Celeste's Harlem Renaissance (19 page)

As I brushed my hair and undressed for bed, I heard Aunti and Miss D talking in the hallway, but I didn’t bother to listen. I had things to think about. What Miss D said about Raleigh and Aunti still bothered me. I got into bed. Why
would
she want to return if she became a star? Had I made it harder to get my family together back home by urging Aunti to be in this musical? As I drifted away, I heard Aunti return, but she didn’t come to bed. She left again. I woke up off and on all night but I didn’t feel her slip in the bed until it was almost daylight.

I got up around seven
A.M.
like I did back home to get ready for school, and commenced my household chores while Aunti snored. She didn’t get up until around noon. She didn’t say where she’d been, and I didn’t ask. I figured she’d gone to the Café Noir Le Grande for the cast party.

When I went with her to the show that night, I volunteered to hand out programs. Miss Jarboro was grateful. “You know how to do the right thing at the right time,” she said. But this time I decided that these folks were going to
act
right when they approached me for programs.

“Everybody, take your time, don’t push,” I said loudly but politely. “Yes, sir, here you are.” To my surprise and pleasure, people obeyed. “My aunt’s a singer and a dancer. She wears an Oriental costume. She’s good! Yes, ma’am, you’ll love the show.”

“Say, didn’t I see you at Café Noir Le Grande one time?” said a woman waiting to receive a program. I nodded, blushing. “You played that violin so well! Next time I’m there, I’ll tell Monsieur how much I enjoyed you.”

So many people began coming to see
Shuffle Along
that week that I began running out of programs. After one show the next week Aunti took me to the Café Noir Le Grande to make up, I guess, for not taking me the first night. Some of the cast came, too. We sat with Mr. Jim, who also was a dancer, a fellow who played trombone, and a hoofer named Marcella, the one that Aunti had said early on stumbled all over when she danced.

Monsieur stopped by our table. “
Ma chérie,
I’m so glad to see you!” He kissed both of Aunti’s hands. “And Celeste, my ingénue! How are you? M’selle Val, a friend stopped by the other day and mentioned how much she loved Celeste’s violin playing.”

Aunti’s made-up face stiffened a little. “Yes, she’s a little trouper.” I tried to think of something to say to him to change the subject before she had a spasm.

“M’selle Val, she said Celeste extolled your
Shuffle Along
talents, too,” he continued. I breathed a sigh of relief, and Aunti’s face lit up. “As you may know, I’m looking for a permanent musician to replace the former one. With such fine praise, Val, I’m wondering if you’d like to accompany Mr. Duke Ellington, my new pianist, with a few songs for the rest of the summer.”

Everybody at the table applauded. Aunti’s mouth fell open. I was surprised, too, but glad. Maybe now she’d be happy and quit being upset that I’d played here before she did. She hugged Monsieur. “Yes, yes, yes! I’d love to.”

Miss Marcella shook her shoulders. “Monsieur, you have room for a hoofer, too, at your lunch times?”

“I’ll keep you in mind,” Monsieur said smoothly. “Thank Celeste for bragging on you so, Val. I’d have asked you as soon as Andre left, but you were out of town, remember? I knew you wouldn’t mind Celeste being your fill-in. She was perfect.”

I didn’t know whether to puff out my chest or feel irritated that Monsieur called me Aunti’s fill-in. I thought he’d hired me because I was good. Well, maybe that was the same thing. As long as she didn’t seem to mind, then I guessed I wouldn’t. Her face was still beaming. Suddenly I understood what Miss D’s “taking the path of least resistance” meant. Monsieur was keeping Aunti from being upset with him — and letting me off the hook, too.

“Of course, that was fine. When do I start?” She flashed him and me her wide, toothy smile. “Thanks, kiddo. I’m proud that you stood in for me.”

“Well, you had bragged on me to Monsieur, so one good turn deserves another,” I replied, with the biggest grin I could create. When he and Aunti began to plan, Mr. Jim, Miss Marcella, and the other man wandered off to other tables. I nibbled on my chocolate square, listening. I remembered Aunti’s mean looks and her agitation whenever anybody had bragged on my musical talents. No matter what Aunti said, she was jealous of me, and jealousy was a terrible, dangerous thing. Like Aunt Society said, forgive, but don’t forget.

A couple of nights later Gertie and her momma popped up at Miss D’s. Gertie was coughing and feverish, sick as a dog, with her braids all picked apart. Miss D got worried sick herself, afraid that Gertie had that deadly influenza. Three years before, influenza had swept through Raleigh and around the world, killing hundreds and thousands of people. Miss D told us she fixed Gertie delicious beef stew and sugar-flavored water, but Gertie wouldn’t eat the stew. She just coughed, snotted, and drank the water.

This morning Miss D came over and told us she had to go to work. “Can you and Cece look after Gertie for me?” she asked.

“Well, I’ve got to go to the Café Noir Le Grande to practice with Mr. Duke,” Aunti said, folding her arms across her chest. “Matter of fact, I should be getting ready now.”

Miss D glanced at me. “And I suppose you’re going, too?”

“No, ma’am, I’m staying. I’ll do it. I can fix her some chicken soup with lots of fat to make her feel better.”

“That’s a good idea,” Aunti said, already rummaging through a pile of clothes she’d dropped on the bed. “But keep her away from me. I can’t afford to get sick.”

Miss D gave me some money. “Get what you think you need from Schwartz’s grocery around the corner.” While Miss D and Aunti got ready to go, I hurried out to Schwartz’s grocery and bought chicken necks, backs, and feet, onions, white potatoes, green peas, and a stalk of celery. Back at Miss D’s place I quickly put everything on to cook and dropped mint leaves into a pot of boiling water to steep for tea.

“If I didn’t need the money I’d tell Miss Sheehan I couldn’t come,” Miss D told me, wringing her hands. She kept hanging around, watching while I prepared the soup, telling me where she kept the spices I needed.

“Cece, you’re a fabulous doctor, girl,” Aunti said in the doorway, about to leave.

“Yes, she is,” Miss D added. “You mind Cece, you hear, Gertie?” she added. They left together.

Gertie’s head was so clogged with phlegm that she couldn’t breathe through her nose, and she could barely swallow. “Here, drink this.” I gave her some tea and rubbed Vicks salve around her nose and throat. I wished I had a piece of flannel cloth to wrap around her neck and lay on her chest. I was surprised Miss D didn’t have a piece on her already. Flannel always helped break up a cold.

After a few minutes of sipping and snotting, Gertie lay back down. “My head still hurts and I still can’t breathe.”

“If you ate more fruits and vegetables and not so much rice, johnnycake, and syrup, you wouldn’t be so sick. Keep drinking that tea while I get you some soup.”

“Don’t want no more soup.” She turned her head away, wiping at her nose with a big white rag, and kicked off the covers. “I’m too hot!”

“You gotta keep those blankets on to sweat out that fever. Here, eat this. It’s chicken.” I held out a spoonful. She touched her tongue to a small piece of chicken on the spoon, then plucked it off the spoon and ate it. She sucked down the rest. “Gimme some more.”

I handed her the bowl and watched her eat the chicken first, then the potatoes. She pushed aside the onions and celery, but drank down the liquid. “Let me tell you a story about a girl and some balloons.”

“I don’t wanna hear no story. Gimme some more soup,” she sniffled.

“Girl almost got ate up by a giant squid.”

“Well, all right. What’s a squid?”

I told her the balloon story, explaining what a squid was, adding that giant squids tried to snatch the girl down from the sky with their tentacles, and that sharks — I called them giant flathead catfish so she’d understand — jumped out of the water and snapped at her legs.

“I wish I had balloons like that,” Gertie said when I finished. “Then next time Momma started to pop me, I’d grab them balloons and float right back to Grammaw.”

“Your momma probably wouldn’t pop you if you didn’t do things to make her mad.” I could think of a few things that I’d like to smack her for. Like eating my licorice. Gertie handed me the bowl. She closed her eyes, and the next thing, she was asleep. I waited for a bit, then I tiptoed next door, got Dede, returned, and softly practiced my scales and my favorite songs.

Gertie didn’t wake up until her grandmother got home toward evening, and she was feeling better. Miss D was so pleased that she begged me to let her keep the rest of the soup. At my urging, she spread Vicks salve on the soles of Gertie’s feet, then pulled her socks back on, and for once Gertie didn’t protest.

“Aren’t you going to the show?” Miss D asked as she smeared more Vicks salve on Gertie’s throat and chest. “She’s not coming by to get you?”

“I guess not. I don’t know how to get there by myself,” I said, sighing.

“You’ve got a funny aunt,” Miss D said quietly. “I don’t mean
laugh
funny but
strange
funny. She only thinks about herself.”

“I know,” I said softly. “I know.”

I went back to our room, and wrote letters, then after performing my ablutions, went to sleep. In the middle of the night I heard Aunti’s key turn in the lock. When she crawled into bed and started to snore, I smelled champagne on her breath.

I handed out programs again at the next several shows, enjoying the performances and even recognizing where some scenes changed from one night to another.

One morning Aunti asked me if I’d like to go to the Café Noir Le Grande for lunch, and to hear her and Mr. Ellington. “As long as I don’t have to play,” I said carefully.

“Oh no, you won’t. I just want to have you hear me and get some more good food. And Monsieur misses you,” she said gaily. “You stole his heart!”

I loved how Aunti and Mr. Ellington sang and played piano together. I played Dede along with them — in my head. I was also glad I wasn’t up there, because I’d have to hear Aunti’s cutting remarks later. Monsieur was so pleased to see me that he kissed me on both cheeks and on my knuckles. But no matter how many times the diners asked me to, I didn’t play. I just ate my chicken, and listened, and hummed. Aunti didn’t seem to mind it if I hummed.

“Aunti, I haven’t seen any of the big New York sights that my Butterflies keep asking me about,” I said casually during one of her breaks back at our table. “I haven’t even gone to the library around the corner, and you promised to take me there.” I bit into my chicken salad sandwich. “I don’t know any girls my age up here, either. I just know old — uh, grown folks, and Gertie.”

“What brought this on? You know I’ve been —” She stopped. “You’re right. I’ve been selfish with my time. I think of you as my younger sister so much I forget you need your own fun,” she said. “I don’t know any married people with children your age, but I’ll try to find some.” She looked at me sideways, smiling. “I only know single folks.”

“If we went to church we’d see lots of girls my age, and married folks, too,” I said. About that time a man stopped by the table, and she gave him her full attention.

When we got home, I found a letter from Poppa, and a joint letter from Evalina, Angel Mae, and Swan in our mailbox. Poppa’s letter was short. The weather was so hot it was even hurting his feelings. He expected Aunt Society to come visit him any day. She’d been calling him almost every day about things going on at home, and each time he’d reminded her to send my clothes. He didn’t say anything about why she hadn’t written to me. The best news, though, was that he’d gained six pounds!

Angel Mae wrote that in canning class her jars exploded, splattering pickles and tomatoes everywhere. Evalina wrote that she still wanted to raise that pig. When she decided she wanted to bake a cake instead of canning, she and Mrs. Bracy had fights every class. “I don’t think sifting all the dry ingredients together is important, and she does,” she wrote.

Swan announced that her canned chowchow tasted so good church folks were already asking for her jars to serve with their sausages. She wrote that they saw
Darktown Jubilee
with Bert Williams for the fifth time, and parts of
The Perils of Pauline
moving picture serial again at the Royal Theater a few weeks ago. “But being in Harlem you probably see real movie stars all the time,” Swan wrote.

Feeling a pinch of envy, I pulled out my journal, eager to write them back. I could tell them about Mr. Duke Ellington, and the
Shuffle Along
cast, even though they’d never heard of him or anybody in the musical. I could mention again that I’d met Mr. James Weldon Johnson and how I was still tracking down our poems at the
Brownies’ Book
office. And I could certainly brag about playing my violin at the Café Noir Le Grande, where that Bert Williams sometimes stopped by. Of course, I hadn’t seen him there yet. Oh, and how Monsieur kissed my knuckles! I couldn’t tell them anything about any girls I’d met except Gertie, and she didn’t really count. Could Big Willie Madison count as a new friend, even though I’d only met him once?

Chapter
Fourteen

T
he next day Miss D told us that Gertie and her momma — whose name I finally learned was Netta Lee and not “that gal” — left for South Carolina to visit Miss Netta Lee’s people and Gertie’s father, whose name was Pete. Miss D drooped around like a cow without its calf. “I just worry whether that gal takes good care of my Gertie,” Miss D groaned. “Netta Lee gets down to Charleston and just cuts the fool, chasing after my son like she’s his pet chicken. Pete needs to be around Gertie, true; she’s his blood. But he can be just as addle-brained as Netta Lee. I should be down there, too.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Aunti said. “You’d just cause trouble. Look, you and Cece are dragging around here so much I can’t get my beauty rest. Let’s go see some of New York tomorrow, Cece. The show’s not playing tomorrow night, you know, and I’m not at the café then. You come, Ripsey, if you like.”