A Drop of Patience

by William Melvin Kelley

  Hardie came to his side. “Inez Cunningham’s here. She’s Rodney’s big folks. She was clapping her ass off for you. I thought her eyes’d fall out.”

  “Inez Cunningham? No stuff?” He had listened to and liked all her records. She was the most important jazz singer in the country. “She like me?”

  “You knocked her out.” Hardie’s voice smiled. Rodney finished off, followed by some of the others, then they played the closing chorus. They did seven more numbers and filed off the stage. Hardie led Ludlow to the bar, where Malveen waited alone.

  “He wanted Small-Change. Guess he wanted to punish hisself.” She was bitter. “How’s my boy?” Ludlow did not answer and she continued. “I heard you playing just now. Oh,” she groaned, “you get to me, little boy. You better stop playing like that or I’ll forget myself.”

  Hardie snorted. “You can forget yourself with me any old time.”

  Ludlow’s hands were flat on the bar, water, missed by the bartender’s rag, under his fingers. “She really like what I was playing?” It had never really occurred to him before that anyone could be moved by his playing. Music had been only his way of staying off the corners with a tin cup in his hand.

  “Of course I did, honey.” Malveen put her arm around his waist.

  “Not you, Malveen.” He turned to Hardie. “I mean Inez Cunningham.”

  Hardie cleared his throat. “She was on her ass.”

  “Who you niggers talking about?” Malveen realized now she had missed something.

  “Inez Cunningham’s here. Sitting over there.” Hardie’s voice turned away.

  Malveen’s necklace rattled. “Oooh! Ain’t she beautiful! Look at her hair. It look most naturally straight. And them clothes. Ludlow, baby, you should see them clothes she got on. I could work on my back fifty years and never get a dress like that over it.”

  Hardie laughed. “She sure look fine all right.”

  Ludlow only half listened to them. There must be some people who lived for music, to play it and hear it played. Perhaps Inez Cunningham was a person like that. There was no other reason for her to come to a bar filled with drunks and prostitutes.

  Malveen must have been staring at the singer. “There’s your boss, sucking up to her.”

  “Rodney bending over her table like it a God damn altar.” None of them spoke for a moment. Then Rodney was talking to them.

  “Inez Cunningham wants to meet you, Ludlow. She liked the way you played. Maybe she thinking about asking you to go with her. You can’t go nowheres. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.” For an instant Ludlow thought of his old master, could almost feel his ear being twisted.

  “Come on then. Hardie, you bring him.” Hardie tapped his elbow. Ludlow grabbed Hardie’s elbow with his fingertips. They moved between tables, past laughing voices, through the smell of liquor and stale smoke.

  “Here he is, Miss Cunningham, my star soloist.”

  Ludlow let go Hardie’s elbow and extended his hand.

  The hand which took his was small, soft and cold, with long fingernails. “Nice to meet you, Ludlow.” The voice was the same one he listened to on the jukeboxes, perhaps a little higher. It was Negro and Southern, but not as much of these as his own or Malveen’s. “Now sit down. Who’s your friend, the trombone player?”

  “Excuse me, Miss Cunningham.” Rodney, eager to please, introduced Hardie.

  “You’re not bad either, Hardie, but Ludlow has you beat.” Her voice smiled.

  “I know that, Miss Cunningham.”

  Ludlow was surprised at the humility in Hardie’s voice. He had not realized Hardie felt that way about his playing. He hoped he was not jealous.

  “Go on back to your girl, Hardie. She looks lonely.”

  Hardie laughed. “Nice to meet you, Miss Cunningham. You keep telling them.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll come back after while, Ludlow.” Hardie’s footsteps disappeared into a tinkling glass and a woman’s shrill laughter.

  Ludlow was sitting now, his hands gripping the edge of the table. He knew that Rodney was at his right. Then there was someone else at the table who had not yet spoken.

  “Well.” Inez Cunningham moved closer to him. Her perfume was so cool and fresh it seemed to clear his nose. “Over here, on my right side, is the leader of my group, plays piano. Say something so he’ll know you.”

  “How you doing, Ludlow?” Her pianist was old, and probably fat. His voice, not resonant, seemed to come from far inside him.

  She sighed. “How long you been playing?”

  “Seven years—what I’m playing now. Before that I played piano a few years. I mean, I started on piano.”

  “You come along fine in seven years. Who you like?”

  Ludlow named a few famous musicians; all but one played his own instrument. The exception was Norman Spencer, who played a rugged, old-fashioned piano.

  “Norman? He thinks he’s still in a marching band.” Inez Cunningham did not approve.

  “He makes me laugh sometimes. I mean, he’ll be going along and then he’ll crack a joke right through his fingers and he’ll make me laugh. You know what I mean?” She probably would not. He had never met anyone else who liked Norman Spencer.

  “I can’t imagine that old bastard laughing at anything.” She turned to her pianist. “Can you?”

  “Not me. I ain’t never even seen him smile.”

  Ludlow did not know what to do. He did not want to seem rude, but she had, after all, asked him his favorites.

  “Well, anyway, that isn’t what I wanted to say to you. I want you to come with me.”

  His lungs seemed to stomp on his stomach. She had asked him. He had to turn her down. Rodney must be looking at him now.

  Inez Cunningham went on: “I know Rodney doesn’t want to lose you. But I don’t care about him. I need you. What you say?”

  Behind him a woman was quietly accusing her husband of cheating on her, a drunk was laughing, the cash register belled. He could not tell her the truth, that Rodney had a hold on him. That would ruin Rodney’s reputation and his guardian would be angry. “I’d surely like to go with you, but I can’t. I…promised Mister Rodney I’d stay with him until I was eighteen. He did a lot for me, got me out the Home, and I want to make it up to him.”

  Rodney answered smoothly. “Awh, Ludlow, you know I don’t hold you to nothing. You can go when you want, especially when you got an offer like this one.”

  “See there, Ludlow? He’s not holding you.” Inez Cunningham was pleased with Rodney’s generosity.

  “No, Miss Cunningham, I made a promise to myself and I got to keep it.”

  “Shit!” She drew it out as if it were the last word of a ballad.

  Ludlow knew he would have to get away from the table now. He had never before thought that music would take him anywhere and now he realized it could quite possibly take him all over the world. He stood up. “I’m sorry I can’t go with you.”

  In a moment, Hardie came to get him.

  “When you decide you’ve paid your debts, you write me. Maybe I’ll still have a job for you. I only hope you as loyal to me.”

  “I got to warm up now.” He could not bring himself to say good-bye, simply grabbed Hardie’s elbow and moved away from the table.

  At the end of the evening, in the early morning, Ludlow, his cane hooked over his arm, followed Hardie toward Missus Scott’s, guided by his own gentle grip on the trombone player’s elbow. It had rained. From time to time, drops, shaken by a slight breeze, fell into small pools in the pavement. A car passed, its tires on the asphalt like a quickly opened zipper. The air smelled fresh, a bit salty from the Gulf of Mexico. Hardie told him what it would be like with a woman, instructed him….

  * * *

  —

  INEZ CUNNINGHAM wo
uld be singing. Her voice would come up from the hissing rain-soaked streets and into Malveen’s window. Malveen would have told him that evening she had not been joking, that if he would, she would be honored if he decided to go home with her. They would walk to her place, the rain from the trees and rooftops dripping in the long, echoing alleyways. Her room would smell of the same perfume Inez Cunningham used. As soon as she closed the door and turned the key, she would begin to undress. He would stand waiting—miraculously unclothed, but not naked—waiting, listening to Inez Cunningham and Malveen’s clothes falling to the floor. Then Malveen would sigh for him, walk to him and put her arms around him, kiss him. Her breasts would flatten between them. She would lead him to her bed. He would lie beside her, would bury his head in her soft breasts, would kiss them, would take a nipple into his mouth and roll it on his tongue. She would moan and he would know she was ready for him. At that moment, he was sure, he would know exactly what to do.

  3

  LUDLOW HAD JUST come downstairs to ask Missus Scott to sew a button on his band jacket. He could have done it himself had he a needle and thread; they had taught him at the Home. As he felt his way down the narrow hall leading to the back of the house and the kitchen, the sound of new footsteps met him. They were younger and quicker than Missus Scott’s, but had the same heaviness. He stopped, registered them as those of a big woman, then went on, his fingers finally catching the doorjamb. He stood with his feet on the sill. The heat of the kitchen enveloped his face like a washcloth. Missus Scott and her visitor were cooking. “Missus Scott?”

  “Hello, boy.” She was happier than usual. “Come in. I want you to meet somebody.”

  He inched just inside the door.

  “Ludlow Washington, this is Etta-Sue, my daughter.” There was great pride in her voice.

  Ludlow remained in place, waiting for a sound, a voice to which to speak. The new footsteps stopped in front of him. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Washington.” Her voice was high and tense; she was almost as tall as he was.

  He extended his hand. Hers was too large, too coarse, too strong for her squeaky voice.

  He nodded. “Me too.”

  “You come down for something special, Ludlow?” Missus Scott was standing across the room by the hissing gas, stirring in a pot with a wooden spoon.

  “I won’t trouble you now, Missus Scott. It just a button. Maybe you could let me hold a needle and some thread.”

  “Ain’t no bother. I’m cooking, but Etta-Sue ain’t doing nothing. You’ll do it, won’t you, honey?”

  Etta-Sue said nothing and Ludlow remained motionless, deciding what to do. Finally he reasoned Missus Scott would not have offered for her if the girl did not want to do it. He extended the balled-up coat. Its weight left his hand. “Where you keep the sewing basket, Mama?”

  Missus Scott was turned away. “In my room under the bed.” There were two steps. “Come on in, Ludlow, and sit down.” She was facing him now. “I made some lemonade.”

  Knowing the kitchen quite well by this time, he walked forward to the table, felt out a chair and sat down. Missus Scott was dropping chunks of ice into a glass, pouring the lemonade over them. She set the glass before him just as the quicker heavy steps returned and her daughter sat across from Ludlow, sighing.

  He was uneasy about her doing it. “You really don’t have to do that. They taught me how.”

  The wicker basket rasped open. “Ain’t no bother, Mister Washington. Mama wants me to do it.” She rattled through the basket, then closed it.

  “I appreciate it.” He sat back, uncertain.

  Missus Scott knocked her spoon against the pot and set it down on the stove. “Etta-Sue’s a maid in a white folks’ mansion up in Willson City.”

  Willson City was the state capital. Ludlow had never been there, but now at least he had something to say to Etta-Sue. He had been squirming against the heat and silence of the room. “Must be bigger than New Marsails.”

  “Newer. Not bigger.” The words were tight, as her lips must have been.

  Since he had left the Home, Ludlow had met only girls like Malveen and Small-Change. Sitting now, the kitchen chair hard against his buttocks, the heat sticking his pants to his skin, he wondered if all respectable girls were as tight-lipped, distant and unfriendly as Etta-Sue. Or perhaps this was simply her attitude toward him, the attitude that people who worked in the daytime had toward people who worked at night. He wondered if perhaps his blindness had silenced her, made her unable to find something to say to him for fear of insulting or hurting him. Whatever it was, he did not like her. “I do appreciate you mending my jacket.”

  He had expected her to reply once again that it was no trouble, but instead her voice came up from her lap and asked him about his job.

  “It a good job. I make good money.”

  “I bet you good too. I’ll have to walk over and listen to you.” He was surprised, and could not tell if she was serious or making fun of him.

  Missus Scott had laughed. “You better not go into that joint. I’ll snatch you bald-headed!” She was joking, but her voice had a hard edge.

  The girl’s voice turned toward the other woman. “I’ll go in there if I want.” She was slightly angry. “Maybe I just will come over.” She spoke to him again. “I ain’t taking orders all my life.” She mumbled the last.

  “You do that.” He was not encouraging her to come.

  Finally, over the gurgling of what was boiling on the stove—he thought greens—came the snap of broken thread. “It finished, Mister Washington.” Her chair scraped back and her footsteps came around the table. “Here.” The coat dropped into his lap.

  He stood up and thanked her, assuming she was in front of him. “I got to practice now.” With one hand on the edge of the table, he checked his position and started to the door. When he felt the room open up into a blast of cool air—the doorway—he stopped. “I guess I’ll see you later. Thanks again.”

  “No bother.” Missus Scott answered, at the sink now. He did not know where Etta-Sue was standing.

  He went down the hall, found the figure of a plump cherub perched atop the glass-smooth but sticky knob at the foot of the banister, and climbed to his room. His instrument, out of its case, was lying on the already made bed. Every morning for eleven years he had made his bed, readied himself and his belongings for the Warden’s inspection; now he could not break himself of the habit.

  He picked up the instrument and, without putting it to his lips, ran up and down the scales. The notes popped and bubbled in his head. When he made a mistake in fingering, he would know that too. He could practice for hours silently, knowing exactly what he was playing. He sat down by the window. It was the middle of the afternoon; the sun’s heat came directly into the window and he began to sweat. Below in the street a jukebox was playing Inez Cunningham’s latest record. There seemed to be no musicians behind her, just her dark voice in the heat. Two men passed, talking loudly about how much they hated their jobs. Someone in the neighborhood was cooking ribs, someone else ham with cloves. There was perfume and the hammering of high heels, a woman laughing, then a man, then the woman again.

  He began to think of something Hardie had told him: “You just got to stay calm. The first time it happened to me, I didn’t stay calm. I was like a dog what couldn’t wait to get out the house. And the girl knew. She told me she’d had real men and wasn’t wasting no time with no little punk like me. So now when it come your way, stay calm, like you done it seventy-eleven times before. Even if she tells you her thing is on the bottom of her left foot, you stay calm. Because once they know they better than you, they’ll wreck you.”

  Then he was thinking about Etta-Sue Scott:

  He would be coming home, tired. His throat would be tight and sore from playing, his lips numb. He would turn the key, lean against the door, and step into the stillness of the house. Then
he would know Etta-Sue was standing at the foot of the stairs. “Mister Washington?” She would scrape toward him in bedroom slippers and he would know she wore only a nightgown.

  “That you, Missus Scott?” He would not let her off easy, would make her plead for him. She thought she was special; in the daytime she despised him because he worked at night in bars, because he was blind. But at night she would want him to make love to her.

  “No. It’s Etta-Sue. You know. Etta-Sue Scott?” She would be afraid he would send her away, that he might have nothing to do with her. She would move close to him and try to put her arms around his neck, would try to kiss him.

  He would hit her. To teach her an important lesson, he would reach out and find her face with his fist.

  A step away now, she would gasp and cry, but softly because she would not want her mother to awaken and discover her downstairs with him. She would cry and attempt to wriggle into his arms, pleading with him to make love to her. He would be able to feel her nightgown, soft like the summer curtains in Missus Scott’s living room.

  He would hit her again, knocking her to the floor. She would be sobbing now and, following her sobs, he would find her, would grab the hem of the nightgown, pull it up around her waist, run his hand across her thighs, and finally, would slide into her. On either side of her head, he would grip the dusty carpet beneath them. Through her sobs, she would tell him that she loved him….

  In the street a fire engine went by, the bells clanging, the big tires rumbling. He stood up and put his instrument on the chair, and went to the bed. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he lay on his side, unbuttoned his fly, and thought about it all over again.