She Walks in Beauty (16 page)

And Big Gloria would worry herself crazy knowing that Junior had told her
some
version of the truth.

Gloria had spent her entire life listening to men tell lies, and she knew one when she heard it.

What she wanted to know was, son of mine, only child of my womb, did that white man make you so mad, the one who pushed you in the pool, that you broke into his room, beat the tar out of him, killed him with your bare hands, and dragged him off somewhere?

Son of mine, only child of my womb, could you do that? Did you do that? Have I already lost you?

10

After breakfast Sam and Harry had walked so far south on the Boardwalk, the casinos were huge ships in the mist behind them. It was a sweet time. They held hands and laughed, the color in their cheeks the same cherry red as Sam’s sweater.

“Do we look like a television commercial?” she asked.

“For some soft drink. The good life.”

“Rather have bottled water.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re
that
one.”

“Uh-huh. I bet you do have trouble keeping track of who you’re with—those cuties you’ve stashed all over the Quarter.”

“One way to find out. Come live with me.”

“In that tacky little place?”

“You love my apartment.”

He was right. She did. She loved his big brass bed upstairs in the tiny slave-quarter cottage overlooking a courtyard. She loved the jazz from Preservation Hall drifting across his little balcony, through his window, across their bodies, which always seemed to be naked, or semi-naked.

It was a great place to visit.

“Now what’s that you’re whistling?” she asked.

“‘May I Have This Dance for the Rest of My Life?’” Then he took her into his arms and waltzed her around and around on the Boardwalk. “What do you think?”

“Oh, Harry.”

Suddenly a wolf whistle split the air, followed by a round of applause. “You two want a ride?” It was a young blond man pushing a wicker beach chair, Atlantic City’s version of a rickshaw.

“Get out of here,” Harry waved him off.

“Five dollars’ll get you all the way back to the casinos.”

“Vamoose. Am-scray.”

“Jeeszt. You don’t have to get hostile about it, man.”

“Jeeszt, you don’t have to get hostile about it, lady,” Harry said to Sam as the man and his chair pushed on down the Boardwalk.

“About what?”

“About my invitations. Two. Living and dancing.”

“Harry, dear heart—”

“Special offer today. I don’t think you want to miss it.” That wasn’t Harry. It was
another
beach chair.

“What’s
with
you guys?” Harry barked.

“I’m no guys, sir. I’m your Super-Duper Buggy Pusher also known by the appellation of Rashad.” The young black man performed a deep bow in his white tie and tails—above a pair of cutoffs. “I’ve been employed in this profession only two days, so as you can see, I’m still fresh as the proverbial daisy
—Chrysanthemum leucanthemum.
I’ll perambulate you up and down, deliver you a son et lumière show—if that’s your pleasure, m’lady.”

“Maybe we ought to, Harry.”

“Are you nuts? I don’t want to do this.”

“It’s part of the Atlantic City tradition,” said Sam. She’d read that in her press kit.

“Perhaps you should listen to the pretty lady—meaning no offense, sir. Perchance she’s fatigued.”

“She’s just old,” said Sam. “And she doesn’t want to be late.”

“She wants to change the subject is what she wants,” said Harry. “You think this guy’s gonna push us faster than we can walk?”

“I’m known for my speed,” said Rashad. “Faster than the proverbial bullet. But safe. Oh, yes, surety is my middle name.”

“Surety, bull. Shuck and jive, you mean,” said Harry.

“You’re being rude, darling.” Sam stepped into the rolling chair and extended a queenly hand to her consort.

“Do you know the derivation of that phrase, shuck and jive?” asked Rashad from behind them once they’d both tucked into the chair and he’d headed north.

“No, we don’t, and we don’t want to,” said Harry.

“I’d love to know,” said Sam.

“Well, you see, down in New Orleans, in the oyster bars, there are these good fellows who earn their livelihood opening the local bivalves—”

“I’m
from
New Orleans,” Harry groaned.

“Then I defer to your superior wisdom,” said Rashad. “You must certainly know the anecdote.”

“Tell us the story, Harry,” Sam said.

“I don’t know the damned story.”

“Then hush. Go on, Rashad.” She sounded just like a contestant, with a smile in her voice.

“These oyster shuckers, I met one, actually two, who were here in Atlantic City enjoying a weekend of recreation. Michael Broadway is in the employ of the Acme Oyster House—”

Harry groaned again.

“That’s right around the corner from Harry’s house. I’m Sam. He’s Harry.”

“Charmed to make your acquaintance. And Harry doesn’t like New Orleans?”

“Harry loves New Orleans,” said Harry. “Sam doesn’t.”

“Sam
loves
New Orleans,” she protested.

“But Sam doesn’t love Harry,” said Harry.

“Sam loves Harry. Sam just doesn’t know if she wants to love Harry
in
New Orleans. Full-time.”

“She’d rather love him from Atlanta,” Harry explained.

“Long distance, as it were,” said Rashad.

“As it were,” sighed Harry. “Go on with your story, Rashad. You were at the Acme.”

“The other bivalve professional was known as Robert Washington. He’s in the employ of Casamento’s—I believe he said.”

“Out on Magazine. The little place with the great tiles,” Harry reminded Sam.

“Robert Washington. Is he a cousin of Lavert’s?”

“Probably. I think everybody’s a cousin of Lavert’s.”

“Anyway, these gentlemen were telling me how they ply their trade.”

“Are you an English professor in your spare time, Rashad?” asked Harry.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You speak rather precisely.”

“Rather? What do you mean—rather? I thought I spoke precisely in the main.”

“I think you’re shucking us, Rashad,” said Harry.

“Or at least jiving,” said Sam.

“Jiving is correct,” Rashad agreed. “Now, jiving is what I was attempting to explicate. As I was saying, I encountered these two bivalve professionals here in a local bar one evening, where they were attempting to explain to a local bivalve amateur how to properly open a mollusk.”

“Which is?” asked Harry, finally loosening up a little. “I’ve seen it done a million times, but—”

“That’s what Messrs. Washington and Broadway said. Seeing and doing are two different things. What they demonstrated went like this: Now, there’s a hole in the smaller end of the oyster, and that’s where you insert the tip of your oyster knife—which is
not
a sharpened blade. Then you lean all your weight on the oyster, not the blade, and twist your wrist.”

“It’s all in the wrist action?” asked Sam.

“As in many things,” answered Rashad, “it’s a matter of finesse. Then you peek inside the oyster and slip the knife around and cut that top muscle. Flop it over, cut the other. Wiggle the oyster around, get rid of the debris. The gentlemen made it look so easy, the same way a fine pianist does, playing the
Moonlight Sonata
or the dirty boogie with equal dexterity.”

“Actually, we had a fellow who did that. Opened oysters, that is, in the movie I worked on recently. He shucked,
I
played the dirty boogie,” said Harry.

The rolling chair lurched to an abrupt halt.

“Did I hear you say
movie
?
As in
film
?
As in
cinema
?”

“As in picture show, Rashad,” laughed Harry.

“In New Orleans? You worked on a movie in New Orleans recently?”

“Yeah. With Spike Lee.”

At those words, the entire rail-thin six-foot length of Rashad plummeted backward to the Boardwalk like falling timber. He landed belly up, paused a moment, then flopped over and knelt, facing the Atlantic. “Allah is good. Allah be praised.”

“Allah isn’t in the business, Rashad,” said Harry.

Rashad popped back up and leaned over, almost in Harry’s face. “You
know
Spike Lee?”

Harry shrugged. “Not really. I just did the background, me and the guys I play with. Mostly some other guy told us what the scene was, what mood they wanted, and we fooled around till we had something they said was okay.”

Rashad did two cartwheels.

“Pretty amazing,” said Sam.

Harry had to agree.

“But you
met
him,” Rashad crowed, now upright again. “You met Spike!”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“And what
I
could say is that if we don’t get going here, I’m going to be late for my press conference. Or shall we get out and walk, Rashad, until you get the use of yourself again?”

“So sorry, I’m so sorry.” And then Rashad propelled them lickety-split, slowing only slightly for codgers, other rolling chairs, and ambling dogs.

In front of Convention Hall he refused to accept more than the most minimal payment from Harry and waived the tip altogether.

“Why do I think I’m going to be seeing you again soon, Rashad?” asked Harry. “Perhaps with a film can in your hand?”

At that, Rashad’s head began to bob, and he could hardly control his feet, which seemed to have many miles to hustle before sundown. He tried to control himself, but then his exuberance won out and he did six backflips. Three passing tourists tried to give him small change, and he kissed their hands.

“Now, Rashad, I doubt that I can help you much,” said Harry. But then he heard himself saying those words and remembered how many times he’d heard the same ones in Nashville. How many times he’d stood just outside the door when the man on the other side could have extended a hand, given a nod, and it could have made all the difference in the world to a young songwriter. “But I can try. I’ll do what I can….”

Rashad did four forward flips, six backward, and a small crowd cheered.

Sam laughed. Oh, God. Wasn’t it fun, being with Harry? Crazy things were always happening to him. Crazier even than a press conference to announce the Fruit of the Loom Award, which was where
she
was headed.

She said her good-byes to Harry and Rashad and then remembered. “You never finished explaining the jiving part of shuck and jive, Rashad.”

“That’s what the bivalve professionals do while they shuck. Chat up the customers.”

“
That’s
the jiving of shucking and jiving?”

“That’s the jiving,” Rashad nodded.

“
You’re
the jiving,” said Harry, pointing at the Undisputed Jive Master of the Boardwalk, Monsieur Rashad.

11

On her way through the lobby to the press conference, Sam caught sight of Cindy Lou in a bisecting hallway. Thank God for small favors and good timing.

The former Miss Ohio was wearing a powder-blue suit, her shoulders hunched in a posture that would have never won her a rhinestone tiara. She was still hiding behind those shades.

Was that because Kurt, the mean, mysterious Kurt, had popped her one good, as the reporter from the
Inquirer
had surmised? Sam called after the former Miss Ohio.

Cindy Lou turned and spotted Sam. She hesitated for a count of one, then raced on, her heels clicking on the terrazzo.

But Sam didn’t walk miles every day for nothing. “Hi!” she said as she pulled even with Cindy Lou, who didn’t look the least bit pleased.

“Sam Adams. Atlanta
Constitution.
I’m the one who did the interview yesterday in the press—”

“I know.” Cindy Lou hadn’t slowed.

“I was on my way to ask a couple of questions of Barbara Stein, but I saw you and thought, What the heck, I bet you know more than she does. After all, you’ve
been
up on that big stage, haven’t you?”

Cindy Lou pointed the dark glasses straight at her. If she lifted them, her eyes would read, Cut the crap.

“I was wondering, do you and the final judges sit down and have a powwow?”

Cindy slowed a tad. “Yes, we do. We get together on Saturday morning.”

“And you tell the celebrity judges all the poop from the past week? Like who has the biggest sob story, gimp points—”