“It’s the blues, Sassafrass, that’s keepin’ you from your writing, and the spirits sent me because I know all about the blues . . . that’s who I am: Miss Brown’s Blues . . .” The Lady was holding a pearl-studded cigarette holder that dazzled Sassafrass, who could hardly believe what she was hearing. The Lady went on and on. “Who do you love among us, Sassafrass? Ma Rainey, Mamie Smith, Big Mama Thornton, Freddie Washington, Josephine, Carmen Miranda? Don’t ya know we is all sad ladies because we got the blues, and joyful women because we got our songs? Make you a song, Sassafrass, and bring it out so high all us spirits can hold it and be in your tune. We need you, Sassafrass, we need you to sing best as you can; that’s our nourishment, that’s how we live. But don’t you get all high and mighty, ’cause all us you love so much is hussies too, and we catch on if somebody don’t do us right. So make us some poems and some stories, so we can sing a liberation song. Free us from all these blues and sorry ways.”

The Lady turned to the doorway on her right and shouted, “Come on, y’all,” and multitudes of brown-skinned dancing girls with ostrich-feather headpieces and tap shoes started doing the cake-walk all around Sassafrass, who was trying to figure out the stitching pattern on their embroidered dresses, and trying to keep from jumping up and shaking her ass when, in unison, the elaborately beaded women started swinging their hips toward her, singing: SASSAFRASS IS WHERE IT’S AT, SASSAFRASS GOTTA HIPFUL OF LOVE, A HIPFUL OF TRUTH . . . SASSAFRASS GOTTA JOB TO DO, DUES TO PAY SO SHE COULD DANCE WITH US . . . WHOOEEE!

And all of a sudden the chorus line disintegrated into a dressing-room conversation; the women started sharing secrets about lovers, managers, and children staying with their grandmas till the tour was over . . . and Sassafrass gathered all there was that was more to her than making cloth. Just as she was about to slip out of the room, Sassafrass turned to The Lady to capture just a little more of the magic, and The Lady only murmured, “We need you to be Sassafrass ’til you can’t hardly stand it . . .’til you can’t recognize yourself, and you sing all the time.”

Sassafrass closed the door on the babbling women-visitors quickly. Mitch was coming toward her, making the room reel with the craziness of his music; like he was tearing himself all up, beating and scratching through his skin. The horn rocked gently with his body, but the sounds were devastating: pure anger and revenge. He pulled the slight instrument from his mouth and licked the reed once or twice, before he slipped his hand up Sassafrass’ skirts to tickle her a little.