——— I finally met him when he was playing in the cocktail lounge part of this jazz joint. What the fuck was he doin’ there? I mean, Jesus, he was frail and so modest. I kept hearing him playin’ and looking at him. It doesn’t match.

———

——— The music and the man.

——— Not at all like your clit and your shoes.

——— I’m not kiddin’. It disturbed me. I kept hearin’ those chords in the fall, when the birds go south, and Daddy comes home, and, then, this great, oooh, this great rush of sound takes over. It was Art Blakey….

——— You said it was illicit?

——— It was dark. It was quiet.

———

——— You should talk. You live with your goddamned mother.

——— How do you know I live with my mother?

——— You called me from her house last night in my dream. You said it wasn’t safe to do our work today. Communication lines were down. All the bridges were out.

“I Usedta Drink, Smoke and Do the Hoochie-Koo,” or What’s a Girl to Do When Her Mother Looks Like Ruth Brown

“Is your mother a Communist, Liliane?” I asked the nicest way I could manage. I didn’t know what she would say, or could say, for that matter. My mama was daylights different I should say, cause I was a gift or a trial come to her late in life. Sometimes, I thought Liliane’s mama was more like us than Mama’s mama, you know what I mean? Well, I am every bit the lady, but my curiosity had gotten the best of me. Liliane was truly tickled, I thought. She gazed over the Gulf waters with not a trace of chagrin or indignation.

“What would inspire you to say such a thing, Roxie? You can’t possibly be a Communist and constantly talk about what’s rightfully yours and the necessity of beauty and, what else, oh, the derelictions of the unrefined. Hell, no, she’s not a Commie.”

“But whenever we had to watch the McCarthy hearings she’d never let us talk or play. She was always making what I feel were very prejudiced remarks, whenever one of those stars from Hollywood took that amendment about his friends and such. I think I have every right to ask about your mother’s leanings. The Negro can’t be too careful about his friends. That’s what my folks always say. Remember the unionists left us to our own means at the drop of a hat. Don’t forget that.”

Liliane threw a shell she’d been running along her limbs til millions of little goose bumps pushed hairs toward the sun. She was slower than me, I thought, and she’s not even from the South. I asked a simple question and wanted a simple answer, not a complicated treatise. Her words floated in the gusts of wind on a slow journey to the welling surf.