“Now, you know I love your mom, but I’ve got my own life to live. I can’t be spending the rest of my days playing nursemaid to her.”
Indignation spiked. “Mom took care of you while you were little girls, after your own mother died.”
“That may be true, but I got a beauty shop to run and bills to pay.” She looked him up and down. “You’re a grown man. You can take care of your mama now.”
Morgan glanced around to see if anyone was listening. There was a nurse at the other end of the room, fluffing the pillows under another patient’s head. Morgan pitched his voice down a level. “I can’t afford to put Mom in a home. It’s going to cost hundreds, if not thousands of dollars.” He brought his voice even lower. “But the good news is, I’m about to make it big.”
His aunt laughed, sharp and loud. “You realize how many jazz players I know who swear they’re going to make it big?”
“I’m different. Miss Ella Fitzgerald asked me to join her band.” His lie held an overwhelming urgency. “I’ll have more than enough money to take care of Mom, and...” It was his turn to look her over. “...you, for that matter.”
“Boy, are you hearing yourself? You almost lost your mom tonight. You think you’re just going to run off and play your trumpet and leave me here to take care of everything?”
“I didn’t lose her, and now I gotta be able to make sure she’s taken care of. That takes money. Look, how else am I going to pay for it? I don’t make enough sweeping floors at Mallard’s Grocery. And I only make three dollars a night at Charles’s, which is the most any music joint pays in Five Points. But if I were in Ella Fitzgerald’s band, I’d have enough to pay for everything.” Not to mention, he’d be able to do the very thing he loved most... play jazz all day and night.
Beatrice harrumphed. “All right, say I help you out, but I can only do a few days, tops. I have a little bit tucked away, and Marlene can run the shop for me. You still need to get things set up with that home. And you’re going to have to pay me back.”
Morgan wrapped the woman in a bear hug. “Thank you, Aunt Bea. You’ll see. It’ll all work out.”
“You better hope so.” She draped her stole around her neck, then paused before turning to leave. “If I were you, I’d pray for a miracle.”
His aunt’s words played over in his mind. He did need a miracle, because there was no gig with Miss Fitzgerald. It could have happened though. He was sure as the shine gleaming off his brass. One time, Dizzy Gillespie heard B.C. Hobbs laying down chords on his sax, and the next thing you knew, B.C. had a train ticket to New York.
All Morgan needed was to get his opportunity back.
Folks would probably say he was being naïve, that he had plenty of time to do his thing. But life was short. His father’s early death and his mom’s stroke proved that. And when it came to making it in the music biz, you got one shot. Lose it and, well, the public would move on to the next cat who could blow. If he didn’t seize this now, he’d be stuck playing dives in Five Points for the rest of his life.
Morgan spent an unrestful, fretful night at his mother’s bedside. He left the hospital the next morning without bothering to go home. Instead, wearing the same but now wrinkled suit, he stood in front of the Revival Church on Stout Street. His mother’s church. Not the more popular Shorter AME Church, where according to his mother the women were snooty.
Trumpet still in hand, Morgan stared at the tall-steepled, white clapboard building he hadn’t stepped in since he was a teenager. For years, his mother harped on him about how he needed to have the Lord Jesus in his life. And if there was any time Morgan needed the ear of God, it was now. He went inside and took a seat in the back row.
Recognizing Morgan, Deacon Bennett, an elder of the church, slowly shuffled over. “Young man, we heard about your mother. So sorry.”
Morgan shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
A few other members approached Morgan with their well wishes and prayers for Sister Marshall.
Morgan remembered how when he first pulled the trumpet from the trash, he would practice behind Rose’s back, while she was at work at the Deep Rock water facility, until one day she came home early and caught him. She beat his ass something good, though she conceded he was his daddy’s son and trumpet playing was in his blood. She said, “But you need to be careful and be willing to pay the price.”
Morgan was willing, all right, but the price would not be his mom. He had to make sure she got better. And because he didn’t subscribe to her superstitious nonsense, he would prove to her that he wasn’t playing the devil’s horn.
Pastor Green droned on with his sermon, but said one thing that caught Morgan’s attention: “...and let us remember what it says in James, chapter four, verse ten: Humble yourself before the Lord, and He will lift you up.”
Soon, the choir sang in joyful praise of the gospel, the congregation clapped with fervor, and the collection baskets made their way up and down the pews.
Pastor Green intoned, “Open your hearts and your wallets for the church’s fundraiser for a new roof. Come thee and help the Lord as the Lord has helped all of thee. Amen.”
The plate reached Morgan, and he rifled through his pockets, dropping in a dollar. The basket overflowed with coins and bills. Three more baskets circulated, then at the end, Deacon Bennett and another man poured them all into one large basket.
The church, Morgan thought, was not unlike a nightclub. Money coming in hand over fist.
That’s right! Charles wore tailored suits and lived in an expensive house. Cash flowed into the Silver Sax like the South Platte River into the Missouri River. Why didn’t he think of it before? Charles had helped their family from time to time, when Rose would accept it. Milton had been Charles’s best friend, and Charles said he felt a duty to look after Milton’s family.
Charles would help, of course he would.
And after Morgan hit the big time, he would pay Charles back... with interest.
Morgan staggered out of the church in desperate need of food and sleep. But he didn’t stop for either. He made a beeline to Charles’s. When he turned the corner at the end of California Street, the tension left him. Charles’s car was parked in front of his house. Morgan hurried up the walk and let himself in. Nobody locked their doors in the neighborhood.
Charles was sitting at his kitchen table, going over some paperwork. When he saw Morgan, he stood, putting a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “You look like you haven’t been home. I’m mighty sorry for your loss, son.”
“Well, there’s good news. The doctors were able to save her.” Morgan set his horn on the table, bell down, and took a seat. He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and took a bite.
Charles returned to his seat. “That’s wonderful. I’m happy to hear it.”
“But the doctor isn’t sure if she’s going to fully recover.”
“Damn. I’m sorry. She’s a good woman.”
“But that’s not the worst of it. She’s going to need long-term care, and I can’t afford it right now.”
Charles shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh. “I want to help you, Morgan, but money is tight these days.”
Morgan leaned forward in his chair, the apple forgotten in his hand. “But what about the nightclub?” He hurried on: “And I’m not asking for charity. It’ll be a loan until I’m able to pay you back.”
“It’s not that, son. I know you would. But the Silver Sax has been losing money for months. I’m barely staying afloat.” He indicated the piles of papers on his table. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to keep paying the staff and keep the lights on.”