“Morgan, I’ve got something to tell you.”
Morgan shook his head. “No, you’re not taking my chance. I have been waiting for something like this all my life.”
“Your Aunt Beatrice called. You’re needed at the hospital.”
Morgan furrowed his brow and shook his head. “I don’t believe you.” He turned away from Charles.
But Charles jumped onto the bandstand and grabbed Morgan’s shoulder. “Son, your mother had a heart attack. She’s dying.”
For a second, a horrible-terrible-Lord-please-forgive-me second, Morgan didn’t care. He looked around the stage and out at the full house. All those people waiting to hear Lady Ella, and he, Morgan Marshall, was going to play his trumpet with her. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to distinguish himself, not live under the shadow of his father, and possibly his only chance to join the Great Lady’s band. He ran a calloused finger over the initials MM etched around the mouthpiece on his trumpet. The engraving originally stood for Milton Marshall, but now it was for Morgan.
He gritted his teeth and pressed, released, and pressed his fingers along the trumpet keys. His throat constricted, and he willed frustrated tears not to appear.
“You going to be all right, son?” Charles gripped Morgan’s shoulder tighter, his eyes shining with sympathy and pity. If anyone knew what Morgan felt right now, it would be Charles. He was the one who’d brought the trumpet to Denver ten years ago, after Morgan’s dad died in Harlem — shot on stage when a fight broke out in the audience. Milton Marshall had been gaining notoriety with his brass in New York and sending money to Rose, Morgan’s mother, every week — until one day, it stopped. Instead, a Mr. Charles Xavier Lewis, saxophonist and best friend to Milton, showed up on their doorstep. He gave Rose the trumpet, but she threw it away, saying, “I always told Milton that he was playing the devil’s horn and one day the devil would collect his due.”
Morgan had fished the horn out of the trash and taught himself to play it. He was ten years old then and had been playing ever since. After all these years, he was finally going to be heard and acknowledged in his own right, and not only as Milton’s boy. People would know him, Morgan Marshall, the best damn jazz trumpeter coming out of Five Points.
A hard freeze of deep, unabiding shame iced his veins. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? All he could think about was himself. His big break, while his mom lay dying, could have already passed away, for all he knew. What kind of selfish son was he?
And yet... was his mom right? Had he been playing the devil’s horn and now the devil was coming to collect his due? But instead of coming for Morgan, the devil was going to take Rose?
No. Morgan wouldn’t allow himself to believe that ridiculous claptrap.
He looked out at the crowd one more time, absorbing the energy. He brought his gaze back to the stage. Miss Fitzgerald conversed with Henry at the piano. A soul-crushing envy squeezed his heart. “Yes, yes, of course, I need to go.”
He jumped down from the stage and shoved his way through the crowd. He glanced back over his shoulder. Miss Fitzgerald had taken hold of the mike and the crowd cheered. The opening rendition of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” filled the room, another trumpet taking the lead. Morgan clenched his jaw. Tommy.
Miss Fitzgerald crooned out the first few lines and her voice followed Morgan onto the street. A bustle of people loitered outside and still, he could hear that voice, and worst of all, the trumpet accompaniment. His fingers played along the keys on the horn in his hand. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined he was on the stage right now. Right there beside Miss Fitzgerald, and she’d turn her head, giving him an encouraging smile as she sang her words.
The chill wind bit him. He shivered and opened his eyes. He’d forgotten his coat and trumpet case. But he refused to retrieve them. He didn’t want to see the Lady on stage and know he was that close to being up there with her. Instead, he headed south down Welton Street. The snowfall increased, and strands of Miss Fitzgerald’s haunting voice faded behind him.
He strode past the multitude of shops and businesses on Welton, most of them shuttered because the night belonged to the bars, nightclubs, and after-hours joints. Pedestrians flowed around Morgan, bundled up for the cold Colorado weather. Men sported camel coats and overcoats, women were clad in furs and tweed swing coats, and all wore hats from fancy to plain. Nobody paid attention to the forlorn, coatless young man clutching a trumpet.
Morgan reached the corner of Twenty-sixth and Welton. Across the street, a crowd of people stood in line at the entrance to the Rossonian Hotel. Mostly white folks, a lot of them venturing into the area to hear jazz and rub shoulders with the greats. They could afford the cover charge and were let in first. Louis Armstrong, a Five Points favorite, stayed there a few weeks back, and people couldn’t get enough. Morgan didn’t understand what the fuss was about him anyway. Morgan vowed he was going to be even bigger than Armstrong. And he could, if he joined Miss Fitzgerald’s band and made a name for himself.
A Ritz cab drove past, and Morgan let out a loud whistle, flagging it with his free hand. The cab slammed the brakes, sliding in the slush. Morgan jogged over, opened the back door, and jumped inside. To the cabbie, he said, “Denver General.” The vehicle continued south and took him to the hospital, where his mother lay waiting.
Morgan’s aunt pounced on him when he stormed through the hospital doors. She was dressed to the nines in a clingy satin dress. A mink stole from one of her many suitors dangled from her arm. Her makeup immaculate, her hair done up right, but the scowl on her face would have any of those men retreating right back out the door. “What took you so long?”
Morgan’s heart paused midtempo. Was he too late? “Did she—?”
“No.” Her annoyance softened. “They stabilized her, but it doesn’t look good.” She took his hand and led him to the ward where his mother rested.
An almost grayish hue tainted Rose’s light-skinned complexion. In the overbleached sheets and gray woolen blanket, she looked so tiny.
The hard soles of Morgan’s shoes made a dull echo on the disinfected linoleum floor. He took his mother’s hand in his. It looked washed out against his own darker skin. “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m here now.”
Footsteps approached. A doctor walked over and retrieved the clipboard hanging from Rose’s bed frame. He consulted the pages, then addressed Morgan and his aunt: “I’m Doctor Alwin, the physician in charge.”
“What happened to my mom?”
“She had a stroke, which led to temporary heart failure. The good news is, she’s going to make it.”
Relief crescendoed over Morgan like the triumphant end to an otherwise sad melody, while a cold bitterness roiled beneath. He could’ve played a song with Ella! The heat of reprehensible shame burned his face and neck.
The doctor continued: “But it’s going to be a painstaking recovery. She’s going to need long-term care.”
“What do you mean by long-term?”
“It all depends. It could be months, but sometimes it can take a year or more.”
“Years?” Morgan stood aghast.
“Not necessarily, but she will need to be moved to a nursing home so she can have around-the-clock care. We can recommend one that takes colored folks.”
A hard pit formed in Morgan’s stomach. He wouldn’t be able to afford that. But he needed to do something, otherwise his dream of traveling and playing jazz would disappear.
After the doctor left, Morgan turned to his aunt. “What are we going to do?”
She wrinkled her immaculate brows. “We?”
Stunned, Morgan stammered, “Well, yeah. We’re family. She’s your sister.”