A Drop of Patience

by William Melvin Kelley

  He practiced and this made him feel a little better. He tried to recall phrases, melodies, that would in turn help him to remember what he had done with the ballad the night before.

  After a while even practicing did not help his sadness, restlessness, and he began to wonder what Etta-Sue Scott was doing. He tried to think of a good reason to go downstairs, and finally remembered that Missus Scott had once told him that if ever he had something to read that was not in Braille, she would try her best to read it to him. In his closet his hands found a music book with a chapter about the muscles of the mouth that were involved in producing a certain tone (something he had learned several months before, Hardie having read the chapter to him) and started downstairs.

  Missus Scott was not even home; Etta-Sue was alone in the kitchen cooking a ham. He pretended he did not want to disturb her, but she insisted warmly that he sit down and tell her what he wanted. “After all, ain’t we friends?” By the way she spoke, Ludlow knew friendship was all she had in mind. She had not returned to her previous attitude toward him, but he recognized the tone in her voice as that of a mother, very like Missus Scott’s.

  He told her why he had come down, at the same time deciding he would proceed slowly. He sensed she might be thinking about her being twenty-one and his being younger. He could afford to let her think it for a while.

  “I can read that for you.” She was at the stove. “Just wait until I get this ham set right.”

  He waited quietly, surrounded by the sounds of the kitchen, which he loved: the water roaring in the kettle, the ham’s fat dripping and sizzling, the knockings and bangings and stirrings. These sounds never changed. He imagined, though he did not know for certain, his mother’s kitchen must have sounded like this.

  Finally she put down a large fork or spoon and pulled out the chair across the table from him. “Let’s see that.”

  He handed across the book. She fanned the pages and began to read. He did not listen to the words, only to her voice, high and tight. Most of the other voices he knew had been loosened by liquor or confidence. She cleared her throat a good deal, as if the tightness was caused not by what she was, but rather by a small bone or ball of dust. When she was finished, she closed the book and sighed. “I didn’t understand a word.” She paused a moment. “What this larynx anyways?”

  “It makes your voice.”

  She sighed again, impressed. “I bet you know as much about that thing as a doctor.”

  He shrugged. This was good; the more impressed she was with him, the sooner she would forget about her being older. But she had not yet forgotten. “You really only sixteen, Ludlow?” He nodded. “My, you just a baby.” She was teasing. He did not like it, but had to hide his dislike. If she realized she was reaching him, he would be giving truth to her statement.

  “I guess so. And you an old lady of twenty-one.” He decided, smiling, to do some teasing of his own. “How come you ain’t married and got seven kids?”

  There was silence from across the table. He sniffed burning sugar, fat, cloves. Then: “I almost was.” She went no further.

  He added another touch. “Well, twenty-one ain’t all that old.”

  “No, I guess not.” Then her voice came alive again. “There a lot of bad women in where you work?” He nodded. “How old’s they?”

  “No telling. They anywheres from sixteen to thirty.”

  “I see them sometimes and they look older.”

  “That’s because of what they seen, Etta-Sue. You ain’t seen what they seen.”

  “I ain’t even seen what you seen.” She paused, choked on her next words to him. “I mean—I’m sor—” She was embarrassed.

  “That’s all right, Etta-Sue. I do see it, in a way.” He reached out, found the book in the middle of the table, and dug his fingernail between the pages.

  “Like what?” She leaned forward, her elbows squeaking on the oilcloth.

  He was trying hard to keep his mind on the reason he was talking to her at all, trying to continue controlling the conversation, but she seemed so interested and earnest, he found he liked talking to her. “What you see, only more. I mean, you colored too and we all live together, the whores and the ministers. We that close.” He held up two fingers. “But down at Boone’s, ain’t no ministers. Everybody got a deal going.”

  “You don’t trust nobody, do you.” It was not a question.

  “No, ma’am!”

  “What about your friend Hardie?”

  “I don’t need to trust him. That ain’t part of our friendship.”

  “In church they always say you got to love and trust people. I mean, that in church, but still it kind of true. I mean, I think so.”

  “Look, Etta-Sue, me and Hardie agree on two things.” He tallied them on his fingers, enjoying talking like this. “One—he don’t trust me and I don’t trust him. So we got that straight between us, and that way nobody’s asking nothing of anybody, and that way ain’t nobody getting let down. Two—he know I’m smart and I know he smart, so neither of us trying to pull nothing. It won’t pay. It won’t work. So we living in peace, and if we living in peace, we might as well be friends.”

  “What happens when you meet a girl and want to get married?”

  He did not have an answer, had never considered it, and it stopped him. But if he knew anything at all, it was to answer quickly. “Maybe I won’t never get married because maybe the way I feel won’t be good in a marriage.” That would hold her, and if he understood her at all, it might work for him.

  “We all getting married someday. Even me.”

  She was telling him, whether or not she knew it, that she had once been hurt. He made his voice very tender. “What was it happened to you, Etta-Sue? If you can tell me.”

  She was silent again, longer this time. “Oh, it ain’t unusual.”

  He did not want to push her. But he did want to give the impression he cared deeply. “It musta been hard on you.”

  “Maybe.” She was sad now. If he could cheer her up, it would be a point for him.

  “You know, when my daddy left me at the Home”—he sat back in his chair—“I thought I’d cry for a year. I cried and cried. And finally I didn’t cry no more. And it all turned out good.” As he spoke of this for the first time in years, he had a sudden feeling of sadness. He swallowed it. He had no time now to be sad. “Because if he didn’t left me at the Home I woulda never been a musician and I’d be on somebody’s corner with a cup. So things come right after all.”

  “Maybe they do.” He thought she sounded better.

  He went on, trying something new. “Look, why don’t you come by Boone’s tonight. I mean, it always happy at Boone’s and like I told you, I’ll get them to play your favorite song. What’s it anyways?”

  “Mine?” She seemed surprised and shy. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Come on. Sure you do.”

  “Well, okay. It That Won’t Happen to Me.”

  “No fooling?” It was a standard bluesy-type song, which had been made popular several years before by Inez Cunningham. Now most female singers had it in their acts. The words were sad, bitter and defiant. “We play that sometimes. You could come by tonight and I’ll have them play it. I promise.” He was trying to sound just the slightest bit innocent and young now. It would make her more secure.

  “All right.” He could not tell if she was actually going to come.

  “You ain’t just talking now?”

  “Well…” She was uncertain. “Yes, all right, I’ll come—if I can get out the house without Mama knowing.”

  “She won’t mind. She likes me. Tell her you just coming to hear me.”

  She laughed, still shy. “Well, I’ll try.”

  “It’ll be all right and you’ll have fun.” He was thinking too that he might have to put a few drinks into her, not enough
to get her drunk, just enough to allow her to consider some possibilities. “Promise you’ll come.” He might have been pushing too hard, a mistake.

  The mother’s tone returned to her voice. But she sighed and he still was not certain what was going to happen that night. “We’ll see.”

  3

  HE HAD PLAYED five sets and there was still no sign of her. It was quarter to one. If she had been coming at all, she would have arrived already. He and Hardie had just descended the steps of the stage, had just reached the bar. “What’s wrong, man?” Hardie put his arm around Ludlow’s shoulder.

  “Why should anything be wrong? I wish that bastard Rodney would let me drink.” He was fed up with standing at the bar empty-handed. He would speak to Rodney about it, would refuse to play if Rodney did not let him drink.

  “Come on, man. You talking to Hardie, your nigger. It was in your music. You didn’t play that last song, you jumped on it with both feet and stomped it to death.” Hardie’s arm left his shoulder; where the arm had rested he had begun to sweat.

  He would not whine to Hardie about it. It was not Hardie’s business anyway.

  “We all got them bad days, Ludlow. Look, I got a girl coming in here. Maybe she got a sister or friend she can call. We’ll get a bottle and have some good times.”

  He would not even whine to himself. It made little difference whether or not she came. But he had been certain he had made progress with her. It was a blow to his pride to discover he had not.

  Hardie had continued to talk about his girl and her possible friend. “Come on. What you say?”

  “I’m tired. I’m going home to sleep—for once.” He could not bring himself to run with Hardie tonight.

  There was a shrug in Hardie’s voice. “Okay. Got to get some sleep sometime, I guess.” They were silent for the remainder of the break.

  At one, back on the stage, his instrument to his lips, caring not at all whether Rodney approved, Ludlow tried some new things he had been practicing. If Rodney said anything, Ludlow would tell him to fire him. He knew now he was the best on his instrument in the entire city. He would tell Rodney, “Go on, old man, send me back to the Home. In a year I’ll get out and take your job away.” Besides, he was not trying the new things only because he was mad at Etta-Sue. He had been getting tired of the music Rodney forced him to play. He wondered sometimes how it would have been if he had been able to go with Inez Cunningham and if he would have met Norman Spencer, who refused to work anywhere but in one night club in Harlem, New York. He would wait one more year—he had to—and then he would telegram Inez Cunningham to see if she still wanted him.

  When the set was finished, Rodney said nothing to him and he went back to the bar.

  For an instant he thought the hand which gripped his elbow belonged to a man. “I made it.” Her voice was strangely young, excited. “I almost made it without her catching me, but she woke up and tried to stop me and I told her I was coming anyways. So, here I am.”

  He was relieved to know he had not failed with her. “You have a big fight?”

  “Wasn’t no time. I just marched right out the house.” She stopped, then her voice was closer to his ear. “Can I have a drink, please?”

  “Why, sure.” He was surprised. He had thought he might have trouble. He raised his hand, waited for the bartender to come and ordered. “And one for me too.”

  The bartender reminded him of Rodney’s instructions.

  He leaned across the bar and whispered. “Listen, man, I’m sick of this shit. I’m bringing people into this bar and you know it. You tell Rodney if I don’t drink when I want to, I don’t play when he wants me to. And tell him he can send me back to the Home if he want. I ain’t afraid of him no more.”

  The bartender replied that Ludlow did not have to bare so many teeth, and went for the drinks. Ludlow turned back to Etta-Sue and smiled, hoping she had not heard the conversation. But if she had and made no remark, he must be making progress with her.

  “Is they, you know, prostitutes?” She must have been looking around the bar now.

  “Where?”

  “I’m sorry, Ludlow.” She sounded nervous.

  “Listen, Etta-Sue, you got to stop that.”

  She hesitated, then went on. “Over at the table in the corner.” She described four girls, Small-Change among them.

  “Yes, they whores, Etta-Sue.”

  “They really do look good! Got such nice clothes.”

  “Them’s part of their business expenses.” He smiled. Out of her mother’s kitchen, she was certainly a different person.

  She had laughed at his joke. “How much they make a week?”

  “Why?” He paused. “You going into business?”

  “Who, me?” She laughed again, a better laugh than before. “You think I could?”

  “I don’t know what you look like. Tell me.”

  This laugh was an embarrassed one. “How can I tell you?”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I’m too tall, five feet ten. I weigh a hundred fifty and I’m not very curvy. I think my legs is good. I mean, I don’t got skinny legs like some women do, and, well, my—oh, I can’t tell you about them. But I guess I’m a little lighter than you. I don’t like my color much….I don’t know how to tell you about my face.”

  “I’ll tell that myself.” He reached out before she could protest (if she was going to) and put his hand on her face, not a bad one at all. He could feel the things she had gotten from her mother. Her cheeks were broad, set wide apart. Her nose was a small ball with good-sized nostrils. Her eyes were set deeper than her mother’s, her lips not as thick and much softer. “You didn’t say what color hair you got.”

  “Guess.” She was becoming playful.

  “Green.” They had taught him a little about color in the Home.

  “It bright red. I don’t know where it come from. Some Irishman in my past.” She laughed. The bartender had brought their drinks while she had been talking and now they sipped at them. This was not Ludlow’s first drink, but it was his first one in Boone’s, and it meant something to him. He enjoyed it.

  “You planning to tell me the name of this lovely creature, Ludlow?” It was Hardie, clapping his shoulder.

  “I don’t know. You dangerous.” He paused. “Etta-Sue, this Otis Hardie.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Hardie was being formal.

  Etta-Sue did not reply. Ludlow hoped she was not impressed by Hardie.

  “Don’t she talk?” Hardie turned to him again.

  “Yeah, but only to me.”

  Etta-Sue laughed. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Hardie.” She had not been impressed; Ludlow could tell from her voice.

  “Just Hardie, baby. Ain’t no Mister needed.” He paused. “Hey, Ludlow, it that time again. Etta-Sue can sit with my girl while we playing.”

  “You want to do that?” He touched her arm; she drew back slightly.

  “Sure.”

  Etta-Sue and Hardie left him at the bar. He was no longer confused by the change in her, just interested in it. That morning at home she had been an old woman—only twenty-one, but still a tired, sad, old woman. And now she had appeared, seeming so young, so completely different. He felt years older than she was. Perhaps it was being in Boone’s, coming into Ludlow’s world, that intimidated her, made her feel out of place and young.

  “Where’d you ever find Snow White?” Hardie was back. “I heard of picking fruit before it ripe, but I ain’t never heard of nobody eating the seeds!”

  “She my landlady’s daughter.”

  “Thought I seen her someplace. But, man, even though she look all right, I didn’t know you was that far behind in your rent.”

  “Come on, nigger, let’s play.” Ludlow took a step toward the sound of Rodney’s piano. On stage, he stopped beside it. “Hey,
Mister Rodney, how about playing That Won’t Happen to Me?”

  “You drinking now, huh? And experimenting? And now you picking the numbers too? Why don’t you just get yourself another piano player?”

  Ludlow started to say he would consider it. But it was an important part of his plan to play Etta-Sue’s favorite song; he pretended humility. “Okay, Mister Rodney, you right. Look, I’m almost seventeen and I just want a drink now and then, when it get hot in here. Now that’s okay, ain’t it?”

  Rodney pounded a few chords. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Ludlow realized that indeed Rodney did not want to lose him. Still he did not push. “Listen, Mister Rodney, I got my landlady’s daughter over there. You know, trying to save a little rent? Her favorite song That Won’t Happen to Me. So let’s play it. It a good song. We played it before.” He hated fawning to Rodney, but it was the best way. In a year and four months he would spit in his face.

  “We’ll play it toward the end.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mister Rodney.” He even bowed slightly.

  “But I don’t want no more experimenting. I ain’t no dope. I can hear that Norman Spencer in there.”

  “All right, Mister Rodney.” He found his instrument on top of the piano.

  They had played a good many numbers before Rodney finally called for Etta-Sue’s number. After the set she told Ludlow he had played it beautifully. He was anxious now to discover if her description of her body was correct.

  During the breaks of the next two sets, he and Etta-Sue talked and joked. She loosened up all during that time. She had four drinks and Ludlow knew if ever he was going to catch her, it would be tonight. What he had to decide was where. Her room was too close to her mother’s. His room was on the third floor and he did not know if he could even lure her there. Of course he could somehow get her to Hardie’s room, which would not be in use tonight, Hardie having found another bed to sleep in. But he was fairly certain she had not progressed that far. In fact, she might still balk at the entire idea. It would have to be his room, he decided, and he would have to be very careful.