Tambourines to Glory (11 page)

“I expect that kid’s smelled likker before,” growled Buddy.

“But I’m gonna be her ‘Aunt Laura,’ so no bad examples the first day.”

“What are you looking at
me
for?” asked Buddy. “Do I look like a bad example?”

“Doll-baby boy,” purred Laura behind the silky couch on which Buddy lounged, “lean back your head and let me kiss your sugar lips.” Cool records on the victrola, rippling vibes, somebody like Milt Jackson playing “Willow, Weep For Me,” cool, cool, cool, coo-ooo-oo-ol. “Baby-doll!”

“Don’t call me such cute names—I’m not a poodle,” growled Buddy.

Laura clawed him gently on the shoulder. “Tomcat then! Billy goat! Big black bar-stud! Mama’s beautiful bastard!”

“Don’t get me roused up
again
this early in the evening. Unhand me, woman!”

“You sweet old honeycomb of a joker! Tonight’s Saturday—no services for me. But I’m going to bed early so’s to be fresh for
church tomorrow—I love that big funny old theatre we moved into!”

“You look sharp upon that stage, too, sugar—just like a grand piano, as I told you before—full front, streamlined rear.”

“Soon as the backstage painting’s done, I’m gonna take that big dressing room downstairs with the star on it for my robing room. Before it turned to movies, they tell me that house used to be an old vaudeville theatre. Seems like I can still smell make-up. I always did want to be in show business and have myself a dressing room.”

“This church racket beats show business, baby—the way they’re turning all the old theatres in Harlem into churches.”

“You know what Mahalia Jackson says: ‘The church will be here when the night clubs are gone.’ The church is the rock. I reckon me and Essie picked a good rock on which to stand.”

“That Essie’s a little
too
holy and sanctified,” growled Buddy. “Telling me I ought to change my ways! Kid, I’ve been a hustler too long now to be anything else but. And if it hadn’t been for me, Laura, you-all Reed Sisters never would have got that old firetrap of a theatre cleared by the inspector.”

The Scotch stood on the coffee table before them and now Laura was on the silky couch with Buddy.

“I’m glad you know the right people,” she cooed, “in with the politicianers.”

“Connections, sugar, connections! Marty can fix anything. Even in the rackets, a Negro’s got to have a white man to front for him.”

Laura rubbed her thumb and forefinger together indicating money. “I must say, the do-re-mi helped a little too, didn’t it?”

“Greasing palms always helps, kiddo! I could do with a little
change myself tonight—a few Abe Lincolns and some tens. Since you say you’re going to bed early, I might take a hand of poker up at Shoofly’s. How about table stakes?”

“Table stakes?”

“Say, fifty simoleons.”

“Aw, honey, that’s a lot of money to gamble away.”

Buddy shrugged. “I can’t sleep here tonight, so Essie informs me. With that young girl coming, I got to blasé my time away somewhere. Something tells me that kid’s going to be in our way around here, Laura.”

“Essie’s daughter is no kid, Buddy. She’s sixteen.”

Buddy grinned. “Sweet sixteen—but I bet she’s been kissed.”

“Maybe not. Marietta was raised by her grandmother,” said Laura, “and down South they generally raise kids right—not running wild like they do up here in Harlem. God’s been good to Essie, and at last she’ll have her daughter with her. I wonder if that child’ll get off the bus hungry.”

“I don’t know about that child, but me, I could give a steak hell right now—rare, with the blood oozing out.”

“They’ll be here soon, then me and Essie’ll fix dinner. I told her to bring in some groceries. Meanwhile I better get decent and put on a dress, heh? Also let’s put this likker away
right now
, and rinse out the glasses. You do it, Daddy, while I get pretty. Be sweet.”

“O. K.,” said Buddy, “go ahead and make like Lena Horne.”

Laura went down the hall to her room and Buddy took a couple straight before he put the House of Lords away in a built-in cabinet in the wall opposite the lighted panel of a cross. When all the other lights were out in the living room, the cross glowed softly. Above it was Essie’s motto: G
OD
B
LESS
T
HIS
H
OME
.

That must be her now putting a key in the lock. It was. And behind Essie, came Marietta. When Buddy looked up, in the door there stood a tiny, a well-formed, a golden-skinned, a delicate-featured, a doll-handed, a pretty-as-a-picture, a blossoming peaches-and-cream of a girl.

“Why, good evening! I didn’t know you’d still be here, Buddy,” Essie said. “Marietta, meet Mr. Lomax. Mr. Lomax, my daughter.”

Buddy stood up. Slowly his lighthouse smile spread. Then softly he took the young girl’s hand. “Pleased to know you, Marietta. Essie, you got a bee-ooo-tiful daughter!”

Marietta’s eyes were big as saucers, almost as big as Buddy’s. When he finally dropped her hand, she cried, “Mama, it’s so pretty in here! Oh, Mama, what a nice place you’ve got—so modernistic! And a lighted cross in the wall!”

“We’re blessed, honey! But just wait until you see our new church tomorrow. All of this is the Lord’s own miracle, Marietta. But where is Laura?” Essie called, “Laura, Laura!”

“I’m coming, coming,” strong voice from down the hall. Then cool in her summer frock, Laura came, arms out to Marietta. “Child, I’m your Aunt Laura.”

“This is my old friend who’s stuck by me through thick and thin,” said Essie. “This is Laura.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Marietta! This is your house.” Laura took her in her arms.

“I wish
I
was related, too,” grinned Buddy. But Essie didn’t hear him.

“Thank God! I just thank God for all,” Essie said glowing.

“God—and your tambourines,” laughed Buddy. “Marietta, can you play a tambourine?”

Shyly, “I used to try sometimes in church down home.”

“Then you’ll fit,” said Buddy.

“Are you part of the choir at the church?” asked Marietta.

“No, baby,” he said, “I’m just a backstage man.” “Buddy,” Laura’s tone was sharp, “her name’s Marietta, not
baby.”

“She’s a baby to me,” said Buddy. “And I’m sure glad you got here, little old gal, so we can have dinner.”

“Oh, my goodness!” Essie exclaimed. “Meeting Marietta, I was so excited I clean forgot to bring the chops. Ain’t that awful!”

“No,” said Buddy, “not so bad—because my mouth’s set on steaks anyhow, so I’ll go get ’em. Um-m-m—with the blood oozing out! Come on, Marietta, lemme show you where the stores are in this neighborhood, since you’ll be living here. We’ll get some sirloins, ice cream, and beer. What else do you need, Laura?”

“Potatoes,” said Laura drily, as her eyes narrowed.

“Marietta, ain’t you kinder tired?” asked Essie.

“Not really, Mama.”

“Oh, let the girl see what our block looks like—take a little squint at Harlem,” said Buddy. “Come on, kid.”

Marietta looked at Essie eagerly. “All right, Mama?”

“You-all come directly back then,” said Essie weakly, “and while you’re gone we’ll set the table.”

Had Laura said anything at all then, she would have screamed. As soon as the door closed, she went to the cabinet and got a drink. “I’ll steal one while your child’s out,” she said, “so she won’t think right off the bat that I’m a likker-head.” Then she turned and smiled at Essie. “She’s a mighty pretty girl, Essie—I’m afraid too pretty for this city of sin. Don’t you think maybe
Marietta should just stay here for a
little
visit, then go on back to her grandma down in the simple old South?”

“After all these years,” said Essie, “I want to keep my child with me.”

“She’s at the age, you know—” warned Laura.

“Well, there’s some mighty nice young mens in Harlem—in our church,” Essie said. “I already told young C.J. my daughter was coming, and to drop around tonight.”

“Oh, God, I hope C.J. don’t bring that guitar of his! The last thing I want to hear is gospel music on my night off. I be’s good all the week in front of the public,
plus on Sunday
. But on Saturday night I feel like letting my hair down.”

“I hope you won’t drink so much, now that Marietta is here.”

“I’ll do my damndest to respect your child, Essie, I swear I will. But you know I ain’t no saint. You’ve just naturally got goodness in you. Long as I’ve known you, you never was inclined to do nothing much—but set on your big fat behind and let the city pay your rent. Me, I’m active. But you, you just take whatever comes. Thank God, for all our sakes, it’s money coming these days.”

“I wrestles with temptation, too, Laura, in my heart. But somehow or another, I always did want to
try
to be good. Once I thought—just like you said about me—being good was doing nothing, I guess, so I done nothing for half my life. Now, I’m trying to do
something
—and be good, too. That’s harder. It’s easy to preach holy, but hard to live holy.”

“You’re reading a mighty lot lately”—Laura pointed to the pile of books on the table—“which is strangely for you, who never even read the Bible till we started this church. Now you’re
buying
books.”

“Just Thurman, and Reverend Robinson and Norman Vincent Peale. I want to see what them men say about being good.”

“I don’t trust nothing white folks write, especially about being good, the way they behave down South.”

“Howard Thurman ain’t white. He’s a colored preacher. So’s Reverend Robinson. As for that Mr. Peale, I’m no respecter of race, Laura. Some white folks is good, some bad, just like the rest of us. What I’m trying to do, now that I’ve got the time—”

“And money,” interrupted Laura.

“And money to set down and meditate, is to try to unscramble the good from the bad—in myself and others. If I can just separate the good in this world, the wheat from the tares, maybe I can hold onto it. I found a verse in the Bible I been studying over and over, says, ‘Canst thou by searching find out God?’ ”

“What verse is that?” asked Laura sitting up straight. “Where is it?”

“Job 11-7.”

“What a number!” cried Laura. “11-7, wow! 7-11.”

“Laura, you thinking about the numbers, and I’m thinking about finding God—finding out what
is
God in terms of what we is—us, you and me—on this earth. Reverend Thurman says—”

“Reverend Thurman don’t know no more than you do about God. He ain’t nothing but a man, and we’re all made in God’s image, both men and women. I’m gonna try to stay as good-looking as I can myself. It takes money to go to Rose Meta’s—which is one more
fine
beauty shop—but I intend to go every week.”

“It takes money to run a good church, too. And now that we got a big place, Laura, I wants me a day nursery in the basement of our church where mothers what goes to work can leave their
children and—oh, sister, there’s so many ways to do good and
be
good that we ain’t found yet.”

“Listen, Essie,
how
good do you want to be—so good you ain’t got a dime? I’m trying to figure out how we can make
plenty
of money. My mink coat’s costing me Three Thousand Dollars! And now you got a daughter here in New York to educate. Takes money to put a young girl through school right.”

“I wants other people’s daughters to get through school too. There ain’t no being good and keeping goodness to yourself. Is there, Laura?”

“It’s good to me when it’s just
all
mine, Essie. It’s like love—like Buddy. I don’t want to share Buddy with nobody.”

“You talking about flesh-kind of love, not spirit.”

“The spirit works in mysterious ways. When I open my mouth to sing, it feels just like when I open it for a kiss
—so good
, like being in bed with Buddy.”

“Laura!”

“Well it does—same kind of thrill—especially when I hit them high notes in swing time. Ow! But by the way, I wonder where is Buddy?”

STEAK FOR DINNER

T
he bell rang, but it was C.J. at the door, and he
did
have his guitar. Essie made him welcome, for C.J. was one of the nice young men in their gospel choir, or rather in the singing band at one side of the rostrum that accompanied the choir. There Birdie Lee had set up her drums along with the guitar, trumpet, and an old man who blowed on a flute, while the two pianos at either side of the stage sometimes drowned them all out, except the drums. Nobody could top Birdie Lee when her sticks really got going.

C.J. played a nice gospel guitar. “And I’m working on some brand-new spiritual riffs out of this world, Sister Essie, for that new song the Tambourine Chorus is trying out tomorrow night.”

“Some saints can overdo, C.J.,” said Laura, leaving for the
kitchen to start the coffee boiling. “You just set down and rest yourself. Put your gitfiddle in the corner. You can serenade the young lady when she comes.”

“Bless God, son, you do play pretty!”

“Does your daughter sing?” C.J. asked Essie.

“To tell the truth, I don’t know, C.J., but I hope she do. You ask her.”

“I will,” said C.J. “Where’s she at?”