Sing for Me (3 page)

I nod in their direction. “If that’s the big musical attraction, I’d say we’re a little overdressed.”

“Not quite.” Rob takes my elbow and turns me toward a metal door. A delivery entrance—that’s what it looks like. Then I see the wooden sign across the top, the words painted there in red block letters:
CALLIOPE’S
.

Rob draws me toward the door. “This is
the
place, right up there with the best clubs in town. The Sunset Café, the Royal Gardens, the Apex Club, and Calliope’s—people come from all over to hear music at places like this. Last time I was here, I met a man from France. Another time, a woman from Cuba. And then there was this fellow from India. You should have seen the cut of his jacket—the strangest little collar, but swellegant, I gotta say.” Rob’s voice rises with excitement. “Oh, Laerke, you’ll love it here. The musicians may not be Mahalia Jackson, but they’re their own kind of heaven-sent.”

With that, he opens the door and pulls me inside.

Here’s what I know about bars, clubs, dens of iniquity: nothing.

Well, I do know this. I know that up until just four years ago, in 1933, a place like Calliope’s wouldn’t have existed. Not out in the open, anyway. Prohibition would have pushed it underground.
A place like this would have only been found behind a locked door guarded by thugs with guns. Rob and I would have needed a password to get inside. We would have needed to know someone, the wrong kind of someone. We would have put our lives on the line—or, at the very least, our clean police records.

Prohibition never should have ended, that’s what Mother and Pastor Hoirus say. Teetotaling temperance. That’s what’s best for everyone. Dad remains quiet when this subject comes up, but then, Mother’s the Baptist. Dad just drops us off at the church entrance and picks us up when the service is over. And he frequently smells like he’s had a little nip of something Mother would like to prohibit in between.

Regardless of Mother’s and Pastor’s wishes, temperance is clearly a thing of the past. That’s the first thing I realize, taking in this place. The smell! No, Dad carries the smell of liquor; this place reeks. It reeks of all that’s spilled and sticky beneath my Mary Janes. Stale beer, musky whiskey, fruity wine. And all these cigarettes, wafting around my head, and something even more foul that’s wafting . . . cigars! Stinking, hazy wreaths of smoke fill the air.

Rob has brought me to a crowded, noisy, boozy club, and people that aren’t him are pressing up against me, pushing me this way and that, nearly knocking me off my feet. I’m stumbling now, snagging the beaten-down heels of my shoes on the hem of my beautiful dress. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! In front of me, a woman throws back her head, laughing, and a heavily scented lock of her fiery orange hair—lilies? gardenias?—catches in my mouth. I drop my silver satin clutch. The lights spread and smear like melting butter. The woman’s hair slips from my mouth as my legs buckle. I’m going down.

Someone grabs my arm. Rob hoists me up with one hand; with the other, he waggles my purse before my eyes.

“Music swept you off your feet, huh?”

“Music?” I gasp for air, sounding dull and dim-witted. I take the purse from Rob. The silver satin still looks clean. There’s that.

“Listen, Rose!”

All I can hear is the sound of me catching my breath. And now laughter, shouting, clinking glasses and bottles . . . I hear all this, too.

Rob peers at me. “You look pale, even under all that makeup. Don’t worry, though. You still look pretty.”

“I’m not worried.” This comes out faintly because it’s a lie. I try to conjure the sound of Mother’s voice:
All will be well. God is with us
. Instead I hear something else—a reedy piping from somewhere across the crowded room. Lilting notes, a hint of melancholy weaving sinuously through the chaos. It’s a clarinet—an instrument I’ve heard a lot on the radio at the Jewish deli where I get the dark rye bread that Dad likes best. The clarinet’s music makes me think of a wizened man, making his spry way through a difficult world, sometimes stumbling just to get a laugh—or maybe it’s the deli’s owner I’m thinking of, because Mr. Kalman is a lot like that, making his way from day to day. Mr. Kalman sometimes sways to the sound of the clarinet coming from his radio. He moves like a cobra, hypnotized by a snake charmer’s flute, swaying like I’m swaying now.

“You hear it, don’t you?” In his excitement, Rob gives me a little shake. “I told you this music is out of this world. And the band’s not even warmed up yet. Heck, they’re not even all onstage.”

Rob takes his jacket from my shoulders and puts it on. Runs his hands quickly through his hair, taming his curls. Settles the jacket more securely into place to cover his potbelly. Smiles his charming, impish smile, and, smoothing my butterfly sleeves into place, says, “There, now. Perfect. Listen, wait right here, okay? There’s someone I have to find. You’ll be
amazed
who else is here, Rose.”

I blink. Someone I know? Someone who knows me? I reach for Rob’s sleeve, trying to hold him back. “Don’t go!”

But he’s gone.

Alone in the crowd, I sway with the push and pull—not so much cobra now as flotsam or jetsam. I look for the stage, but all I can see are the backs of people’s heads. But I can hear. Oh, I can hear the clarinet lilting up and down a scale. And there’s a low thrum—a bass fiddle being plucked. Two musicians, warming up. Will anyone else join them?

“Excuse me, please.” The man’s voice is low and husky. Even Mother would have to call his tone gentlemanly, never mind that the words were spoken in a bar.

I turn to make way for the man with nice manners, who is right here, standing so close because he has no other choice in this crowd. I meet his eyes, black and almond-shaped with long, thick lashes. I take in his tawny skin, his carefully groomed and glistening black hair.

A black man is standing in front of me, so close I feel warmth emanating from him. His scent is warm, too. It’s a light, bright scent—from cologne, maybe, or fine French soap—that reminds me of nothing so much as sun-warmed lemons. The man must have been trying to get past me to somewhere else, but now he stands very still. As close as can be, he stands,
looking into my eyes. And never mind what’s right and wrong, assumed or forbidden, he doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about the fact that I’m a white woman and he’s a black man. A handsome man. A very handsome man who also happens to be black. As close to me as can be.

My skin prickles with some emotion I can’t put a name to.
Fear
. I try that on for size, but it doesn’t fit.
Embarrassment
. Nor that.
Recognition
is the word that comes to mind, though that’s not a feeling, is it? It’s an experience. I’m having an experience of recognition, standing face-to-face with this man. An experience that makes sneaking out of the apartment and setting foot in this club seem like minor experiences by comparison.

The man looks swiftly away from me, then back again. Surprise—no, astonishment flashes across his face.
Yes, it’s her. She’s still here.
He recognizes me, too. He bows slightly.
Hello again
, he might as well be saying. He’s wearing a tuxedo, I realize, as he runs a long, dark finger under his crisp white collar. He swallows. The muscles of his throat, his Adam’s apple, rise and fall beneath his skin.
Beautiful.
My mouth has gone dry, my face hot. “Oh,” I say for no reason I can think of, no reason at all. Pink must be flooding my warm face. Or maybe my face is the same color red as my be-still-my-beating heart lips, as my heart, for that matter, which is thudding so hard now in my chest it’s all I can do to keep from looking down to see if this far-too-low-cut neckline is rising and falling with each beat. But his gaze holds mine. I don’t look anywhere but into his eyes.

“My,” I say, which seems to mean nothing and everything at the same time.

He nods, agreeing. “Yes,” he says, confirming once and for all. He leans closer yet, so that his lemon-scented warmth becomes summer’s heat. “Miss . . .?”

How can he be so brave, so bold, so foolish, so familiar? How can I be so glad that he is all these things, and surely more?

“Sorensen,” I say.

“Miss Sorensen.” He nods again, his thanks this time, and his nose nearly bumps against mine. Then—impossible though it seems in this crowd—he slips easily past me. As he does, his elegant fingers graze my left wrist.
Summer’s heat.
His touch burns even after he disappears into the crowd. I stare after him, though there’s nothing to see but other people.

And this is when the mixed-up nature of this place finally reveals itself to me, and I suddenly understand the
how
of him. There are as many black folks as white folks in this club. Some of them are sharing tables. One couple—a white man and a black woman—are sharing a drink. The man holds the thin green straw as the woman leans close to sip from it. Another couple, a black man and a white woman, test out dance steps together.

I taste waxy lipstick, then the iron tang of blood. I’m biting my lip, and far too hard. I clench my hands instead.

My parents have always made sure that we stayed out of colored neighborhoods. We’ll take the long way if we have to, to pass such places and their people by. On the rare occasions when Mother sees a black man approaching, she makes me cross over to the other side of the street. If Dad sees such a person, he’s likely to do the same, and then make an ugly joke at the person’s expense.

I duck my head so swiftly that the mother-of-pearl barrettes loosen in my hair. I can set them back into place, but I can’t shake off this sudden sense of shame.

Someone bumps into me with a grunt. Another pair of hands gives me a solid shove, and a man growls, “Move it or lose
it, twit.” So much for good manners. So much for waiting for my cousin. So much for being inhibited by so many things, but especially, in this moment, by my shame. It’s time to get out of the heavy traffic.

Using my silver satin purse as a small shield, I push and shove my way to a row of tall stools flanking a wall. Miraculously, a stool is empty. I carefully smooth out the back of my dress and perch on the cushioned seat. I can see the stage from here. There are the musicians, gathering beneath the spotlights, and among them—well, there he is. I’d recognize him anywhere. The man who knows my name though I don’t know his. The man whose brief touch still lingers, hot on my wrist.

He’s a musician.

He’s testing out the keys on an upright piano. His fingers fly up the octaves, the notes flaring like the flames on Rob’s matches. Now his fingers descend, the notes cascading like drops of water. The man’s younger than the other band members, not much older than me, probably. But he’s playing like a seasoned professional.

There are four men total in the band. Two of them black, two of them white. That must explain the band’s name, the Chess Men, stenciled in black letters across the white face of the bass drum. A portly white bassist twirls his fiddle in a neat circle, then dips it low as he might a female dance partner, teasing laughter from the audience members flanking the stage. And the ash can drummer, the swarthy fellow in the red-and-black checkered hunting jacket (swapped now for a black tuxedo, though he still wears the red-and-black checkered cap on his head), he’s up there, too, hunkered down behind his drum kit. He flings off his cap now, and his bald head shines pinkly in the
spotlights as he whisks a brush across a snare. And there’s the licorice-whip-thin clarinetist, with salt-and-pepper gray hair and skin nearly the ebony color of the instrument he’s playing.

And there’s the man I’d recognize anywhere.

“Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”—that’s the song he’s playing. One by one, the drummer, the bassist, and the clarinetist join in. The song’s a hit this winter. I hear it all the time, wafting through other people’s open windows, and up and down store aisles. Though a cigarette will never touch my lips, still I sing this smoky song when I’m alone, or I think I’m alone, only to find Rob listening at the window. I close my eyes now, and I hear the forbidden melody clear as can be in spite of the noise all around:

They asked me how I knew,

My true love was true

“Know this one?”

My eyes fly open. It’s Rob, holding two glasses filled with ice and water.

“I think I may have heard it before.” My attempt at nonchalance comes out forced.

Rob winks and hands me a glass. I am thirsty, I realize. Not only has all this smoke gotten in my eyes, it’s coated my throat, too. I take a long drink, then sputter and spit as the liquid sears the roof of my mouth, my tongue, the back of my throat, the pit of my stomach.

“Whoa! Take it easy on that gimlet. They go heavy on the vodka here, light on the lime.”

Rob’s laughing. Now his laughter splits in two, and through the blur of my watery eyes, I see who’s standing beside him.

Zane Nygaard, the Great White Hope of the Danish Baptist Church. Zane, the fellow every fellow wants to be. The fellow every gal wants to date, including me when I let myself think that way, which is rarely. Zane, with his strong Viking features, his wavy, white-blond hair, his ice-blue eyes, his perfect physique—except for his bum left leg. Afflicted with polio as a child, Zane’s got a slight limp, but somehow he makes that limp seem jaunty, an asset to his style.