A Drop of Patience

by William Melvin Kelley

  “Yeah. If you still want to buy it.”

  “Of course I do.” He fled the booth, saying he would find their waiter and buy cigarettes.

  Myron’s roommate immediately began questioning Myron’s date about the courses she planned to take in the fall. Ludlow drummed calypso rhythm on the table.

  “I didn’t mean to get so serious.” Ragan spoke almost in a whisper, with just the smallest edge of nervousness. She had a nice voice, the pronunciation clear and precise, almost British. Ludlow could not decide what part of the country she might come from, and he was usually quite good at placing accents.

  She had given in a bit and he decided he would too. “I wasn’t joking about the war.” He took a chance, leaned closer. “I was kidding Myron.”

  She giggled. “I know….Friends? I have my hand out.” He liked that. She knew he could not see her hand, had accepted that without being embarrassed by it. He reached out his hand; hers slid into his, squeezed it, then quickly pulled away. Her hand was quite wide for a woman’s.

  “I’m not sure I understand the way you play. I mean, I like jazz, but I’ve only heard swing and Dixieland.” He could not tell if she was really interested, or if she was simply making talk.

  “It’s all the same.” He shrugged.

  “Now you’re indulging me.” She sounded hurt. “All right then, we’ll talk about something else.”

  He had not intended to hurt her. “Well, it is kinda the same. Just a few different things we doing.”

  She turned toward him, her knee pressing harder against him. Her breath smelled of lipstick. “Like what?”

  He tried as best he could to explain it to her, what they were trying to do. When he had finished, answering her very intelligent questions, repeating things she had not quite understood, she seemed to have gotten it all. It came as a shock to realize there were others in the booth, that Myron had long since returned, that the waiter had brought their drinks.

  “So in other words”—Myron was leaning toward them—“what you’re saying is that the difference between modern jazz and the older forms is a sense of time and not just more highly developed technique.”

  At first he did not understand what the boy was talking about, then realized the others had been listening, had considered it an open conversation. “No, Myron, I didn’t say that at all. I said when the measures is metronomizing the choruses, then you got a kind of jazzy music that’s working on a three-tone scale, not on a five like most people think. Understand now?”

  Beside him, Ragan was shaking.

  “Yes…Oh, I see.” Myron was confused.

  Ragan’s laughter broke to the surface; she covered herself by explaining she had just seen something absolutely hilarious across the room.

  On stage, the alternate group had begun to play its theme. It just slid over the cheering and laughter. Ludlow moved out of the booth. “Well, it been nice talking to you.” He aimed his voice directly at Ragan, then extended his hand. She took it, but, as before, released it quickly.

  Myron came to his side, patted his back. “I’m glad you sat down with us, Ludlow.”

  “My pleasure, Myron.” He pronounced it My-rone, then turned back to the table. “Hope to meet you again.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  Myron took his elbow. “I’ll get you to the stage, Ludlow.”

  Reno was waiting for him; he did not speak until Myron had departed. “How things on the old plantation, man?”

  “There’ll be a rebellion soon.” Then he was serious. “How’d she look?”

  “Nice. Dark hair, dark eyes, and skin white as rice. Maybe had some freckles, but I couldn’t see that far in the smoke and all. How’d she sound?”

  “Good.” He thought about her voice, but, more important, the things she had said. “Good.”

  “I guess there have to be some!”

  The music ended and there were footsteps at the top of the stairs. The musicians pushed by them. One of them stopped, smacked Ludlow’s arm. “You can have them, man. I coulda played one note the whole forty minutes. It wouldn’ta mattered.”

  They played a good set. Ludlow was unable to make a mistake. They even seemed to break into the table-centered world of the celebrants, making some listen. At the end of the set, Ludlow asked Reno to walk him by the booth where Ragan had been.

  “What for, man?” Reno hesitated. “They gone.”

  2

  HE BOARDED the subway in Harlem. Dragged and pushed, rattled and shaken, he rode underground listening to the train’s rumbling, screeching, knocking, jangling and clicking. Finally the train climbed a grade, went into a curve, crushing him back into the straw seat. The noises untied themselves and spread across the night. The train was outside now, elevated, and in the Bronx. He was going to Hardie’s for Christmas dinner.

  After it came from underground it made fifteen stops. When he got off, the car was silent and empty. The platform was wooden. A cold wind tore across the open elevated station.

  “Ludlow! Merry Christmas!” Hardie’s footsteps ran toward him down the platform. Ludlow had been traveling; he had not spoken to Hardie in almost six months.

  “Merry Christmas, man.” Ludlow extended his hand. “How you been?”

  Hardie’s hand was cold and chapped. “Fine! Fine. Can’t complain about nothing.”

  “How Juanita and the boy?” Hardie was guiding him down steel-rimmed steps, through a clicking turnstile of cold, smooth wood.

  “They fine, man.”

  They descended more steps and were on the street. A few blocks away and high above, the train rumbled toward the city line at Mount Vernon. It had snowed, turned warm, then gone below freezing. The streets were icy. “How the new group working out?”

  “Good, man. Keep it quiet but I may have to get a new drummer.” Hardie had taken his elbow. “The one I got still keeping bass-drum time.”

  The hardened snow, the ice crunched underfoot. They walked slowly along the empty street. In some of the houses they passed, radios and phonographs played Christmas songs. In a few hours Ludlow would have to go back into the city to work.

  “Well, we made it. God damn ice!” Hardie gripped his elbow a little tighter. “I tried to clean the steps before the freeze, but they still slippery. Got to put salt down.” They climbed the brick steps. Hardie jingled coins and keys in his pocket. “Remember down home? How warm it was on Christmas?”

  Ludlow nodded. Hardie opened the door; warm air, smelling of turkey and mince pie, met them.

  “Come in, man. One step up.” They left the cold brick steps for warm wood, then carpet. “Hey, baby, we here!”

  A few rooms away, Juanita called back. “Okay. Give him a drink.” She began to whisper. Finally, again in a normal voice, “Now run.”

  Hardie took his coat, led him into the living room, and told him to sit down. Then the trombone player crossed the room, opened cabinets and broke ice. “Here.” He handed Ludlow a drink, sat down across from him. “How long, baby?”

  “Just take it easy, Hardie.” Under Juanita’s voice, fat began to pop and sizzle.

  Hardie sighed. “So tell me, how’d the tour go?”

  “You know. You play, get in a car, ride all night, sleep some, play, then ride some more. I’m sure glad I don’t got to drive, but Reno’s a God damn maniac.”

  “Did you know Danny Price run into a tree last month?” Danny Price had been the drummer when they were together with O’Gee.

  Ludlow shook his head; he had liked Danny.

  “They figure he musta fell asleep.”

  They were silent for a moment. Ludlow found himself counting the number of musicians he had known who had died in automobile accidents. He had reached nine when Juanita clicked into the room, smelling of perfume and turkey.

  “Merry Christmas, Ludlow
.” She kissed him on the cheek. “How you been?”

  “All right, sweetie.” He could not stop thinking about Danny. They had played many after-hour sessions together. Later, Ludlow had used him at a few recording dates.

  Juanita sat beside him, squeezed his hand. “Did Hardie take you around the house?” Ludlow had never visited them. They had bought the house less than a year before.

  “Not yet.” He shook the sound of Danny Price’s drums out of his head.

  “Too bad it’s not spring. We got a garden out back. In the spring, you come up and we’ll eat some fried chicken out there.”

  “All right.” He sipped his drink.

  Quick, light footsteps came into the room. “Mama?”

  “Otie, you bring what I told you?” Juanita pulled forward and let go Ludlow’s hand.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Well, come on then.”

  The footsteps scuffled slowly toward him, stopped a few feet away. “Merry Christmas…” Otis Hardie, Junior, was shy.

  “Merry Christmas, Uncle Ludlow.” Juanita’s voice was warm and sweet, coaxing him.

  “Merry Christmas, Uncle Ludlow.” The boy pushed a box into Ludlow’s hands. “Mama, his eyes are white!”

  “Otie!” “Otis!” Juanita and Hardie spoke at the same time. Then Juanita turned to him. “Oh, Ludlow, I’m—”

  “It all right, Juanita.” He smiled. “He just like you—calls it like he see it. Remember that time in Chicago when Hardie couldn’t shut you up?” He spoke now to Otie. “That’s because I can’t see. That bother you?”

  “No. You didn’t open your present.”

  Ludlow extended the box. “You do it and tell me what it is.”

  The boy came closer, stood between Ludlow’s knees and attacked the tissue paper. He smelled of sugar and Vaseline. “It’s an ashes tray. I made it myself.”

  “I ain’t never had my own ash tray before.” It was of rough, dry clay, with a bowl no bigger than Ludlow’s thumb.

  “He good with his hands.” Hardie, still hurt for Ludlow, was nevertheless very proud.

  “I bet. You used to be good with your hands too.”

  Juanita understood first. “That’s what I worry about when he goes on the road.” She pretended suspicion.

  “He all right, Juanita.”

  “Sure I am, baby.” Hardie was too serious.

  Juanita laughed. “Just as long as I don’t find out about it, I don’t care.”

  Hardie changed the subject. “He really is good with his hands. Come here, son.” The boy left Ludlow. “You think you can show your Uncle Ludlow what I taught you?” The boy must have nodded. “Good boy!” Hardie got up and the man and boy crossed the room. There was a piano in the corner. “Okay now.”

  The boy played. Out of time, with many mistakes, but still recognizable, he played one of Ludlow’s tunes, a ballad, Cherry Tree. When he finished, they applauded.

  Juanita stood up. “Let’s go wash up, Otie.” She and the boy left the room.

  “We might as well go in and sit down.” Hardie came back from the piano and stood before him.

  In the dining room, Hardie insisted that Ludlow sit at the head. Hardie sat on his right. When Juanita and Otie returned, she sat at the other end, the boy on Ludlow’s left.

  Juanita brought the plates from the kitchen already served. Hardie told Ludlow where the food was on his plate. Juanita was a good cook and Ludlow told her so.

  “Thank you. It all right, Hardie?”

  “You see me eating, don’t you?” His mouth was full. “Hey, man, remember that Christmas dinner we ate in that diner in Portland?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When was this?” Juanita asked.

  “Just after we got married, baby. I left you in Chicago, remember? Did I miss you!”

  “I missed you too. I’d sit by the phone and Mama’d come and tell me to eat something and I’d say I couldn’t take the chance you’d call and think I was out. I’d get that phone on the first ring.”

  The gravy had turkey livers and nuts in it.

  “That how come you picked it up so fast?”

  “That’s how come.” Her fork rang on her plate; she had put it down.

  “Let go my hand, baby. Got to catch up to Ludlow.” His voice swung Ludlow’s way. “Look at him go!”

  “Good food.” He was wishing he had not let Hardie seat him at the end.

  “Otie, don’t play with your food!” Juanita moved her chair. “Now, I’m watching you, young man.”

  “He look tired, baby. I guess opening all them boxes wore him out.”

  “Maybe so.” She paused a moment. “Maybe I’ll take him up to bed.”

  “Why don’t you do that.”

  “Come on, Otis-motis.” She got up. The boy’s chair pushed back from the table. “Say good night to everybody.”

  “Good night, Daddy.”

  “Night, son.”

  “Good night…”

  “Uncle Ludlow,” Juanita coached.

  “Uncle Ludlow.”

  Juanita did not return before they had finished dinner. Hardie had gone to find out what was keeping her, and returned, reporting that Otie, overstuffed, overexcited, and overtired, had vomited all over his pillow.

  When it was time for Ludlow to leave, Hardie walked him to the subway. Hardie had planned to stay with him until the train arrived, but Ludlow persuaded him to go home to his family. It was ten minutes before the train pulled into the station, dousing his face with cold wind, and took him into the city to work.

  3

  HE HAD ALWAYS liked Tuesday night. Very few people came to night clubs in the middle of the week, but those who came did so to sit quietly over a drink and listen. Tuesday night was not good for owners, but it was very good for musicians.

  He had done some of his best playing on Tuesday, especially with ballads. This Tuesday he had just finished his fourth set, acknowledged the almost timid applause, and was now descending the steps. He wanted a drink.

  The hand which touched his coat sleeve was large and heavy. “Excuse me, Mister Washington? Do you remember me? Myron’s friend, Ragan?” The whispering voice was faintly familiar, and he thought rapidly over the last few weeks attempting to fix it exactly, but for the moment could not.

  “Sure, I do. How you been?” If a woman approached a man and asked if he remembered her, he always said he did.

  “No, you don’t at all.” She did not seem upset about it. “But it’s nice of you to say so.”

  He tried to identify her accent. But she had none. He had met a girl without an accent the night the war ended. “I really do. Your old man’s a colonel in the army. Ain’t that so?”

  She laughed. “Well, I just wanted to say I enjoyed your playing, especially the slow things…I have my hand out.”

  He took her hand. “How about me buying you and your date a drink?” He did not relish the idea of buying some college boy a drink, but he needed time to find out what the girl had in mind, why she had gone out of her way to stop and praise him.

  “I don’t have a date.” She drew a breath as if to continue, but did not.

  This was too easy to be true. “Well, then I’ll buy you a drink.” He smiled, still holding her hand. “Just get us to the bar.”

  At the bar, they climbed onto stools and ordered, listening to the alternate group until the drinks arrived.

  “Last time I did all the talking.” He turned on his stool until his knee was poking into her thigh. She did not move, but he was beginning to doubt that she really understood what was happening. Sometimes white people confused him. He could not always assume they knew the signals. “So now it’s your turn to talk.”

  “That question always mixes me up. I never know where to start. What do you want me to tell about?”


  He rested one elbow on the bar and scratched his ear. “How come you night-clubbing without no date. Your folks wouldn’t like that.”

  “I wanted to hear you play. I’m a big fan of yours now. And I couldn’t wait around for someone to call and ask me to go out. As for my parents, they’re in France.”

  “And what you doing here?”

  “I went to college here and now I have a job here.”

  He nodded, admiring how she spoke, her voice. He did not like the usual white girl who went with Negro musicians. Their attempts to speak like Negroes annoyed, angered him. There was more than a scent of condescension in their attempts. Now, listening to this girl, he resented the others more than ever. “You like your job?”

  “It’s all right, I guess. Maybe later I’ll do something else.” She was vague about this and he realized that to pursue it would only make her uneasy.

  He sighed and sat up straight. “You understand what we was doing tonight?”

  “I think so. You made it very clear, and now I have some of your records to practice-listen to.” She swallowed, set her glass on the bar. “You’ll think I’m trying to pick you up, I know, but would you like to take a ride in the country when you finish work? I have a convertible.”

  Ludlow almost fell backward off the stool. “Why sure. That’d be nice.” He was very confused now. She was either the most innocent woman he had ever met, or the most forward. He was sure that it was innocence. He would have to rearrange his entire approach.

  When the club closed at four, she led him to her car. He slid across leather seats; through his shoes, he felt thick carpeting. “Colonels don’t make this much, do they?”

  She laughed. “No. My father got it before the war.” She started the motor, shifted into gear, and steered into the light traffic. It was early spring, still quite cool in the mornings. After a few stops, and fast starts, he felt the absence of the wind-breaking buildings and knew they were near the river, driving fast. He turned up the collar of his suitcoat. The ride was more refreshing than sleep. He could almost feel the seven hours of stale air easing out of his lungs. Fresh air burned in his throat, as if he had been sucking mints.