CHAPTER 1
Modecai Ulysses Jefferson was a jazz musician. There was nothing wrong with him being a jazz musician, but what was wrong was that Modecai composed jazz music at four thirty in the morning and Miss Tallulah Brown, his landlord, who lived at 10 Mulberry Street in Way City, Alabama, had asked Modecai (politely) to leave. In other words, he was being tossed out of his apartment with the overwhelming support and appreciation of his fellow tenants, who'd had enough of Modecai Ulysses Jefferson and his four-thirty-in-the-morning music!
Benny's Pit looked like a typical southern greasy spoon restaurant that had died and gone to hell.
"Delores, let me plop an extra mound of potatoes on that plate of yours!"
Plop!
How did Benny know? Delores Bonet thought. Is it that obvious to everyone? He's come in here five times now, and five times I've taken his order—but why shouldn't I, come to think of it? I'm the only waitress in Benny's Pit.
Tell me, what do my eyes do? Jump through hoops when I see him? Or do somersaults? Don't tell me, because if they do, they'd better stop, and fast!
He always looks like he's in a struggle, though, doesn't he? He always looks like he's a brush or two away from a disaster. It's like the world's about to crumble in on him at any given minute if—oh well, I'd better get over to his table before the poor guy's food gets cold or, worse, he starves to death.
Listen, tonight I'm going to ask him his name. He knows mine, right? Dee. When he asked me, I told him Dee, Dee Bonet, not Delores Bonet, but Dee. Only Benny calls me Delores around here anyway. I guess he's trying to give this greasy spoon joint some class.
"Here you are. Guess you thought I'd never get back over to you with your order."
"Uh-uh, Dee, not at all; you're good at your job."
"Pork chops, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, greens, and ... what—what's your name?"
"Oh, uh, Modecai." Modecai's knife sliced through the tender pork chop on his plate.
"Modecai? Why, I never would've guessed that, not in a millions tries."
"It's what my dear mother and father stuck me with, all right: Modecai Ulysses Jefferson."
"Modecai's a nice name, uh, though, Modecai."
"I like it." Modecai was talking with a mouth crammed full of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and buttered corn on the cob. "Even though my older brother's name is Charles."
"Oh, so you got the short end of the stick, not Charles?"
"Yes, the short end. But who's complaining? It grows on you after a while—if you let it."
"Delores, order's coming up!" Benny yelled from behind the counter.
"Be right there, Benny."
"Tell me, Dee, why does he call you Delores when everyone else calls you Dee, including me?"
"Class, Modecai. Benny probably thinks `Delores' has a ring of class to it. Sounds, you know, better than Dee."
Cautiously, Modecai's brown eyes looked up at Dee. "Suppose I call you Delores, would you mind?"
"No, uh, not at—"
"Delores!"
"Be right there, Benny."
Modecai wanted to wink at her but thought better of it. He'd wink at a Dee but not a Delores. Besides, he wouldn't want to give her the impression he was coming on to her, in any way flirting with her.
Modecai's table was cleared of its mess.
Off in the corner of Benny's Pit, someone had dropped a nickel in the jukebox. A blues harmonica sounded like it held someone's fate in it like a muddy cup. The harmonica was singing like a Mississippi swamp mosquito that'd outgrown someone's thumb. It'd sting them if they got too close to it, that blood-fattened mosquito, so it was best to let it stay right where it was, singing in the tall, slack, lazy green grass, right at the edge of the mud-thick riverbank.
Modecai had come into Benny's Pit with a folded newspaper (the Way City News) sticking out his back pocket. He'd spread it across the table (half of it, at least). The paper, along with his glass of lemonade, took up most of the table's space.
He had to find a place to stay, didn't he? An apartment. Yesterday he wrote music for the entire day. Today, he thought for the entire day. He had the mind of a philosopher today and that of a musician yesterday. Way City, Alabama, was by no means a big city. Way City wasn't New York City or Chicago or—it was a small city, a rural town, for the most part, and how many places in Way City were there for a colored person to stay? For a colored person to rent out a room? The odds were stacked against him, big time.
But my days with Miss Brown are numbered, and I've got to find ... there's got to be something in this newspaper for me. Some room vacancies somewhere. I've only been in Way City for two months, so I don't know too many places around here. But I have to think the rents go for about the same rate. I don't think there's too much difference from one place to the other. What, Miss Brown has six tenants in her apartment building, three to a floor. From what I've seen in the two months I've been here, Miss Brown's apartment is the biggest one on this side of town. I hope I'm not being thrown out a luxury building, because if I am I don't want to see the next building that could be in my future. Man, not for the life of me!
"Uh, Modecai, what are you smiling about, may I ask?"
And since another nickel had been dropped into the jukebox, and since it was two blues guitars dueling like two wild cats' fur flying on a bandstand, Modecai's ears hadn't heard what Delores had said.
"Uh, Delores, could you—"
"The music—"
"It's loud!"
Delores turned down the jukebox.
Modecai was relishing Delores's smile, something he thought was sexy about her too. It was a small smile on a small, dark face. But it was a smile big enough to light up a small room the size of the one they were in now, in Benny's Pit, with tremendous sex appeal.
When she got back over to the low-standing table, she saw the newspaper spread across it.
"Modecai, are you looking for a room to rent?"
Modecai's eyes shot straight up from the newspaper. "Yes, I am."
"Where are you staying now?"
"Over at 10 Mulberry—"
"Miss Tallulah Brown's then? So why's she—"
"Tossing me out my apartment? I make too much noise."
"You! Now that I can't believe. Heh. Heh." Delores laughed nervously. "You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"
"It's my music," Modecai said, strumming the table with his fingers. "Uh, you see, Delores, I'm a jazz musician."
"Modecai, I can't imagine your music making noise, ever." Her ears had taken note of how Modecai's fingers were strumming the table.
"Lookit, Delores, not at four thirty in the morning!" Pause. "Uh, it's noise then to most civilized people in the world—not music."
"So, uh, so why ... why do you play your, uh ..."
"Jazz music?"
"So early in the morning?"
"I must."
"Must?"
"I'm a composer. I write music. I hear music every second of the day. Honest I do."
"Right now? This instant? While I'm standing here? While we're talking?"
"Every second, like I said."
Delores's eyes paid even more attention to the Way City News on top the table.
"Maybe I can help you out of your fix."
"You—how?"
"In the building where I live, there's a vacancy." Delores felt her notepad loosening from her hips, so she adjusted it before it bopped off to the floor. "Two rooms and a bath."
"It's ... why it's better than what I've got over on Mulberry, that's for sure. Is the rent, is it reasonable ...?"
"It's a few dollars more. But it's worth it."
"But, uh, how much is a few dollars more in your vocabulary?"
"About six to seven dollars more a month."
Modecai seemed to be pondering the situation—actually doing more addition than subtraction.
"Can you afford that much, Modecai?"
"Uh, yes, I can—think I can, uh, fit it into my monthly allowance," Modecai laughed. "Even though it's already as tight as a shoe box."
"Oh, I forgot to tell you where I live. It's 9 Taylor Street. Know where it is in town?"
"No. Uh, near where?"
"Near here. It's ..."—Delores angled her finger south—"over in that direction."
"How far is your finger actually point—or better still, how far, would you say, is it from Mulberry Street?"
"Oh ... about half a mile, at least ..."
"Good." An upbeat smile slipped over Modecai's face. "Miss Brown and her tenants are sure not to hear my piano at four thirty in the morning. Not from there!" Pause. "Thanks, Delores. A lot."
"Don't mention it, Modecai."
"But one thing," Modecai said cautiously, "I come with a piano. I don't travel alone. By myself, sorry to say."
"It's how the noise comes into play?"
"I carry a piano on my back."
"Modecai, don't worry, it'll fit in your room okay. So you can take it off your back anytime you want."
"If the apartment's available."
"Don't worry, I'll call Mr. Cankston now. Purvis Cankston. He's the landlord. How's that?"
"Oh fine. Here, Delores," Modecai said, handing Delores a nickel for the phone call.
"Thanks. It'll just take a second."
Was he ever relieved. His hands were in his pockets and a tune was in his throat as he walked up Bailey Street like a king of hearts. Sometimes Modecai did feel out of place—how about corny. He was a daydreamer, someone who always heard things, sounds, distant harmonies and rhythms and stories not yet told. I'm hearing the moon as it smiles, even if last night was when it visited me while I slept; and the wind whistles wildly like a witch on a broom sweeping across my sheets. I hear the morning's sun spur me awake and tell me to rise, get up so I can go about the world and do great, great things.
Loose change down in a pocket sounds like cymbals clashing, or sometimes an orchestra playing out of tune, but it's music, always a song to my ears. And it's everywhere: in a cough, one, two, three coughs; in a sigh, short or long—a note, then notes—tracing something on the periphery in the ear, catching fire, filling my head and heart and the blank page, making my pencil move fast, quick, at top speed, my mind racing into darkness, only to see light again, a flame burst open and the song's mine, the tune, crackling, then controlled, then contained, yes, mine, suddenly and happily, thrilling me like a fresh scent of spring from head to toe.
Modecai had to take a huge breath just thinking about it on Logan Street in Way City, Alabama—that, Delores, and renting an apartment at 9 Taylor Street from Purvis Cankston, he hoped, with all his heart.
CHAPTER 2
Modecai found Jake the moving man. (Hallelujah!) It was never hard finding Jake in Way City, Alabama, so it seemed. And the moving price for the piano going down the three flights of stairs was the same price for it going up three flights of stairs: three dollars. And then, of course, there was moving the piano into 9 Taylor Street, which meant two flights up, but Jake still charged three dollars even if it was short one floor!
Modecai sat in the room's shadows as the day shifted through another brilliant color in the sky.
Knock.
"Delores?
"It's me, Modecai."
He was dressed. It represented the whole nine yards of being "dressed."
Delores was expected.
"Good evening, Delores."
"Modecai, a red tie?"
"Do you approve or disapprove?"
"You are looking in my eyes, aren't you?"
"Then, uh, you most certainly approve."
Delores entered the apartment.
"Modecai, is this what it means to be a jazz musician too?"
"My room—uh—I need a housekeeper, don't I? Someone to clean up my mess."
"Your music's—"
"Everywhere. All over the place."
"I thought by now, after a week ..."
"Why, it's been a week already?"
"You'd be settled in."
"Uh-uh," Modecai said, shaking his head, earnestly, hopelessly. "Uh-uh, not me, Delores. I wouldn't know what to do if my room wasn't weighted down with music, music, music. Everywhere. If I had to look at a neat, uncluttered room, I think it would kill me, or at least offend my senses."
"Well, as they say, to each his own," Delores said, seemingly indulgingly. "But as for me, I—"
"You're as neat and precise as the dress you're wearing."
Modecai liked the look of Delores's body (what was there not to like about her body?). Delores had what would could be considered a V-shaped waist, solid legs, nice-sized breasts, a backside round and fully packed (as they say), and, well, that should cover it, the waterfront— shouldn't it?
All of this beautiful black body was in a black dress. All of Delores looked like a black plum, juicy and sweet to the core.
Modecai strummed his suspenders as if there were a song in them; his pant bottoms kind of bounced above his shoestrings in perfect tune.
Delores winked at Modecai as if ready for anything tonight, anything in the way of fun and adventure.
* * *
Lights, what damned lights!
A person could barely see a crystal chandelier in Charlie's C-Note Club. It was darker in this room than the bottom of a dresser drawer.
"Uh, can you see all right, Delores?"
"I can hear you, Modecai, b-but can't see you. Really see you."
Delores groped for Modecai's hand like she was down inside a coal miner's shaft.
"Come on, Delores, it's not that bad."
Delores's hand had located Modecai's hand and was holding onto it for what appeared for dear life.
"Uh, is this how musicians live, Modecai?" Delores asked with apparent wonder. "Without electricity? Like in the Dark Ages? With all the lights turned off?"
"Uh, can't afford electricity, Delores. We jazz musicians, as you call us, have to make out the best we can without it. Fumble in the dark. Yep, we jazz musicians."
"The music's good," Delores remarked. "I really do like it. How it sounds. I—"
"Uh, Delores, but you really have to listen to it. You really do."
Delores laughed to herself—she got the subtle hint.
Her hand stayed on top Modecai's.
As the music played, Modecai's hand warmed. At first it was barely perceptible to Delores, but soon, after a while, it was if it'd been transformed into a hot, steamy radiator almost too dangerous to touch.
These guys are good, Modecai had repeated more than once to himself.
Delores did like the music. It was good music. Delores was a rhythm and blues gal herself.
"Pardon me. Be right back."
The bathrooms (men's and women's) were off to the rear, but Modecai was heading up to the bandstand. The four musicians were on break. The houselights in Charlie's C-Note Club were turned on.
Shortly, Modecai was back at the table.
"Everything's copacetic."
"Oh, right," Delores said as if she'd entered into a magic, enshrouded, coded world of jive talk.
"Right, copacetic as you say, Modecai." Delores winked. "Copacetic."
The houselights dimmed, and then the solid wall of black was back in a snap.
The band was back and had played for a while, and then Modecai stood. Delores, she was expecting Modecai to head to the back where the bathrooms (men's and women's) were for sure, this time.
"Excuse me," Modecai said, bending over, whispering into Delores's right ear.
And for some inexplicable reason, Delores saw Modecai's red tie, but not his white shirt, in the dark.
"Psssst ..."
"The bathroom, Modecai?"
"Pssst ... no, Delores, the bandstand."
Modecai slid his long, thin frame like a sylph into the darkened space.
Delores didn't understand this, was dumbfounded, in fact. Why was Modecai going up to the bandstand? What for? To do what? And what if the musicians up there didn't take kindly to him up there with them, because colored folk in Way City, Alabama, had a predilection for fistfights and knife fights over much less than what Modecai was doing, approaching the bandstand—much, much less, Delores thought, worriedly.
But when Modecai got to Charlie's C-Note's bandstand, the piano player stood up, and Modecai sat down in his place on the piano stool.
To Delores, it seemed perfectly timed, as if Modecai and the piano player were wired by invisible puppet strings that someone timely jerked.
Delores listened to the music. It's what Modecai had told her to do, listen to the music.
Play, Modecai! Play your piano, man!
