LITTLE BIRD BLUES

Cory Zimmerman

Nevaeh was thirteen—maybe, fourteen—and she was sitting on Harriet’s stoop waiting on Daddy, who was late getting home from his new job down at Southside Steel Works. And although Harriet insisted, she come get warm with the three other children crocheting inside the tenement house on the Southside, she refused to come in until Daddy arrived. But it wasn’t until hours later when Daddy came strolling down the street, and by that time, it was long dark, and frigid cold, and Harriet and the kids were long off to bed when he came singing, and Nevaeh knew it was no good, no good at all. Daddy was drunk again.

“It’s alright, don’t worry, baby, jus’ blowin’ off some steam with the boys is all,” he said, as she brought him a cup of coffee. He blew on its steam as she brought him a bowl of hot soup, potato, same as the night before, and night before that, but it was hot, and it was cold outside, and Daddy’s hands were frigid, feet too, as she took off his boots and rubbed his feet. But Daddy, he had no interest in eating. He stood up, moaned and creaked, “Off to bed, Little Bird.”

But she heard him uncork a bottle, and after a few swigs he was too drunk to resist blowing into it to make a tune. And it reminded her of this old story Daddy used to tell her about a slave. One night this slave was feeling real low in spirit, but then he heard the cry of a nightbird. He listened to it sing until sunrise. The sound inspired him so, he got himself a piece of cane the next morning, and he cut some holes in it. And night after night, that bird taught him to sing that reed. And Daddy used to blow in an old empty bottle, seeing he didn’t have no panpipe, but with that bottle, he taught Nevaeh the song of the nightbird. The problem was,

Ms. Harriet heard him too, and that was a problem; seeing, no drinkin’ was the deal. And maybe Daddy thought his incoherent mumbling was quiet enough, but his low voice reverberated in the floorboards, to say nothing of his midnight singing, and his 1am speaking, and devil hour laughing, before he was snoring the drunkards tune, he done kept they household awake the better part of the night. Finally, Nevaeh peeked around the curtain that separated the tiny room they shared, to see Daddy fast asleep. And then she lied back down, peering far beyond the ceiling for the skies above, and the stars that spoke loud and clear.

As autumn turned winter, more and more nights went down that way, but for some reason, Ms. Harriet said not a word and let the father and daughter stay day after day, night after night when Daddy would come stumbling home from Franky’s card game. Nevaeh always had soup ready for him, soup which bobbed but a potato or two, little more, as Daddy was drinking and gambling away all the money he was making down at the steel works. So, one evening, Nevaeh got fed up, turned off the flame, and went down to Franky’s looking for Daddy. Fed up, she walked right into Franky’s with her hands on her hips, and everyone was pleased to see her, after all it had been so long, especially Lionel with his click in his cheek and his pencil mustache.

“Daddy, it’s time to go,” she said.

Daddy looked up, staggered—embarrassed, drunk, “Little Bird, baby,” he said—don’t embarrass me in front of the boys he said with his eyes.

“Birdie—look at you darlin’, all grown up!” said Henry, a kind old soul, as Daddy, hunched over in his chair, went back to his cards. “Remember me?” Straightening up his suspenders, “It’s Henry,” he said. “Hell, I knew ya’ when you was a lil’ whipper snapper—knew your mamma too—was there when you was born, can ya believe it?” he said, asking, “How old is ya’ these days?”

“Fourteen—let’s go, Daddy,” she said when Lionel, to Daddy’s right, toothpick, kicked back in his chair with one leg stretched out, said, “Whoo—fourteen! Well, well, come here, baby, let me check ya’ out!”

“Watch yourself, brother!’ said Henry to Lionel, as Daddy seemed not to notice.

“Wanna seat?” asked Franky, holding court on the far end of the round table.

Nevaeh ignored Franky—ignored everyone and looked down at Daddy. But Daddy kept his eyeballs on his cards, shuffling them nonsensically.

“Daddy!” she said, again.

“Come on, you know Nevaeh is like a daughter to me!” said Lionel.

“God forbid you have a daughter, shit, who you foolin’?” mumbled Franky.

“She’s right—it’s gettin’ late—five a.m. comes along mighty early these days,” said Henry, pushing back his chair.

The other boys looked at their cards or reached for the bottle, as Lionel gave Nevaeh a long eye, but ignoring his crooked grin, “Daddy, now!”

Daddy rocked in his chair, and Lionel pushed his luck as he ran his gaze up and down her young body, saying, “I don’t know ’bout you boys, but I got half a pint sittin’ here,” with a click of the cheek.

“Well, I best be gettin’ myself,” said Henry, gathering his things, “Birdie, I think its best if you—”

“Done took all your money anyhow,” said Lionel, “Daddy’s too,” with a grimy laugh that made Nevaeh’s stomach turn sideways.

She crossed her arms and pursed her lips, “Daddy, now!”

“Daddy, head bobbing, “What’s up baby...?”

“What’s up, is it’s beddy-bye time, Daddy,” said Lionel.

“Why don’t you chill, brother?” said Henry, and kindly, “Come on, Birdie, let’s get Daddy home—I’ll give ya a hand.”

“Nighty-night, Little Bird—come on back real soon and see me now!” said Lionel, shooting her a kiss as Daddy looked back quick like he had just awoke from a dream. He swung around toward Lionel but tripped and fell over his chair, and by the time Henry had him by the arm and back on his feet, he’d done forgot what he was after.

“Just ignore that fool,” said Henry, but Daddy already had.

The men carried on though nothing happened, hunched over their drink, their cards, Lionel with his shaky leg, glaring eyes as excited as all get-out, as Nevaeh glared right back at him with disgust, and with another click of the cheek, “What a shame,” he said as Nevaeh shook him off and turned away. Lionel then took a swig off a bottle and called out, “Ooo-wee,” as Henry and Nevaeh helped Daddy up the stairs.

“You right about that,” said another man under his breath.

“Rata-tat-tat,” said Lionel, “throw a dog a bone.”

“You gotta a hand or not,” asked Franky, as Neveah slammed shut the door behind her, and Daddy slipped on the ice, taking Henry down with him.

Daddy, six-foot-two, shrunk to five-foot-three on the walk home, he’d lost to the man with that damn smile below that razor-thin mustache slicing a devilish grin spread wide across his crooked face, and Nevaeh had been through this all before. She was much younger, but she clearly remembered the tension in Daddy’s fists and jaw and the pain behind his eyes when he woke in the morning. It scared her to hear him get sick, to see his eyes yellowed, to see the horizon fog over in those glossy eyes. But that morning, as Daddy came out of the bathroom, he called Nevaeh over to his side of the room, and to her surprise, he apologized from the bottom of his heart, and promised to “...put down the bottle, once an’ for all!”

Suddenly, it was a brand-new day, and Daddy assured her he’d be back right after work. And although Nevaeh waited anxiously on the stoop, Daddy came strolling up with a loaf and some cheese and sat right beside her. There was not a scent of liquor on his breath, and she was relieved, grateful—Daddy is a good man!

“Ya, know, baby, was thinkin’,” said Daddy, “I’m gonna work somethin’ out with Ms. Harriet, see if we can’t keep the room for another month or two while I save up some. I was thinkin’ we might get outta here, anywhere you wanna go—” He paused as if realizing what he had just said—no forethought to speak of at all. Still, he continued on, wrapping his large hand around hers, “Anywhere you wanna go, baby!”

Nevaeh looked up at Daddy, wanting to say anywhere, anywhere but here, but she caught her tongue and thought for a moment with her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and thought of Momma, saying, “New Orleans,” with a giggle.

“Hmm, anywhere else, baby?” he asked, thinking of his wive’s grave which sat at the end of the long murky river.

Nevaeh thought again, for a place far-far away, “San Francisco,” she said, and Daddy jumped to his feet, and snapped his fingers.

“San Francisco it is,” he said, holding out his arms wide for her to lunge into.

“Just me an’ you, baby, just me an’ you,” he said.

“That’s right, Daddy,” she said, arms tight around his waist, “just me and you!”

Daddy is a good man—best she ever knew.

The next day Neveah tidied up the way Daddy asked her to, so they could show Harriet their appreciation for renting them the room, “We don’t wanna wear out our welcome,” he’d told her. “We gots a’ be grateful to those who shows a bit of mercy in life.”

That evening, Nevaeh sat bundled on the stoop, Daddy came home right after work as promised, and the next day they went for a walk in the park. It was cold, but the sky was spring water blue. Knowing the coffee can was filling up, Nevaeh had never been so excited about the future. Although both their waistlines had thinned, she could not stop talking about the ocean to Daddy. “How blue is the ocean, Daddy?”

Daddy smiled and held his arm around her as they strolled, saying, “I ain’t never seen the ocean, baby, but I guess it’s as blue as the sky,” looking to the heavens when a chill wind blew in off the lake, and Nevaeh shivered.

“Daddy, did Mamma see the ocean?”

“No baby, but she loved the river—said it spoke to her. But I ain’t too sure the ocean ain’t got too many things to say for itself,” lifting Little Bird onto a short marble wall so she could get the full sun.

“Really, Daddy, think so?” she asked.

Daddy looked up again at the heavens, hesitating before saying, “I sure do, baby, I sure do, as Nevaeh stopped shivering. “See baby, all you needed was a lil sun,” and he took off his coat and wrapped it around her.

“Daddy, you’re gonna catch a cold!”

Nevaeh was lost in a dream when the corners of Daddy’s smile drooped and she was lost in thought when his heels scuffed across the kitchen floor, but asked almost unconsciously, “You alright, Daddy?” as she stirred the soup.

“Yeah, baby, just somethin’ in my throat,” he said, sweating over a cup of coffee.

That night Nevaeh heard Daddy mumbling to himself in bed and she curled up tight in her blanket, knowing he’d had no drink—she’d have smelled it on his breath by now.

The next day, Neveah waited on the stoop, singing quietly to calm her nerves, glancing up anxiously at every quick shadow that passed. Harriet begged her to come inside and warm up, maybe crochet with the other kids, but she refused—she was not going anywhere without Daddy. Just me and you, Daddy—you’ll be along any minute, she tells herself as another shadow cast off by a gas lantern approached, but it was only an old man, “You ain’t Daddy,” she grumbled, fed up, jumping to her feet.

The boys circled the table, the sly dog in the corner, thrilled ear to ear to see Neveah again, she could see it in his leg through the thick cigar smoke but did not see Daddy. “Where is Daddy?” she asked.

“Ain’t seen ’im in some time,” said Franky, eyes to his cards. “Tell him to stop by sometime.”

“Yeah,” said Lionel, “he owes me five.”

Henry was nowhere to be seen either and, the vibe was off as Lionel suddenly stood with his crooked grin, greased back his hair, and stepped toward Nevaeh, asking “What you doin’ out all on your own?”

“I gotta find Daddy,” she said.

“Look, I got an idea where Daddy might be,” he said.

“Where is he?” she asked. “Where is Daddy?”

“Tell ya what, come on, I’ll show ya’” he said, gently grabbing her by the arm, but she yanked it away, as he scooted around her and continued up the stairs alone, as the boys carried on with their game, shouting as a hand was thrown down. “You comin’ or what? Wanna find Daddy, don’t you?” And Nevaeh felt she had no choice but to follow Lionel up the stairs. Outside on the street he said, “Just up the block—don’t you worry Little Bird.” It was Chicago cold, and Nevaeh was shivering in a breeze that cut right through her bones, and Lionel put his arm around her, saying, “You need a good coat, baby—I can buy you one if Daddy can’t.”

Nevaeh pulled away, asking, “Where we goin’?”

As Lionel suddenly stepped into an alleyway, he said as he pointed down the way into the darkness, “See that door? Daddy right in that door,” and she tilted her head to see what must have been a door down the way. “Come on, I’ll take ya to Daddy,” he said, walking on, “Daddy ain’t always at Franky’s baby, I’ll tell ya that—Daddy need to step up, keep a better eye on you like I would—if you was my baby girl—” And Nevaeh turned and ran and didn’t look back.

A rooster woke Nevaeh in bed as the sun was shining in through the window, and she had trouble opening her eyes. But she took a gasp of air and yelled for Daddy as she ran to look behind the curtain. But the bed was still made, and his shoes were still gone. So, she hurried down the stairs, past Harriet and the kids eating toast, and out the door with no coat. Harriet shouted after her, but she was already down the block. She crossed the neighborhood panicked in the devilish cold, but she was numb. It had been one of those nights’ bums freeze to the sidewalk, lips blue, shoes stolen, toes blue. She tried not to look as she passed a bum in a stoop, foolishly hoping he was just asleep. She walked on in a sprint. And twice, three times a block, she hollered for Daddy. The few people on the street she passed gave her a look like she was right out of her mind, no coat, scurrying over the ice-cold pavers with wild eyes.

She passed an alley just passed Ed’s Market and spotted another blue bum out of the corner of the eye—she’d just seen his legs sprawled out by a trash bin. And for some reason, she stopped. She took a step back and saw him leaning into a wall in the half shade. His face was drooped under a hat—but she looked long enough to tell he was dead, she knew it, or maybe just passed out drunk, she hoped with the foolish part of her brain. There ain’t no reason to look closer, she told herself, knowing it was just another bum. And Daddy ain’t no bum. But something caught her eye—a shaft of sunlight shining off a tiny brown bottle. Ms. Harriet had given Daddy a bottle just like it, “medicine” for his cough, “only whiskey allowed in the house,” she once said—prescribed, government-stamped, and Bottled-In-Bond:

100 proof

Two spoonfuls every four hours

Nevaeh took a step closer.

His hand was spilled out upon the pavers.

Nails blue.

Empty bottle.

Another, and another, and just out of reach, another.

Thumb, blue and calloused—calloused from a bleeding string.

Daddy strummed a guitar, but Daddy’s thumb ain’t blue.

She took a step closer.

Another bottle.

And another.

And she decided to tidy up, and gathered, while talking to the bum, the bottles, “You know you really should not just throw things around like this, we need to keep the place clean—” and she placed them in the trash bin carefully so as not to wake the sleeping bum. She gathered more, “It is important to keep the place tidy, to show our appreciation, we don’t want to wear out our welcome, we gots to be grateful to those who show a bit of mercy in life,” as a streak of the morning sun slowly glided across the bum’s face, his cheeks gaining a bit of color. She paused. “There you go, feel that...? All you needed was a lil sun!” But the color faded, as the sun dragged on across the alley. “You know you can catch a cold sleeping out here like this, you should sleep in your warm bed at home with your family.” And she shivered and stepped closer. “Aren’t you cold mister? I know I am,” as she slid down the wall beside him, and casually leaned against his shoulder. “You know, you could be at home right now eating a warm bowl of soup,” she said, as she welcomed herself into his coat beside him, as a tear ran down her cheek. She thanked him quietly, as not to wake him, then as she began to cry, she said again and again through her choking tears, “Daddy you ain’t no bum, Daddy, you sure ain’t no bum!”

Daddy was the best man she ever knew.

A summer day, 1920. People were out in the streets. Nevaeh sat on the stoop, singing loudly as strangers passed by. She was wearing a blue flowered dress Harriet had bought for her to wear to Daddy’s funeral at a department store downtown with her earnings from working as a maid uptown. She commuted daily on the Southside “L,” and she spent her days watching they kids, and sitting on the stoop, singing, as she did today. Harriet treated her right, but finances were slim on her income alone, and the best she could afford Nevaeh was one hot meal a day, and the freedom to come and go, on and off the stoop. Henry dropped by occasionally to check in on her. Her blue dress had dulled, but the threads had not quite worn thin.

However, she knew her welcome had worn threadbare, as she heard Harriet weeping in the night and saw the other children eat a little less. And the day before, eavesdropping, she heard Harriet asking Henry for “...a lil’ help with the girl.”

Harriet had been in that godawful bind for some time, since before Daddy died, ever since her husband Sammy died back in ’15—an infection from an ingrown toenail that spread to his blood and brain. Without Sammy’s “Stock Yard” pay and Daddy’s rent income, she plead for Henry to pick up Nevaeh’s tab. Henry was a good man, who knew Daddy a long way back, and Mama, too, seeing they came up from the delta together. But Henry was not so sure he could take away from his own family. He promised he’d do what he could; after all, it’s the least he could do. He was working doubles down at the Southside Steel Works, but he’s torn, things were mighty tight, but still, he thought to take Nevaeh in and brought it up to his wife; hell, he was there when she Nevaeh born, but his wife didn’t want none of it. So, Nevaeh sat singing on Harriet’s stoop, until a man’s shadow landed at her feet. She stopped in the middle of her song to look up to see that man in his ill-fitted suit, overweight, who said, “You can carry a hell of a tune there, miss!”, removing his hat from his balding head to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

Noticeably startled, Nevaeh pulled back on her step, away from the giant silhouette between her and the bright July sun.

“Oh, don’t worry, hun, I mean no harm, just heard ya singin’, and well, thought I’d take a look, see,” as he pulled out a flier and handed it to you her. “Name’s William James Turner—it’s nice to meet ya! And what is yours if you don’t mind me askin’?”

William James Turner: part-time shoe salesman, full-time hustler. Twice divorced, lost a pinky in a game of marbles at the age of six.

He held out his hand, but Nevaeh ignored his missing pinky, grabbing the flier instead, which illustrated a tiger with dark glasses stumbling along with a stick, saxophones flanking the striped feline that above, read:

Blind Tiger

“You go ahead and hold on to that,” he said, as she studied it inquisitively, not so much for its content but for what reason he wanted her to hold onto it. “Ever heard of a blind tiger?”

“Nope,” she said.

“Well, it’s a joint. Where people sing—people like you.”

“A joint called Blind Tiger...?” she asked.

“Well, close, but it’s actually called ‘No Name,’ that’s its name, because ya see, it ain’t got no name—”

“Why’s it got a name if it ain’t got no name?” she asked. ‘And whats it got to do with a tiger, and what’s the tiger gots to do with me?”

“Yeah, well—that’s a good question, sweetheart—we can get to that.”

Nevaeh squinted up into his narrow eyes, one hand to herr brow shading the afternoon glare.

“So, tell me mister, what’s it got to do with me?” she asked, again.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure yet, but I heard you singin’, as I said—and well, how old are you if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“Seventeen,” she lied.

“Seventeen,” he repeated, looking around. “Mighty good for seventeen—is your mother ’round, by chance?” he asked.

“Nope,” she said.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Nope, she’s in heaven,” she said.

“Heaven—well, okay.” He looked around again, awfully anxious, “I’m awfully sorry to hear that,” he said. “What about your daddy?”

“Heaven,” she said.

“Well—I see. I’m sorry to hear that too. Look, who takes care of ya?”

“Ms. Harriet,” she said.

“Ms. Harriet, okay, well, you think I could have a word with Ms. Harriet.”

“Why are you so nervous, mister?” she asked, “Is it because you an old White man talking to a young Black girl in Bronzeville?”

“Umm—”

“Well, I gotta go inside now,” she said, standing.

“Wait, wait, wait—look, I’ll pay ya, I’ll pay ya. Here, take it,” and Nevaeh looked back to see a wad of cash in his hand and heard the hinges of the door squeak, where Harriet stood with wide green eyes.

The crowd was hushed as a rickety floor light slowly illuminated the young, figured silhouette wrapped tightly in a glittery blue dress. Lips glistened, but kept pursed, and silent. The crowd grew a bit awkward in static wait, and they began to murmur and shuffle about uncomfortably as each quiet moment passed, the bedazzlement starting to wear thin—until the drop of a single note of ivory, and their hearts melted with a single word, “Blue—”

“…memories / Are haunting me, it seems / My lover has gone / In my dreams / The blues keep haunting me / My nights are dreary and long / I want you to remember / As life goes on—”

The crowd roared.

And Nevaeh blushed and clasped her hands together in gratitude.

He was shy yet graceful as she scurried with her tiny feet off the big stage.

Backstage, “You’re great, I tell ya, Chicago loves ya, and they’re gonna love ya in Kansas City too,” promised William James Turner, wiping his sweaty brow with exaltation.

And they did, with her Meat-Packing Blues, “A golden ticket,” he said just out of earshot as he threw his suitcase in the back of his Model T. And after Kansas City, they headed on to Saint Louie, where they star found her gambler lover Jimmy messin’ with a pretty, young thing—leaving her high and dry—and she sang the blues, with chorus and dancers, and was the new beat I’ll tell ya, no doubt. In Memphis, she sang with a jug band, sucked the meat off the bone, and in Little Rock, Totsy and the Texas Flood, flooded the stage, and the hearts of the people, and William Turner was right, she was his golden ticket, a wad of bills stashed in his suitcase to prove it.

Next stop, the deep South. Tennessee riverboats and Mountain Jazz, and onto Alabama, and them Mean Dog Blues; and Mississippi barrelhouses and barns on the outskirts of small towns here and there, one across the road to another, where Nevaeh echoed the ghosts of pioneers. And when William Turner made a wrong turn in Biloxi, they’d tied loose ends at a brothel. And, hell, if Nevaeh didn’t make more good friends with them ladies, more in one night than she had in her whole damn life—Shady Jazz and Dirty Blues, and one hell of a story to write home about, be it there was someone there to read it. But hell, the world was off, and she know it by now. What they said was right was too often wrong. And what they said was off was too much. The world, as she knew it, was quite unfair. And what was fair was all too good a crack of the whip. And these ladies knew it all too well, and told her all about it, as they told her to hold her own, bringing her a big bowl of creamy seafood bisque.

William Turner making one wrong turn after another, assumed the South was insatiable, assuming there was a void to fill anywhere he wound up, a void only he could fill, a gap that, when full, would serve his pockets well—a scheme, a schemer, and Nevaeh saw right through his shake by now. And as it turned out, as he was soon to find out, there wasn’t a dime to spare in many a barrelhouse, no matter how good a shaker you was, not in a ramshackle joint, where the crowds all smashed together, where the walls were stained up to the shoulder, where sweaty sharecropper folks spent the greater portion of their lives in the field, and ain’t had hardly a pot to piss in, and but a few bits but for a few fingers of bourbon on a Saturday night. And as special as Nevaeh was, she wasn’t special enough to outbid a pint, and hell, a quart, forget about it.

So, night after night, William Turner sat back and watched his wad dwindle, and he’d crack that whip, as Nevaeh sang her heart out. Sweaty sharecropper folks spending their last dimes slugging off that long week—and all the while William Turner was working Nevaeh hard to make up for his false sense of direction, he was also hatching up a new scheme, another “golden ticket,” one that arrived in the night by the truckload: eggs. And when that jalopy rolled up outside the barn-saloon where he was having a smoke, “How much for the whole load, truck and all?” he asked.

His scheme: drain the eggs, and fill them up with liquor, seal them back up with a dab of glue, no one would ever be the wiser, not cops nor customs.

So early this morning, as Nevaeh soaked in the tub, William James Turner sold his Model T to the lowest bidder who came along, tossed his suitcase in the egg truck, and hollerd in through the bathroom door, “Gotta see a man about a horse.”

Nevaeh took her time, she wasn’t no sucker, not enough of one to waste a good warm bath, and by the time she dried off, William Turner was long gone, and there she stood, all alone in the parking lot of the Old River Town Inn.

In a sense, Nevaeh felt relieved. Her bowels loosened. Her chest released. Her sore throat, eased. She went back inside, fell back on the bed, and took a good long nap, until she awoke to a knock on the door. She’d been left without a dime, she explains to the manager, but she’d have given her last dime to never see his fat, sweaty face again.

The Delta: A source of great fiction and fancy, travel, history and tales, accounts of gold and glory, of death and disease, yet an air of permeance persisted, of those who belong to the river, those well-settled below the bluffs and the prairie beyond—a sensational land, alive with a soulful ethos and folk stories. Home of the Blues, of crossroads and muddy waters, of earth, heat, and of blood, sweat, and tears. Delta folks were good folk, and Nevaeh came to find they’d treat her kindly. And next thing she knew, the manager of the motel owner said, “I ain’t got a gig for ya, but I thinks I can get you one, downriver in Natchez, in a fine hotel owned by two yankee brothers from New York.”

A man came down for dinner. He sat at a small, round table just a few feet before Nevaeh who stood beside the piano. He ordered crawfish etouffee and a glass of merlot but settled for bootleg scotch. Nevaeh sang a light melody, beside the man in a tux who sat behind the baby grand. In her sleek white dress, young Nevaeh, dazzled the room with a standard, and the man behind the crawfish etouffee had his eyes on her. She opened hers only to bat her long, heavy lashes back in his direction. There was something unique about that man, and she felt his glare; he was noticeable but gentle with his scanning approach. Nevaeh feel—to say the least—human as the piano tinkled, and she twinged as he looked away to sip on his scotch, cross his legs, as his etouffee steamed before him—she craved more. Again, he smiled her way, and she blushed before the room, though it was doubtful anyone noticed but him. But one of the brothers did, and he worried. He knew this man.

As Nevaeh finished her set, the room gently applauded, and she bowed slightly, and the man ordered a beignet for dessert and approached her. He offered her a scotch, neat, and she refused, and he sent it back, but she takes a bite off his fork and laughs. He said his name was Sam. Said he was a businessman from New Orleans. Owned the Saint Charles Tavern: an 800-room gold service hotel with strings of colored lights along its “mezzanine balcony;” trees in the lobby; rising high above Canal Street, an immense dome; Corinthian portico; and Grecian front, capped by a tall, white cupola, second only in size to the dome of the Capitol at Washington.

Nevaeh noticed the two men standing by the door, rather attentive to her actions, as one of the two brothers swiftly whispered in her ear, she waved him off. And Sam shooed the men in the door away with a nod, but they didn’t go far, feigning to relax a few feet just outside. Sam was exceptionally well dressed; said he’s running for mayor; rather deep, earnest eyes, though quite a lovely grin and gestured romantic—carried weight in his subtlety. Complimented her on her performance, asked where she is from, the northside she lied, and they chit-chat about Jazz. A gentleman, he bid her good evening and exited the room, leaving her a breath.

What a nice man, she believed.

Sam returned for dinner again and ordered Cajun shrimp pasta at a table for two.

“I’m sorry, sir, we are fresh out,” said the waitress.

Sirloin it would be, with a side of rosemary potatoes.

He kissed her hand. He whispered promises of the world into her ear, but not with a mouthful of steak. He ran the back of his fingers down her neck, rising goose pimples down her arm. The sudden tempo racing, and it was she could hear. The brothers said nothing, but watched in worry, as the piano trickled on without her, as they heartbeat erratic and out of control.

Sam was a different kind of man, and she liked that. Exotic, to say the least. And that slight nod, that nod that arrived the chauffeur up out front, so effortless. He took her for a ride in his shiny sedan—a Silver Ghost late into the night. He wore his best suit, pinstripe, tailored to fit his tall, athletic body. Neveah fell for his words, fell short of words. He was confident, she was not. She quivered in the knees, and was relieved to sit, rather she might faint as he looked her right in the eye in the moonlight, and he knew just what to say.

A gown was delivered to her room, a string of pearls, which took her breath away. And that night, she lied in pearls and dreamt of his jawline, Roman nose, and green eyes as the piano keys echoed through the halls, until a bellhop delivered a note to her room. An invitation.

Lobby @ 10

“You look magnificent,” said Sam, as they strolled by the river.

Nevaeh looked out and saw the universe had unfolded itself, the stars shining below. Sam removed his coat and put it around her shoulders as she shivered, and it touched her deep, and she looked quickly over at him to thank him, but she was suddenly alone. She panicked as though she was mad, as though it was a dream, but she turned back to see Sam down on one knee. “Nevaeh, my darling,” he said, as a diamond sparkled in moonlight, he promised he’d take you back to New Orleans, get her a contract, make her a star.

“You’ll have a good life, my darling!”

He’s the top man—a real gentleman, she believed, as she stepped into the sedan, as the two brothers said nothing but shook their heads in disquiet, as they Silver Ghost rolled away into the night. The headed south, taking the river road, and as Nevaeh looked out at the universe, indeed, folded in two, with a kiss, he reached over and rolled down her window, pointing out at the fields of cotton absorbing the moonshine, “Smell that,” he said of the brisk air, “that’s the smell of money!”

Dawn. Cotton—endless fields of little white clouds that spread far and wide below the hain[CMP1] t-blue sky, about the vast, unknowable, alluvial valley of muddy water. At its bank, a sharecropper’s shack, planted on stacks of stone, rough-hewn planks grayed by the simmering sun. The slouching roof—shakes curled at the edges like old history books, never read, yet left out in the summer rain. Three women, adorned in white cotton, unflowered, fatigued yet alert, circled about an open flame as smoke arose. A large pot boiled, bobbing but a potato or two. With slender yet mighty hands and a rag about her head, one woman stirred the pot with a long stick as her mother and daughter bathed in sweat and steam.

No wind blew but for the whooshing Ghost, and no grass grew about their feet. There were no men to be seen, as they were far off with hoes and picks, leased tools, working leased land, and cotton. Only a few young boys sat, squat, and stood with pant legs rolled—straw hats and burlap, shading the morning sun. In the purple hue of the shimmering dawn, their dark-skinned bellies rumbling with hunger along the bank—sandy toes—limp-shaven poles waiting patiently to hook a crappie or carp, to be thrown into the pot, bobbing but a potato or two.

The land, raw, earthen, isolated, now, transforming into a mysterious bottomland forest of hardwood, where a man and his boy swung an ax, selling off a cord of wood to the first passing steamboat of the endless day. South, cypress, swallowed the light, whispering amongst the call of the gadwall, the green-winged teal, the northern shoveler, and snow geese nestled about eddies lined with cattails, and gracefully arching swamp rose.

Upon that great river, a man on a flatboat was laid out, tied off to a water tupelo, resting amongst the resolution of the current in a long-lost nap. Suddenly, swiftly freed sunlight—sharp and broad—returned, the rising sun illuminating the rising levee that kept the rich chocolate waters at bay, and just ahead, a bustling, chaotic world came into view and the Port of New Orleans.

The Port of New Orleans: A buzz, and a beat, as the Ghost meandered and zigzaged through barrels. Mountains of sugar, cotton, coffee, and bananas awaiting to be loaded aboard the many docked steamboats. Dark-faced roustabouts cadenced a rhythm of dock songs—an army commanded by pale, suit-clad men wearing fine hats. With greed in their green eyes, they shouted and pointed their bamboo canes, orchestrating the train of horse-drawn wagons and dusty Double Ts, who only stopped to take heed of the Ghost. The familiar pair of silver dollar eyes peering out from within. And with a nod, they continue their scoring.

Nevaeh watched as the cargo was delivered to the captains, who were to provide every cloud of cotton about the five fingers spreading from this calloused palm, along with the long line of second-class passengers. She watched as the last to board, squeezed in whatever place they could, taking their chances alongside hot boilers and disgruntled livestock—crowded, sweaty and dirty—grime of the long dusty road, on their way for the solemn North as the great migration had long begun.

Seizing her by the hand, “See, you’re going to have everything you ever wanted,” said Sam, “and more, my darling.”

The Ghost cruised past the French Market as magnolia blossoms floated through the air rich with the scent of gumbo for the Canal Street Depot, where Sam said to hold tight; he’s got quick business. The other two men, who she now knew as Tony and Lucky, walk up onto the platform first. She heard Tony say to another group of four men waiting at the depot, “You came a long way for nothin’.”

As a large man with a scar on the left cheek stepped forward as Sam approached. They shook hands, and the large man said to Sam something about a several-day trip, and he appeared out of shape and unhappy. He spoke with an accent she recognized, one that could only be from Chicago.

“I got no time for bullshit, Sam,” he said. “You and Al made a deal! Take me wherever the rum it is so we can get this straightened out!”

Sam spoke quietly and calmly, out of earshot, but the large man shouted, “That prick, Aeillo[CMP2] ,” and he turned to one of the three other men behind him, saying, “Get the luggage!” as Sam walked away. On his way back to the Ghost, she heard Lucky say, “That will not be necessary,” and, “Sam has a message for Al,” as two New Orleans police officers approached.

Lucky and Tony followed Sam off the platform.

“You fellas know the drill,” said one of the cops, approaching Al’s boys.

Sam stepped into the car, but she kept watching, twisting her neck as the officers frisked the men on the platform, producing several pistols, and sticking the guns in their own belts.

“They’re clean,” said one of the cops.

“Tell Al we said hello, and we’re sorry he didn’t have the balls to come himself,” said the other. “We hope next time you all can stick around and see the sights, maybe catch a ghost tour— Now, you got just enough time to catch the next train back to Chicago.” And with a nod, the cop held out a few tickets, “It’s on us,” he said, “for the inconvenience.”

The large man with the scar reached for them as the Ghosted pulls away, and turning all the way back, Nevaeh watches as one of the cops grabbed the large man’s hand and proceed to twist his fingers as hard as he can until the man falls to his knees. She loses sight, but several loud cracks can be heard, and a scream and a shout of profanity. Passersby scurried and dashed every which way, with looks of dread and shock spread wide across their faces. Others keep their heads and eyes down, hidden deep behind Fords.

“How about some breakfast?” asked Sam.

Nevaeh spun back around in her seat, with wide, confused eyes.

“Butter-bombed oysters, fresh from the Gulf, you’ll love them, my darling!”