Around nine, she walks into the apartment on 135th, past Jeanne, who’s reading on the couch, something in French. Jeanne actually sits up.
“What happened to you?”
“I got beat up.”
Rising, “Who did this thing?” Summoning her upper-crust command, “Answer me, Rose.”
Rose splashes water on her face at the kitchen sink. “Kathleen’s father.”
Jeanne swallows the smallest of canaries. Then slides back into her sweet drawl, “Don’t worry, honey. Momma will make it all better.”
Rose watches as Jeanne heats water on the stove. She sits still while Jeanne dabs at her fat crusty lip. “Poor baby.”
“Don’t you want to know why, Mother?”
“Oh honey, you don’t have to talk right now.”
Jeanne doesn’t comment on the bloodstained bedspread or the trousers peaking out below its fringe. She picks up the phone and cancels tonight’s visitor. She lights candles and lays the table for “a prodigal feast”. She postpones her injection — “The pain is a little better tonight.”
Jeanne sits across from Rose. And eats. She talks with well-bred animation of Rose’s brilliant future. It is as though she had never left Long Island — she can almost feel the phantom servant at her right elbow poised with his crystal decanter.
“You’ll be more celebrated than Portia Washington Pittman, darling.”
Rose does not reply but Jeanne seems not to notice as she enumerates the triumphs that lie ahead: Rose will perform for royalty as did Elizabeth Taylor Greenfield, the Black Swan. She will perform for the president as did Sissieretta Jones, the Black Patti who came so close to singing at the Met. She will play with the greatest orchestras of Europe, and Carnegie Hall will be on its knees, begging. “After all, Rosie, someone’s got to be first and it may as well be you.” Jeanne gives two pats to her lips with her linen serviette. “And Mother will be so proud of you.” She reaches out to squeeze her daughter’s hand. “Not that I’m not proud already, I am, Rosie, you’re my life, you’re all I have left and I love you.” Jeanne gives Rose her most wistful look across the candles. “Really I do, dear.”
“What’s the occasion, Mother?”
Jeanne looks politely baffled. But she’s in too good a mood to dissemble. She is feeling girlish tonight. Positively flirtatious. She shoots Rose a cupid’s-bow smile and leans forward in the candle-light.
“Listen to me, my love. You have more talent in your little finger than twenty Kathleen Pipers, and one day you’ll thank your pauvre petite maman.”
“For what?”
Jeanne winks and lights a cigarette, inhaling with a sly eye on Rose, shaking the match well after the flame has gone out. An Anonymous Well-Wisher.
Rose begins a mental list of things to do and starts with item one, “Who was my father?”
A pained smile from Jeanne — an unfortunate remark from her dinner guest. “Rose, dear heart, you always did love to hear the story —”
“I know the story, I want the truth.”
Jeanne taps her cigarette, arches her brows slightly and sighs, really this is a little tiresome.
“Who was he?”
“He was Alfred Lacroix, darling, as you perfectly well know.”
“And what did he do?”
“He was a preacher, a man of the cloth and a credit to his race.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s in heaven, my treasure.”
The catechism finished, Rose leaves the table. It’s a long list. There is no time to lose.
“Kathleen has gone home, Rose.”
“When’s she coming back?”
“Her father didn’t say.”
“What did she say?”
Giles looks tired. “She didn’t say anything.”
Rose gets up. “I think I left some clothes here.”
“By all means dear, have a look.”
“Did he hurt her?”
Giles looks away. “I don’t know what he did. She wouldn’t speak.”
Rose pauses, momentarily forgetting her errand.
“Rose. Do you need a place to stay?”
“Thank you Giles. I’ll be okay.”
Rose stands in front of the bathroom mirror at home and cuts her hair to the scalp. She changes out of a dress for the last time, wakes up her mother and says, “I’m going now.”
Jeanne takes a while to come out of a bad dream that starts when she opens her eyes. Rose doesn’t wait, just conveys information, “I’ll let you know wherever I’m playing. I’ll send you money every week whether I have it or not. When you die, I’ll come back and live here.”
The road starts at Club Mecca. Sweet Jessie Hogan loves spaghetti and meatballs and beer and sweet young things who tear up the keyboard and don’t know when to stop. A hot blues streak, the twenties.
Until boom goes bust and Rose starts playing her own stuff. Doc Rose. And his trio.
“a garden inclosed is my sister … a spring shut up, a fountain sealed”
THE SONG OF SONGS
When Frances dies it’s safe for Mercedes to put Anthony’s picture on the piano. Framed in filigreed silver, he stands proudly at attention in the uniform and broad trooper’s hat of the Boy Scouts of the Zion African Methodist Episcopal Church. He is still a Catholic.
Mercedes contemplates the cover of the record album in her lap. Frances amassed quite a collection. Ralph Luvovitz sent her one every Christmas and whenever he visited his mother, always the same request. Frances died early this morning. The kitchen counters are still heaped with her baking.
Mercedes never was a big eater and Frances less so. Through the thirties, people came to the kitchen door and carted it away — big stews, pork and beans by the bucket, molasses cookies, oatmeal cookies, date squares, Nellie’s Muffins, Johnny-cake, rhubarb upside-down cake, jellyrolls, pies, blueberry grunt, yards of shortbread, hundreds of tea biscuits. Nowadays there aren’t as many people going hungry but Frances still cooks for an army — Mercedes has had to organize pick-ups by the hospital, the rectory, the convent. Young single miners have been taking care of the rest, wolfing down huge meals, hardly noticing the old girl at the oven with her three cigarettes on the go and her glass of Irish. Frances looked very old at the last, though she took care to henna her hair from time to time.
For twenty years Frances listened to her records. Cooked. Smoked. Drank. Watched the street. Slept on the attic floor. Walked the shore. She no longer walked the Shore Road because it fell into the sea — they’ve replaced it with a paved one that runs a sensible distance from the water, but it’s just not the same. She read newspapers and saved them all. Scared children without knowing. Led home cats. Tried never to change her clothes. Spoke little. And then yesterday she up and said, “Don’t you ever wonder where Lily is?”
And when Mercedes didn’t reply, Frances got up from the sofa in the front room — “Frances, what do you need, dear, I’ll get it.” But Frances made her way to the piano bench and bent down, which made her cough — “Frances, dear, use your hanky” — opened it and took out her newest long-playing record album. She handed it to Mercedes and lay back down on the sofa, exhausted.
Mercedes pushed a blotched tabby off Frances’s chest and looked daggers at a cross-eyed Siamese who never shut up — “Shut up,” said Mercedes. And glanced down at the album cover: Doc Rose Trio, Live in Paris: Wise Child. A handsome black man, the angles of his face reprised by a fedora wound round with a gleaming emerald band.