Jazz Moon (10 page)

T
he West Indian in the seersucker suit was still on the floor outside the basement room, but more prostrate than before. He lay back, supporting himself on his elbows, his half-smoked reefer cigarette pinched between the thumb and forefinger of one hand.

“Ahh, looks like you found him, mon,” he said to Ben. “I didn't know this was the cat you was looking for. You cuties get out of here now before you make me jealous. And if you two decide you want a third tonight, you let me know.”

They left the buffet flat and walked randomly around Harlem. They counted the cabs en route to Jungle Alley. Made jokes about the white swells. Passed a theater where Bessie Smith was singing. Came close to entering a club featuring an up-and-coming trumpeter Baby Back was suspicious of. As they walked, Ben saw attractive men and, for the first time, looked at them—let himself look at them—and felt no shame. Not an ounce.

“Recite me a poem,” Baby Back said.

“Again? Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“You wrote that?”

“No.”

“Cheater!”

They hit the 131st Street corner. As always, musicians were riffing an improv session. Baby Back looked at his trumpet case. Looked at Ben. Looked at the trumpet case. Grinned at Ben.

“Go on,” Ben said.

Baby Back jumped in and transformed a low-key improv into a world-class jam, vanquishing the other musicians like the genius trumpeter he was. The corner attracted a gigantic crowd. Snobs who would never have paid attention to lowly street musicians pressed in to get a look at the cat who was killing it with his horn. Ben had never seen Baby Back perform outside of Teddy's. Had never seen him perform
outside
. The street venue energized him. The bigger, booze-less audience. No walls to constrict his sound, which rocketed up and over and across Harlem.

Watching Baby Back, it planted something in Ben. Something fresh, a little bouncy. A little possessive, too. The trumpeter and his aerial sound may have belonged momentarily to the street audience, but Ben Charles thought he may like to stake his claim on both. Was it too early? Too presumptuous? Early, yes, but hardly presumptuous, he decided. After all, Baby Back had already ridden roughshod over his wife, taken possession of two poems, and been incited to vengeful jealousy over a prostitute. Baby Back was the one who had staked a claim. Ben was only responding in kind.

The improv session ended with backslapping and handshakes among the musicians and frenzy from the crowd. Ben and Baby Back walked away, heading south. It started raining in sprinkles.

“When did you know?” Ben asked. “That you were . . .”

He couldn't say the word. Partly because he didn't
have
a word for it. He didn't want to keep calling it
this thing,
and there was something unsavory about
sodomite
.

“Young,” Baby Back said. “You?”

“Fourteen years old exactly.”

“What, it suddenly hit you the day you turned fourteen?”

“Yeah, actually.”

They kept walking and talking, their shoulders brushing against each other with frequency, the first time unintentionally when Ben swerved out of someone's way. After that, the brushing became part game, part affection.

“You been in love?” Baby Back asked.

“Yes. I was fourteen.”

“That magic age again. What was his name?”

“Willful.”

“What kind of name is that?”

Ben sighed. “That, Mr. Baby Back Johnston, is a long story.”

“We all got one of those, don't we?”

Baby Back put an arm around Ben, only for a moment, but it was enough to quench Ben's need to be touched by this man whom his heart was growing big over.

“What do we call ourselves?” he asked. “
Pansies? Fairies?
” He cringed. “
Sodomites?
Ain't there a nicer word?”

“
Queer
.”

Ben thought about this. “Well. Beats
sodomite
.”

They walked a little more and then Baby Back said, “I want to take you someplace. Come on.”

He led Ben to a place in Jungle Alley. The lighted sign out front read
THE CLAM HOUSE
.

“You're taking me to a seafood joint?” Ben said. “I ain't complaining or nothing.”

It was a club, not a restaurant, with the requisite amounts of reefer, cigarette smoke, and low light. A long bar ran along one side, tables lined the wall on the other. A slim aisle slinked between them. The tables seated two each and were loaded with men. A piano rose above the chatter. Heavy. Moody. The sound distant, like an echo. And above that, a growling horn (a trombone?), its timbre husky as it moaned out blues. Ben couldn't see the piano or the trombonist.

A hostess stood behind a podium in a green velvet evening gown, arm-length white gloves, and a necklace of diamonds and emeralds. She looked like a colored version of a moving picture actress with her exuberantly coifed, near-blond hair. She took occasional puffs from a cigarette in a silver holder, nonchalantly blowing out smoke like she was just too damn beautiful. She screamed and threw her arms around Baby Back.

“Baby Back Johnston! How you doin', doll?”

“Good to see you, May. How's my girl?”

Ben was immobile. May, all makeup and glamorous getup, possessed the bellowing voice of a man.

“This is Ben,” Baby Back said. “Ben, meet May Hem.”

May extended a gloved hand, gripped Ben's like a boxer. “Lovely to meet you. Follow me.”

She walked ahead of them. Her gown, low-cut in back, unmasked a network of toned muscle on a body well over six feet tall. She moved with the grace of a bear as she led them up the slim aisle. The moan of the trombone increased, dipping into low notes and then wailing high, the piano loping underneath. Ben still couldn't see the musicians.

The long, slim aisle led to a larger room. An assorted crowd—coloreds and whites, men and women, queers and non-queers—partied at a flock of tables. The dance floor was mostly colored on colored with one or two mixed couples and even a pair of white guys waltzing.

The low lighting softened and blurred the place around the edges. And that moaning trombone bedeviled Ben, a sound that might insinuate its way into his dreams. He followed the direction of the music and found a stage in back. At the piano sat a three-hundred-pound man dressed in a white tux and white top hat, his fingers romping across the keyboard, providing backup to the trombone's yowling. But Ben still didn't see the trombonist. Then, watching the pianist, seeing his mouth open and close in exact time with the wailing horn, Ben realized that it wasn't a trombone he'd been hearing. A voice, words, became clear.

The pianist's voice was as fat as he was, and growly and warbly. A voice like a muted horn.

May brought Ben and Baby Back to a table and then departed with bulky steps in her high-heeled shoes.

“We need some drinks,” Baby Back said. “Hey! Anna!”

A waitress squealed and pranced over as quickly as size eleven feet in three-inch heels would allow. “Ooh, Baby Back! Where you been, child? Ain't seen you in the longest. Thought you finally went to Paris or maybe some lucky guy snatched up your big, sweet ass!”

The words bounded out in a brawny baritone. Every waitress in The Clam House was too tall, had legs much too muscular, or a back way too broad.

“Ben, meet Anna Mossity.”

“Hi, Anna. Nice to meet you.”

“You too, child.” Then to Baby Back: “He's cute. Go on with your copasetic self!”

The pianist's singing distracted Ben. The man looked foolish—all that flab in a white tux and top hat—but his fingers somersaulted across the keys and his voice nailed every note.

“She's something, right?” Baby Back said.

“
She?
”

“That's Gladys.”

“Is she a real ‘she'?”

Anna Mossity brought their drinks and Ben swirled in the whirlwind of Baby Back and dancing and men and Gladys's dirty, lively blues. The edges of things, blurry before, now melted and overlapped into one another, distorting boundaries.

 

They left The Clam House. Five minutes later a hard rain soaked them, but Ben cared only about Baby Back and about the light wind twirling inside him. He laughed out loud.
This thing,
after years of battle, was now a light wind. Baby Back must have taken his laugh as a signal because he plucked him off the sidewalk and into an alley, placed him against a wall, and planted his tongue in his mouth.

“Come on,” Baby Back said. “Let's go home.”

Home was a boardinghouse on 131st, not far from the corner where the impromptu musicians gathered.

A quilt lay on the bed. It looked like somebody's grandma had infused it with all her skill and all her soul. It was square after square of every conceivable pattern and fabric—plaid, stripes, gingham, polka dots, tartan—all sewn into a creative whole. A writing desk against one wall was stacked with a phonograph and a mess of records. A hat rack hosted a slew of rakish hats. An assortment of books lived on the nightstand—all volumes of poetry by Negro writers. Ben couldn't hold back a smile, but when Baby Back touched the small of his back his body locked up. Nervousness choked him. He was relieved when something across the room caught his attention.

“What are these?” he asked, fleeing to the bureau. On top stood three photographs in simple wood frames. Their sepia coloring burnished them with a dreamy quality. The middle picture was a full-body portrait of a colored man in a suit, spats, and gloves. A three-cornered handkerchief peaked out of the front pocket of his suit jacket. He looked off to the side, his expression composed of a mild smile, a look of tranquil confidence. His snazzy suit put him on par with any gentleman guest at The Pavilion. And he was extraordinarily handsome.

The photograph to the left showed the same man engaged in some kind of stage skit. Dressed in a tux with tails, he carried a trumpet and was flanked by a half dozen chorines in broad-brimmed hats and floor-length gowns. They carried voluminous feather fans and they ogled the man adoringly. His mouth was opened wide as if the picture had been snapped in the midst of a ringing high note.

The third photograph was probably the same man, again performing, this time wearing a top hat and an outrageous checkered suit. He was made up in blackface. The overtly dark makeup contrasted with the whites of his eyes. The lips were painted on in that exaggerated minstrel fashion. He held a watermelon that he seemed to be sneaking off with.

“Who's this?” Ben asked.

“Roland.”

“He's . . . beautiful.”

“I know,” Baby Back said.

“He's an actor, huh?”

“He was. He's dead.”

Baby Back stood in front of the photos, head bowed as if paying his respects at a shrine.

“Was he someone you loved?” Ben said.

“I don't talk about him.”

Baby Back fell silent, but his hand found the small of Ben's back again. It rested there a moment before rotating Ben around to face him.

“Well,” Baby Back said.

“Well.”

Nervousness paralyzed Ben. Their tryst in the alley had vitalized him. But here in this comfy little room, there was no adventure, only intimacy.

“You all right?” Baby Back said.

“Yeah. Yes. No. I don't know.”

“This ain't your first time, is it?”

“My first time in a long time,” Ben said.

“Willful? Tell me about him.”

If you tell me about Roland
. “Later.”

Baby Back began to undress, taking his time shedding each article of clothing. He made a production of it, a burlesque almost. Ben became more and more aroused with each disappearing garment. And he didn't just discard his clothes into a pile on the floor—he hung them in the closet and folded them methodically into the bureau, lengthening the burlesque, maddening and exciting Ben, the trumpeter's impish smile evidence that he loved it.

With all the layers stripped away, he was all sumptuous dark skin and muscle. Powered by this and by the still-fresh sensation of their frolic in the alley, Ben shed his own layers. Baby Back smoothed the back of his hand on Ben's face, his neck. Glazed his finger along his collarbone and the vague outline of his pectorals. Ben fought the urge to compare his slight body to Baby Back's muscular physique, and chose instead to embrace this moment the way Baby Back was now embracing him.

Once in bed, once he saw how hungry Baby Back was, the nervousness returned.

“Wait. I don't want . . .”

“Don't want what?”