“Today is a step forward for our city...”
David nodded at Río as he handed her his pocketknife. Lowering the rebozo from her shoulders, Río pricked one of her fingers while hiding her hands within the folds of the shawl. She passed the knife back and, after a few moments, lowered her hand to the earth.
She felt the heartbeat under her sandals.
The masses of brown, bronze, and black bodies rose from the earth as Río’s gaze returned to the blue ribbon before the doors. Thousands of her people surrounded the building, stood among the living, gathered beside, before, and behind the mayor.
Río held David’s hand. She asked him what he saw.
His eyes watered. “We’re closing in.” His breath caught. “We’re all closing in.”
The mayor’s grin flashed. “...we celebrate progress...”
Río ground her teeth, raised her bloody fist, and the ancestors opened their mouths when she opened hers.
Dreaming of Ella
by Francelia Belton
Five Points
All he wanted to play was jazz, and to one day play trumpet to the First Lady of Song’s voice. So when the Miss Ella Fitzgerald walked into the Silver Sax one chilly November night in 1956, Morgan could hardly believe his dream might come true.
It was half past midnight, and the night was still young. Morgan swayed on stage, blowing a hypnotic tune on his trumpet and swinging with the rest of the fellows in the Sax’s house band. Along with his brass, piano and drums, alto and bass, jamming and jiving, thumping and thriving, just another weekend night down in The Points. The Harlem of the West. Welton Street in Denver was your last stop for jazz between St. Louis and California. And Morgan felt electric.
In between songs, Morgan pulled the yellow silk handkerchief from his tan cotton jacket, the best thing about his Sunday suit, and wiped the sweat from his face. Despite the cold outside, the room was sultry and thick with heat and tribal jubilations. Smoke and the aroma of beer hung in the air like fog after a snowstorm.
A smattering of couples sat at the round tables before the bandstand. Men in snazzy suits with carefully knotted ties, ladies in lovely dresses with strings of pearls, talking, laughing, taking sips from glasses of fancy cocktails or bottles of beer. Cigarettes perched on the edge of ashtrays or clasped between fingers, periodic drags producing tendrils of blue haze past parted lips.
A commotion broke out at the entrance, and people craned their necks to see what was happening. One of the bar girls hurried over to where the club’s owner, Charles, spoke with the bartender. He lowered his head so she could put a hand to his ear. Charles’s head snapped up, an incredulous look on his face. He peered over her shoulder as a statuesque woman walked in wearing her quintessential Edwards-Lowell sable coat. Charles rushed over to take it off her shoulders. They exchanged an enthusiastic greeting and hug. The buzz of voices in the club rose in pitch and volume, and Morgan knew what folks were saying without hearing their words.
That was the First Lady, and she had honored the Silver Sax with her presence.
Morgan’s ring finger paused midkey and his horn drifted from his lips. The note he blew hung in the air for the briefest of moments before vanishing from the ether. One by one his bandmates ceased playing.
Any of the greats could have walked into the joint, Duke Ellington, Dizzy Gillespie, Billie Holiday, but tonight it was Lady Ella herself. The woman who took her vocal cues from the horns and made them her own. The woman who Morgan had listened to all his life and dreamed of meeting. The woman who now elicited a silence in the Silver Sax so deep, it commanded spiritual deference.
After an eternal moment, Miss Fitzgerald said, “Don’t stop on my behalf, boys. Keep playing.” Her voice irresistible and smooth. Her smile irrepressible and kind.
Morgan brought his trumpet back to his lips and picked up the notes he’d dropped off. The rest of the fellows followed his lead. There was a new energy flowing in and out of the club until the place burst at the seams with all the people suddenly pouring in.
Word was getting around... Lady Ella was in the Silver Sax.
In all likelihood, she had performed at one of the fancier venues downtown. As famous and revered as she was, however, even she was not allowed to stay in the hotels there. Denver was as segregated as any city down south. Tonight, she would be staying at the Rossonian here in The Points, where all the jazz royalty were welcomed with open arms.
Charles escorted Ella to the high-back cushioned booth seating running the length of the south wall. He instructed the staff to block off the seats around them so Ella wouldn’t be disturbed.
Morgan blew into his horn and his fingers trembled as he pressed down, up, down along the valves. Goose bumps took over his body, knowing Ella was listening to him, and he tried not to stare.
Charles and Ella chatted intently; their heads bowed together. At one point, Charles pointed to the stage, and Ella nodded with a discerning gaze. Her glossy, high-wave bouffant shimmered in the glow from the wall sconce above her head.
When Morgan and the band finished their last song before taking their fifteen-minute break, Charles rose from the table and approached the stage. To Morgan, he said, “Ella likes your chops. I told her you’re Milton’s boy. Me and your father played a couple of times with Ella back in Harlem.”
Morgan knew this. Charles had told him stories on more than one occasion about the jazz greats he and Morgan’s dad had jammed with. It was one of the reasons he wanted to be good as — no, better than — his dad. Morgan not only wanted to play a song with the Queen of Jazz, he wanted to be first trumpet in her band.
Charles beamed as if he were Morgan’s father. “Ella is going to grace us with a song tonight.” He leaned in so that only Morgan could hear. “I also heard she might be in the market for a new trumpet player, so show her what you’re really made of, son.” Charles winked.
Morgan’s knees almost buckled, and he gripped his brass for emotional support. He couldn’t believe it.
“Okay, boys, let’s do this.” Charles clapped his hands and bustled back to the table.
Morgan’s pulse raced through his veins, and he reached under his jacket to pull away the sweaty shirt from his skin.
Tommy grinned from ear to ear. He played multiple instruments, but the saxophone was his baby. “Man, what a night this is turning out to be.”
Ray, on bass, intoned as only an old man could, “Did I ever tell you about the time I got to play with Billie Holiday and she—”
“Yes!” they all chimed together, hooting with laughter.
Ray grumbled, “...young think they know everything.” He chomped on his cigar.
Heart thrumming, Morgan took a deep breath, brought his horn to his lips, but then lowered it. He needed to be smokin’ tonight, because he had only one shot to impress the Lady and be invited to play in her band. One clunker and he was finished. There were too many other cats out there who would swoop in and snatch the prize.
Someone brought the microphone and set it out front.
Larry, the bartender, made his way over to Charles and spoke in his ear. Another whispered conversation, but this time the expression on Charles’s face changed from anticipation and pride to shock. He looked right at Morgan. He took a deep breath and marched forward. The solemnity on his face a frozen mask.
Morgan’s heart sped up to a staccato beat. Was Charles going to pull him from the set to put someone in with more experience? Nothing doing! He was going to play his trumpet for Miss Fitzgerald if it was the last thing he did.