfriend is blond and beautiful. Hunk for days, honey. He satisfies my every need.”
We pulled
away from the curb.
“I’m Chablis,” she said.
“Chablis? That’s pretty,” I said. “What’s your full name?”
“The Lady Chablis,” she said. She turned sideways in the seat, pulling her knees up and leaning back against the door as if she were sinking into a luxurious sofa. “It’s a stage name,” she said. “I’m a showgirl.”
She was beautiful, seductively beautiful in a streetwise way. Her big eyes sparkled. Her skin glowed. A broken incisor tooth punctuated her smile and gave her a naughty look.
“I dance, I do lip sync, and I emcee,” she said. “Shit like that. My mama got the name Chablis off a wine bottle. She didn’t think it up for me though. It was supposed to be for my sister. Mama got pregnant when I was sixteen, and she wanted a little girl. She was gonna name her La Quinta Chablis, but then she had a miscarriage, and I said, ‘Ooooo, Chablis. That’s nice. I like that name.’ And Mama said, ‘Then take it, baby. Just call yourself Chablis from now on.’ So ever since then, I’ve been Chablis.”
“A cool white wine for a cool black girl,” I said.
“Y-e-e-e-s, child!”
“What was your name before that?” I asked.
“Frank,” she said.
We had stopped for the light at Liberty Street. I looked at Cha-blis again, very carefully this time. She had a small, feminine frame and delicate hands and arms. She carried herself like a woman; there was nothing masculine about her. Her big dark eyes were watching me.
“I told you I could dig bein’ in disguise,” she said. “I’m in disguise twenty-four hours a day. I am incognito.”
“So you’re really … a man,” I said.
“No-no-no,” she said. “Don’t you be callin’ me no man! Uh-uh, honey. Y’mama worked too hard to grow her titties. She ain’t no man.” Chablis unbuttoned her blouse and proudly revealed a medium-size, perfectly shaped breast.