A Drop of Patience

by William Melvin Kelley

  Not long before the baby was born, standing at the bar one night, he was greeted by a familiar voice. “How Mister Lightning Rod doing?”

  He had not made love to Etta-Sue in almost a month; the memories and guilt brought back by the voice made him want the body it had come from. He remembered too the promise he had made himself walking home from her house. He knew more than enough now to prove himself. “How you been, Malveen?”

  She did not answer the question. “Small-Change say you married.”

  He nodded. It was a little hard to believe he was married now.

  She hesitated. “I seen her on the street, I think. When’s the blessed event?” She was trying to be sarcastic, but in her voice was an uneasiness she could not hide. He realized for the first time that she might be as much as ten years older than Etta-Sue.

  “Not long now.” He sipped from the drink in front of him. “What you doing here? I thought you said you wouldn’t work outa here no more.”

  “I ain’t working tonight.”

  His glass was sweating, cold. “Must be doing okay, taking nights off.”

  She did not comment. He wondered if her body still felt the same. The softness might have become flabby. Whores aged quickly.

  “Since you ain’t working, I’ll buy you a drink.” Even as he spoke he realized there was a quality in his voice he had not planned.

  She paused before she answered. “So, little Mister Lightning Rod ain’t had none lately, huh? Why, little boy, I can read it in your face. And you want old Malveen to give you some tonight.”

  He realized she must have seen hundreds of men like him, all of them waiting impatiently until the women they had married finished having babies and became wives again. “That’s it, Malveen.” He admitted it.

  “Okay, little boy, you’re on. I’ll wait for you.” She walked away.

  At five they went to her house. They did not speak or touch one another. After a year and a half, he remembered the way almost perfectly. In her room, still without speaking, she closed and locked the door, kicked off her shoes, and unzipped her dress. “Everybody for hisself.” She finished undoing her snaps, sliding out of her underclothes.

  He undressed and they got into bed. She was too soft; he did not like the feel of her. But he was good to her and felt pride as she moaned and murmured. He made certain she had finished before he turned himself loose.

  A minute later, she began pushing him. Tired, but relieved, he rolled off her. “Okay, baby?” He wanted her to say it had been good.

  “Leave the five on the table, man.”

  He did not understand her. This was what she had wanted, had expected so long before. But he nodded, sat up, found his pants and wallet, and pulled out the bill. It had been worth five dollars. He felt turned inside out. He got up and started to dress.

  She spoke to him from the bed. “Oh, it was good all right, little boy, but you owed me for one, remember?” Then her voice changed. “Next time’s free.”

  He knotted his tie. “Won’t be no next time, Malveen.”

  In fifteen minutes he was home, in bed, beside the sleeping Etta-Sue. She was on her side facing him. He lay on his back and with his right hand stroked her stomach. It was not the touch of pride or affection, but of inquiry, as if, through the skin and muscle, he could somehow feel the baby, and once and for all know what it was, and what he felt for it. Once it moved, and he drew his hand away. Soon, he was thinking, it would be born and he would have Etta-Sue back again. When the baby was born things would be the way they had once been and he would not have to visit any more Malveens. Then it would be good between him and Etta-Sue. It would not be long now.

  8

  ETTA-SUE HAD a girl. She and Missus Scott had a girl’s name picked: Bertha, after Missus Scott. But the woman who typed out the certificate made a mistake and the name appeared Bethrah. Etta-Sue and Missus Scott tried to have the mistake corrected, but none of the officials they talked to were sufficiently interested in the name of one Negro baby to do anything. Bethrah was the baby’s legal name.

  Because of the baby, Etta-Sue informed Ludlow, he would have to practice at Boone’s. He would go there in the early afternoon, soon after his breakfast, and stay until five in the morning. The early morning hours were the only ones he was near Etta-Sue. But the baby’s crib was in the corner of their room, and even if they were making love, when the baby cried, Etta-Sue would interrupt them and jump out of bed. He soon began to realize that his days alone with Etta-Sue would never return.

  Still, he tried; he hoped. He did not go back to Malveen’s bed nor did he go with any of the girls who nightly invited him, with a certain tone in their voices if not openly, to their rooms. But he was bewildered too, did not know how to fit into this new life and believed guiltily that he was at fault.

  When it first came home, he made an effort to know the baby, would ask to hold in his arms the small, screeching voice, but Etta-Sue would not permit it. “You might trip over something and drop her. I’d worry myself to death about her.” After a while he no longer tried to know the baby. After all, it was Etta-Sue’s baby. She had always wanted it; he had never wanted it enough. For him the baby remained a small cry in the corner of the room.

  And still he hoped and tried. Two months after the baby was born he became eighteen. He did not leave Rodney’s band as he had planned, because he could not get a definite commitment from any café in New Marsails. He did not want to risk being out of work. Some of the owners said they would have to hear any new group before they could hire it. Others had heard that Ludlow would sometimes experiment; they were not sure their customers would like Ludlow’s playing without Rodney’s firm guiding hand. Finally he talked Rodney into raising his salary to the level of the rest of the musicians’, hoping that if he brought home more money it would impress Etta-Sue. But at the time that he was telling her about his raise she was holding the crying baby, and did not pay much attention to him.

  He wished there was someone he could ask about it, someone who could give him just a few clues about how to handle the situation, but there was no one. Hardie was not married—was, in fact, opposed to the very idea of it—and could not help. Ludlow knew no one else. Finally he shrugged away the idea. Besides, he did not like to ask for help because whoever he asked would have an advantage over him. He decided he would wait; perhaps something would happen, perhaps Etta-Sue would become less enthralled with being a mother. And anyway, waiting was the only thing he could do.

  * * *

  —

  LUDLOW SAT on the stage in the empty café, trying to play something difficult, something he had learned from an early Norman Spencer recording. It was late spring now, steaming weather in New Marsails, but all of the café’s windows were nailed shut. He believed that if only he could get a lungful of good air, he could play correctly.

  At first he thought a cat was scratching at the screen door and he ignored it. He did not like cats. But when the scratching became a knocking, he realized someone wanted to get in. He picked up his cane, came down off the stage, and traveled the length of the room, his fingers on the bar. He waited for the knocking again and when it came, directed himself toward it, knowing there was nothing between the end of the bar and the door. He spoke through the screening. “Yeah?”

  “This Boone’s Café, ain’t it?” It was a boy’s voice, perhaps about fourteen years old. He recognized something in it, but could not immediately place it. Then he knew; it was very like the voice of his master in the Home, a voice coming through a mouthful of water.

  “Right. What you want?” The slight warm breeze felt good against his face.

  The boy hesitated, probably studying Ludlow’s eyes. “Got a telegram here. From New York.” The boy continued to stare; it was in his voice. “For Mister Ledlow Washington?” The boy read the name.

  “Ledlow?”

  “That
right. Washington.”

  Ludlow opened the screen door. “I guess that’s me.” He extended his hand.

  “You Ledlow Washington?”

  “It Ludlow, but it me anyway. Give it here.” He was excited; he had never before received a telegram.

  “But you ain’t Ledlow Washington.”

  “Go on, boy. They made a mistake, is all.”

  The boy was silent for a moment. Finally: “Okay. Here.” He put the telegram into Ludlow’s hand. “Hey, you a musician?” The boy must have been listening to Ludlow practice. Ludlow turned back into the café; the boy followed.

  “Yeah.”

  “I play clarinet in the high school band. One day I’m getting me a tenor.” He was proud of that.

  “How much I owe you?”

  The boy ignored him. “I’ll play that tenor so good I’ll have my own band and wear a white suit, up in front, and the girls’ll love me.”

  “What’s the bill, boy?”

  “What? Oh, nothing. Already paid.” The boy was unhappy to be dragged away from his dreams.

  Ludlow fished into his pocket, found a quarter and gave it to the boy.

  “That what I’m planning to do. I’m going—”

  “You read?” There was no one in the café and Ludlow could not wait to discover what the telegram said.

  “Who, me? Yeah. I in high school, I told you.”

  “Read this to me.” He extended the telegram, felt it being taken out of his hand. There was the crackle of tearing paper.

  “It say: To Mister Ledlow Washington, Boone’s Café, New Marsails. Are you eighteen yet if…yes, I mean, if yes come New York can still use you will pay…fare, oh it means here, will pay fare hundred a week reply Inez Cunningham.” The return address was a well-known New York theater. “A hundred dollars a week? Holy catfish!”

  Ludlow’s stomach had gone flat. She had remembered him and wanted him in New York. He had the boy read the telegram once again. When the boy had finished, Ludlow had memorized it.

  “Hey, that Inez Cunningham? I mean, Inez Cunningham?”

  Ludlow had already started toward the stage for his coat. He had to tell Etta-Sue. This would change everything between them. They would go to New York, the baby too. They were all going to New York.

  The boy had followed him. “That really the singer Inez Cunningham?”

  “No one but.”

  “You going to New York to play with her?” The boy touched his elbow.

  “If I got to walk all the way on my hands.” Even if she were not paying his fare he would be going.

  “I’ll see you, Mister Washington.” The boy turned, started to run. “I’m going home to practice!” And he was gone, slamming the door.

  Ludlow paid no attention. He was already in his coat. He closed up his instrument case, leaving it on the piano.

  He tapped his way home, trying as he went to imagine New York. Musicians had come through New Marsails talking about it, but they could only give him an idea of it. They had told him about the sights, but that did not tell him anything. He had asked about the sounds, the smells, the taste of the air, but they could never tell him such things. He would have to find out for himself.

  Etta-Sue and Missus Scott were in the kitchen. “What you doing here? It only four-thirty.” Etta-Sue was sitting at the table.

  “Hello, Lud—” Missus Scott stopped; she must have noticed his face. “What’s wrong, boy?”

  “I got me a job, a good one!” He stood just inside the kitchen door, shouting.

  “Shhh! The baby’s sleeping in Mama’s room. That good news, Ludlow.” Etta-Sue did not sound as if she had looked up at him yet.

  “I’m proud of you, boy.” Missus Scott was more interested.

  “With Inez Cunningham.” He said no more, certain the name would impress them.

  “Oh? She coming to town?” Etta-Sue was facing up now.

  “No. We going to New York! She sent me a telegram. She paying my fare and—one hundred United States dollars a week!”

  The room was silent. They were not cooking dinner yet. They had even seemed to stop breathing.

  “Here’s the telegram.” He pulled the envelope from his pocket, came into the room and put it on the table.

  Etta-Sue’s chair squeaked; there was the rustle of paper. He waited for her laughter or tears or for her to lunge into his arms. It would feel good to have her in his arms at this moment.

  The telegram rustled again. “Read it, Mama.” Missus Scott’s footsteps stomped across the floor; the paper crackled, and a moment later, a third time, sliding into its envelope.

  “What you planning to answer, Ludlow?”

  He did not understand. They were going to New York. But something was wrong because she did not understand that. “Etta-Sue, we—”

  “Ludlow, this my home. I’m happy here. I thought you was too.”

  “Well, sure I am, Etta-Sue. But we got a chance to go with Inez Cunningham—me, you and the baby too. We going to New York.” He would not have believed that she would want to do anything else. For a moment he could not hold a thought in his head. Sounds whined and popped, her voice as it was at this moment, as it had been when she said “Oh, Ludlow” the first time they made love. In his mind, she joked about not being able to find her underpants, she told him not to give up music, to wait just one short year. Then all the sounds stopped. There was only his heart beating, and his breathing, and, far away, cars in the street. “You mean you don’t want me to go? You want me to turn her down? Jesus!” He stretched the name.

  “You got a good job here. And in a while you’ll have your own band. What you want to go chasing to New York for?” She was nervous now.

  “You really don’t want me to take the job. Jesus Christ!” He spoke softly, more to himself than to her.

  “No. Don’t you like the life we got here?”

  He shook his head, thinking about what Hardie had said to him almost fifteen months before, about making certain the girl he married was really with him. He had made such a huge mistake, had been so far off the point that it was almost funny. “I ain’t got no more life here, Etta-Sue.”

  “Why you say that, Ludlow?” Etta-Sue and Missus Scott spoke almost in unison.

  He shook his head again, and, unable to keep a smile from creeping across his face, turned toward the door. There was just one more thing he had to find out.

  “Ludlow? Where you going?” Etta-Sue jumped from the table, banging her chair. “Mama, he look crazy. He smiling.”

  He was already heading down the hall, counting his steps. After seven he stopped.

  “Mama!” Etta-Sue was screaming from the kitchen door. “Mama! He going in to the baby!”

  He entered Missus Scott’s room, advanced to the bed, where he knew the baby would be sleeping, surrounded by pillows. He was no longer smiling.

  Etta-Sue was at the door. “Ludlow! Don’t touch her.” There was a deep panic rasping in her throat. “Ludlow!” She took two steps into the room.

  He turned around, speaking to her calmly. “Etta-Sue, if you come near me, I’ll throw this baby out the window.”

  She stopped, then turned and ran from the room, back down the hall. “Mama, he planning to kill her. He say—” She did not finish. The two women came to the door.

  He spoke over his shoulder now. “If you two come in this room, I’ll wring its neck like a chicken.” Behind him they were whispering.

  He had already located the bundled blanket. Now he undid it and could feel the tiny bones, the soft skin, the toes, the nails no bigger than the heads of pins. He ran his hand up the legs, up to the diaper, damp and knotted. He smelled the powder and oil Etta-Sue had rubbed on the small body. Its stomach heaved up and down. Its chest was not even as wide as his hand. His fingers felt its heart thumping like a
dull clock through skin as thin as cloth. The head was covered with soft hair. He wondered what color it was—probably red like Etta-Sue’s. There was a nose smaller even than a key on an alto saxophone and two eye sockets and ears. His daughter—but he would not have known that if he had not been told. He closed the blankets, straightened up, and spoke toward the whispering women. “Okay, ladies, don’t worry yourselves. It all yours now.” He walked toward the door, nodding his head. “I’m going to New York.”

  They did not answer. He pushed by them, his elbow brushing Etta-Sue’s breast. They were filled with fluid now and each time he had tried to touch them, she had complained he was hurting her. Behind him the women rushed into the room and slammed the door.

  It did not take long to pack. He would need his two suits and some shirts, underwear, and socks. He would have to tell Rodney and pick up his instrument at Boone’s. He left the Braille music books and everything else. With one hundred dollars a week he could buy anything he wanted in New York. He did not leave Etta-Sue any money. She had a baby and perhaps that was all she had ever wanted.

  Etta-Sue and Missus Scott were waiting at the foot of the steps when he came down, but they said nothing as he tapped past them and into the street.

  Part Four

  INTERVIEW…

  What’s all this mess about me coming to New York and inventing modern jazz? Right out, there two things wrong with that.

  First of all, I don’t think I invented it alone. I mean, lots of us did it. We all sat up in Harlem and put the new stuff together. It wasn’t just me. I got things from them; they got things from me.

  And second of all, if I did invent it, like they say, I invented it back in New Marsails in Bud Rodney’s band, or maybe even before that, in the blind home. Because all my life I been playing what I liked. Take Norman Spencer. He coulda been the one who invented it hisself. He was doing new things way back in the twenties. I only listened and played what I liked in him and that was that. I didn’t decide one day—blam!—I’d play something new, because I been playing pretty much the same since I was thirteen, except now maybe I can play a little faster. But that ain’t genius. That’s just practicing.