The Jazz Palace (19 page)

The next day the story ran, “Defiant Black Man Throws Down Gauntlet.” It got picked up in the white press. The
Sun Times
ran a story as well, but it didn't call him the Defiant Black Man. Because of the way his lips looked, they referred to him as the Black Butterfly instead. “Black Butterfly Defies Mob.” When Napoleon saw the name, he liked it. It was strange in a way he enjoyed. “Black” and “butterfly” didn't seem to belong in the same phrase, but in this case they went hand in hand.

From then on Napoleon announced himself onstage by his sobriquet. All the posters and advertisements, announcing his performances, referred to him as the Black Butterfly as well. He got asked to play more clubs than he could handle. He never said no to a gig no matter how small. He played all the white clubs and the black and tans. He was at the Orchid and the Diamond Club while still doing sets at the Rendez-Vous Café and Dreamland. He was a spectacle people came to see. They wanted to hear the Negro play whose lips had been cut in two. People came just to hear the Black Butterfly jam. Men in zoot suits and girls in flapper dresses and fox shawls, wearing cloche hats and strands of pearls, stopped perfect strangers in the street. “Do you know where the Black Butterfly is playing tonight?” they'd ask.

It was a novelty in a world that seemed constantly in need of more novelties. He became a celebrity in his defiance. “Black Butterfly Emerges from His Cocoon,” headlines read. “Black Butterfly Defies the Odds.”

It was a warm evening of Indian summer as Benny headed through the vacant lot, kicking a stone. He didn't like walking across the lot after dusk. And he wasn't sure why he was going this way now. The four of them had once played together here in the summer and those early evenings when their homework was done. They played ball until their mother called them to come home. Sometimes Benny thought he heard Harold—his high-pitched shout. A voice that had never changed.

He didn't notice the dark figure coming up beside him. He leaped with his heart in his throat. “Hey,” Moe said, “what's with you?”

“You spooked me.” He placed a hand on his heart and another on his friend's arm.

“Sorry about that.” Moe fell into pace beside him.

“So,” Benny said, still trying to catch his breath, “where've you been keeping yourself?”

Moe gave a wave of his hand. “You know. Around.” He paused. “Say, Benny, I'm still waiting. When are we going to strike out on our own?”

“On our own?”

“You know, get a band going.”

Benny smiled as he stayed in stride with his friend. “Sure, Moe. We could.”

“I mean look at those boys from Austin High. They've got a band and they're doing all right.” Scheming and dreaming, that's how Benny thought of Moe. Moe was the one with the plans. He'd long ago stopped caring about his family or supporting them. But Benny was different. He had responsibilities. Or they had him. Deep down, though, Benny knew that it wasn't just that. There was a loneliness in him that he couldn't name. At times he wanted to form a combo. The Benny Lehrman Trio sounded good. But he didn't know if he would. He was more of a sideman. Or he'd go solo. He'd join other people's bands, but he didn't think he could form one of his own. He was too much of a lone wolf. That's what he'd always been. But had he? He tried to remember back to a time before Harold died. But he could never get there. It was as if his life began and ended on that day.

“I'm moving into a place downtown. There's room for you. It's not far from the Board of Trade. I bet my uncle could get you a job there. We could walk to work. And we could do music whenever we want.”

Benny thought about the gray walls of his parents' apartment, the worn-out overstuffed chairs. The smell of soup that lingered in his clothing. He wanted to go, but he couldn't. Benny was still his parents' son. “I'll think about it,” he said. “I promise I will.”

“Thinking about it means you aren't going to do it.” Moe shook his head of dark curls that had thinned over the years. “You'd be welcome…We never did leave town, did we, Benny? But we still could, you know.”

Benny nodded. “Yes. Maybe we will.”

“One of these days, right?” Moe jabbed him in the ribs.

“That's right.” Benny jabbed back, and Moe pretended to duck. “One of these days.” The two friends shook hands as if they'd just sealed a business deal. Then Benny strolled along Lawrence Avenue. He breathed in the clean fall air. Above him gulls squawked. He laughed at their raucous sound.

I
t was quiet at the Jazz Palace as Benny walked in. He shouted a hello to Jonah and greeted Pearl at the bar. “The usual?” Pearl asked, giving him a nod.

“That would be swell.” She went into the candy store for his cream soda. “Hot for this time of year, isn't it?” he said as she returned. “Hot or cold, that's Chicago.”

Pearl stood by the door, fanning herself. “Yes, it is.” He took his cream soda and leaned against the lintel. “Maybe that's what's keeping the customers away.” Pearl sighed. Since Benny had been playing here, the place was usually packed. But tonight you could hear a pin drop.

He pressed the cold bottle of soda against his brow. “Let's get some air.” He touched her arm, leading her to the tavern door. She was surprised at how cool, almost clammy, his hands were. There was hardly a breeze as they stood outside. When he spoke, she listened to the lilt in his voice, the familiarity in his eyes. “We've become good friends, haven't we, Pearl?” She drew back as he said this. It wasn't what she wanted to hear.

“Yes, I suppose we have…”

“How old are you, Pearl?”

She was surprised by the directness of his question. “Well, you tell me first. How old are you?” she asked.

“I'm twenty-three. It's easy for me to remember. I'm as old as the century. Now you tell me.”

Pearl had to think about this for a moment, since she'd hardly marked the years. “I'm just twenty,” she said.

Benny laughed. “Oh, I thought you were older than that.”

She winced at this. At times even to herself she seemed older than her years. It was as if she'd had to grow up suddenly and too quickly. She wondered if there wasn't something or someone who could make her young. “Well, you must think I'm an old maid then.”

“No, no. It's just that you seem more grown up.” He patted her hand, then let it go.

She tried to determine if this news disappointed him. “I suppose I am. I've had to grow up fast.” She gazed up at the lintel of the Jazz Palace.

“So have I,” Benny said. “Ever since I lost my brother.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.” Pearl gave him a look of concern. “I didn't know. Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

Benny shook his head. “He got lost in the snow.” He realized that this sounded strange. How could a boy get lost in the snow? “There was a blizzard.” He couldn't bring himself to explain to her about the rope that held his brothers together. How it was his responsibility to make certain the rope was taut.

“It's terrible. I understand,” Pearl murmured. “I lost three.”

“Really? I'd wondered…” He shook his head, following her gaze to the tattered black cloth. “Was it the influenza?”

It was easier to lie. The truth would have required a long explanation. It would have led to pity and sadness. But she decided against it. “No, but they died suddenly. Our mother was never the same.”

He wanted to tell her about Harold's smile. How he'd been the favorite and gotten lost in the snow. He wanted to tell her how he'd tried to save others, that his first dance was in the arms of a dead girl. He had never confided about this to anyone. He wished he could now. He thought perhaps he would, but Pearl put her hand on Benny's arm. “Let's not talk about this,” she said. “It's too sad.”

Benny agreed. “Let's not talk about it again.”

Customers trickled into the Jazz Palace as Napoleon arrived in a new yellow jacket and a cream-colored tie and walked right past Benny and Pearl at the entranceway, tipping his hat. On the bandstand Napoleon whispered into Benny's ear. “I see you're spending time with my night owl.”

Benny nodded. “She's just a friend.”

“Well, you should make her more. She's a strong girl and she's prettier than you think. You gotta look at her right.”

“And how is that?” Benny laughed.

“Don't look at her straight on. That's not her best angle.”

Laughing, Benny shook his head.

“Look at her sideways,” Napoleon said. But Benny didn't know how.

Sitting on the bench, Benny tapped his foot. His pink tongue curled in his mouth, flicked out like a lizard's. He hunched over. His fingers skidded across the keys, then he jabbed at them, the way you might poke at a sleeping beast. He settled into some chords as he found a tune. A quiet came over the saloon, the second silence Pearl had ever heard there—the first when she was a girl of twelve and the sounds of Napoleon's trumpet snuck upstairs and wrapped themselves around her bed.

Pearl froze in midmotion, wiping the bar with a cloth. She tried to put her finger on what she was hearing as she watched him drift into the music. It wasn't just playing that Benny did. It was going away. Even he might have called it that if anyone asked. He went to a different place. He wasn't in the room. He wasn't anywhere. He was gone, lost inside something of his own making. At the bar Pearl caught Napoleon by the arm. “Tell me. Where did he learn to play like that?”

“He's not playing.” Napoleon reached for his horn. “He's howling at the moon.”

Dropping his head, Benny tapped his foot and slipped into a few standards like “St. Louis Blues” and “Wild Boy Stomp.” Then his fingers flashed with his “Small Potatoes” as he got the joint jumping and segued into his newest number, which he called “Satan's Mile.” Once he knew he had them, he quieted the place down with that tune he'd been struggling with. His “Twilight Blue.” He noodled with the opening bars. The tune was hushed as a baby sleeping, and the saloon grew still. He began with the melody in the right hand, and slowly he brought in the left. It was as quiet a melody as anyone had ever heard, and it drifted off so no one was sure where it had gone or if he was done until he stopped.

Benny looked up, blinking like a sleeper in a strange hotel who, startled upon waking, has no idea where he is. His eyes landed on Pearl, who stood behind the bar, and he had a stunned look as his eyes made contact with hers. Her dark hair, her olive skin. The almond
eyes. He looked at her the way a person might if he has just stepped off the edge of a building and realizes his error. She hadn't moved since he began. “That was good,” she said. “That was very good.”

“It was,” Opal chimed.

His eyes rested on the golden-haired girl. “Well, thank you.” There was a twinge of irony in his voice. “It isn't finished.”

“I could tell,” Pearl said, patting her brow with a hankie. “It sort of just goes off, doesn't it? But you'll finish it.” She paused. “I know you will.”

Benny nodded, smiling, as Pearl handed him another cold cream soda. Sweat dripped from his forehead as they edged to the door. She fanned herself with her hand. “It's so hot.”

“That it is.” Benny was wiping his brow.

“Shall we stroll?” she asked. On a whim she slipped her arm through his. His muscles were taut, but his arm quivered as if a part of him could not sit still. He downed his soda, and they walked outside. It was a moonless night and the city was choked under a blanket of stale, humid air. A heaviness hung as they walked to the corner, then continued up the block.

Trash was piled high, and the sidewalk stank of rotting fruit. A trolley clattered by and dust got in their eyes. Their feet moved in a rhythm, one step at a time. This is what happens to people. People who are getting to know each other and share confidences. People who will be in love and destined to be together. Ever since her mother tried to drown her, ever since she'd gotten them back on a streetcar and made her way home, Pearl had to be certain of where she was going. Now, as she walked with her arm through Benny's, she was. “I'm sure I know you from somewhere,” she said.

“It's possible. We could have crossed paths.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I feel as if I know you all.” It wasn't the answer she wanted and he knew it, but it was what came to him.

“I wish my mother were alive,” she said. Pearl rarely thought of her mother and did not really wish she was alive because Pearl had remained afraid of Anna, but now she did. “She'd remember.”

They passed an ice-cream vendor who was closing up his cart, about to head home. “Would you like a cone?” Benny asked.

Pearl laughed. “Yes, I would.”

The vendor raised his scoop. “What flavor?” Benny asked. “Chocolate? Strawberry?”

“Oh, no, not strawberry.” Pearl's throat constricted. “I don't like strawberry.”

Benny shrugged, “Really?” He seemed surprised. He was about to say more but didn't.

“Vanilla,” she said. “I'll have vanilla.”

The vendor dipped into his bins and scooped out a cone for Pearl. He gestured toward Benny, who shook his head, then pushed on, his ringing bell receding in the night. As the cart passed, Pearl licked at her cone. “I've got to eat this fast.” Rivulets slid down her wrist.