Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (13 page)

The man on trumpet was improvising again, carving out his own variation on the melody, spotlight glinting gold off his horn. The papery sound and wistful tune made Maggie think about lost chances and lost loves, while dust motes sparked in the smoky air.
Is it too late for John and me? Too much water under the bridge?

“He does amazing things with the trumpet,” Andi remarked, nodding toward the stage. “In the wrong hands, the trumpet can sometimes sound thin, but his sound is full. He's writing music now, too—good stuff. Hey, aren't you going to ask me why I was in Paris?”

Maggie smiled and tapped off ash. “Why were you in Paris?”

“I went on a two-week college trip—and then stayed for six months.”

“Did you like it?”

“I loved it. I loved Paris.” She took a long, wistful drag on her cigarette. “And Paris loved me. Man Ray told me I should be an actress. Matisse painted me nude. I learned how to drink absinthe with Hemingway. And I slept with Josephine Baker.”

Maggie did her best not to drop her cigarette or jaw. Andi continued, “There's no Jim Crow in Paris—or in jazz or on death row for that matter, as I like to say. Everyone's simply a person there.” She exhaled a long tendril of smoke. “The races can actually mingle in Paris, get to know each other. Although they didn't always know what I was. I was
l'exotique
there.”

Maggie took another sip of her drink.

“You're not going to ask? Good for you, Maggie—but I'll tell you anyway—my mother was a light-skinned Negro, my father was Creole. So here I am, a…”—here Andi took a deep breath—“tragic mulatto, gray baby, sepia sister, high-toned gal, tallow woman, rooster red, tea honey with milk, cinnamon sugar, sallow gal, jazz baby, high-toned mulatta, high-yaller, half-breed, wild baby Creole, Cherokee, sugarcane, ‘noble savage,' and—my favorite—American cocktail!”

“Brava!” Maggie exclaimed and clapped. The room seemed to be getting warmer. Maybe it was the absinthe.

“And where are you from?”

“Boston. Well, Boston and then London for the last four years.”

“I was in London for a while,” Andi said. The trio was taking a break, and Odell put on a Cab Calloway record and turned up the volume. “Stayed in Pimlico with some friends I'd met in Paris. There was one woman who said to me—I'm not joking—‘you know, you mustn't get sunburned or stay in the sun too long. People who live in hot countries have thickened skulls and can't think as well.' ” As Calloway scatted to “Hep! Hep! The Jumpin' Jive” in the background, Andi rolled her eyes. “Really? Not as well as people who live in a permanent fog?”

Maggie laughed.

“So I said to her, ‘I believe that all intelligence on this island was brought by the Phoenicians or Assyrians or Egyptians or wandering Arabs—who came with an advanced knowledge of mathematics and astronomy that you British are only just now beginning to understand. Do you think the sun affected
their
thinking?' ”

“Oh, good for you. What did she say?”

Andi blew a smoke ring, pleased with herself. “Oh, she just poured more tea and began to talk about the weather.”

Feeling a little dizzy from the nicotine mixed with the powerful cocktail, Maggie cackled with laughter. “Yes, the Brits are good at making tea and talking about the weather,” she agreed. “Have you ever been to Boston?”

“I have. Boston's all right. Not utopia, of course, but it's the North, at least. Mother Cotton and I have been traveling around the country, trying to raise money for Wendell. Traveling and staying in the North and South is like night and day. Our country is schizophrenic.”

Maggie raised her glass. “It is!”

They clinked again. “I'm the answer, you see?” Andi said. “The answer in one body. Black
and
white. Man
and
woman! Marcus Garvey thought we should all go back to Africa, but—really—what's someone like me going to do there? No, I'm an American, and I'm going to stand my ground. And, with my staying, I hope that people here might just understand the advantages of integration, amalgamation, intermarrying, intermingling—and taking the best of each to make one human race. It's my profound hope that in the next century the concept of ‘race' will be archaic.” The young woman's expression was fierce.

Maggie nodded as the trio came back to the stage. She and Andi applauded. As they began their set with “Up Jumped the Devil,” Maggie said, “I know. The stupid futility of killing so many people in the name of isms—Nazism, Fascism, nationalism, Communism, Zionism, Protestantism, Catholicism…”

“Would you like another absinthe?”

“Yes, thank you.”

After refilling their glasses, Andi spoke again. “I'm not a fan of your Mr. Churchill, I'll have you know.” She blew a string of smoke rings that grew lighter and more fragile before disappearing.

“Really? Why not?”

“How can Britain be a so-called champion for freedom in view of her history of colonization? Colonization that your Mr. Churchill personally fought for?”

My
Mr. Churchill?
Maggie thought.

Andi continued. “Nothing Hitler could do to England would be any worse than what Britain's South Africa and Australia are doing to the natives. Your Mr. Churchill is doing everything to preserve England's colonial empires
and
her exploitation of cheap colored labor.”

“But let's put it this way,” Maggie countered. “Which country would you rather live in? The United Kingdom—or Nazi Germany?”

“That's not a fair question!”

“You didn't answer it.”

“I'd rather live in a free India under Mr. Gandhi,” Andi stated bluntly. “And I do believe India will one day be free.”

Maggie shook her head. “But what about the world we live in
now
?”

“Look, U.S. and U.K. imperialism and Jim Crow are two sides of the same coin. We colored folks have been criticizing European colonialism and theorizing about colored Americans as a captive colonial people for ages.” She punctuated her words with jabs of her cigarette. “Don't you see that's how the Nazis compare with Dixie? We coloreds realized as early as 'thirty-three that Hitler was evil. If you read any of the colored papers, you'll see that we've been reporting on his persecution of the Jews since the mid-thirties. Moreover, we've repeatedly linked Jim Crow with Fascism.”

Maggie took a sharp inhale. “Do you think Hitler got his ideas from Dixie?”

“Yes!” Andi ground out her cigarette in the ashtray, obscuring the tiny painting of the Lincoln Memorial. “Not only is there Fascism in America but Mussolini and Hitler
copied
it from us. What else are Jim Crow laws but Fascist laws? And what were the Jim Crow laws inspired by? The ones that tried to separate and then exterminate the American Indians—the real Americans.

“To me, it's obvious Hitler modeled his laws against the Jews directly on the laws against the Indians, which were the basis for the laws against the coloreds after the Emancipation Proclamation. Did you know that Hitler is a great admirer of Andrew Jackson? The Indian reservations—don't they seem awfully similar to concentration camps? ‘No Indians or dogs allowed'—doesn't that sound like the signs that Germany started putting up in the thirties?”

Andi took a shaky breath. “A review of Hitler's legal restrictions of the Jews ran under the heading ‘The Nazis and Dixie.' How is it that white Americans can become so incensed over the ousting of Jews from German universities and yet not the banning of Negroes from American ones? They're killing Jews in concentration camps—but what about executing coloreds in American prisons? What about the death penalty? What about Wendell Cotton?”

Maggie watched as Andi lit another cigarette. “I'll take another, if you don't mind.”

Andi passed her one and lit it for her. “There you go,” she said, as Maggie took a deep inhale. “Look, I'm sorry, if I sounded…” She shrugged. “I'm just full of splinters most days. Most of us colored are, you know. But at least when I think of the First Lady, I have hope. White folk can't be all bad if you have Mrs. Roosevelt.”

Maggie exhaled blue smoke. “Speaking of Mrs. Roosevelt, I'd like to ask you about Blanche Balfour.”

Andi nodded. “I didn't know her well. I know Tommy, Mrs. Roosevelt's regular secretary, a bit better. I write a lot of letters on behalf of the Workers Defense League that Tommy passed on. And Mrs. Roosevelt has been kind enough to ask me to the White House to discuss things over the past year or so.”

“Did you ever have any interactions with Blanche?”

“Not really,” Andi said. “I only met her once. But I definitely got the feeling she resented the fact I met with Mrs. Roosevelt. She resented my being a
guest
at the White House, as opposed to my being a servant.” A mischievous look played across her face. “Mrs. Roosevelt had her hang up my coat and fetch me a glass of water—Blanche made it very clear she thought such things were beneath her.”

Maggie tapped burning ash into the tray. “Did she ever speak to you?”

“No, but if looks could kill…”

“Do you think she was a threat to Mrs. Roosevelt? Do you know if she was associated with anyone who might pose a threat?” Then, “Do you think she was a threat to
you
?”

Andi laughed, more sad than bitter. “Oh, honey, we colored folk get that look all the time—we don't pay it any mind. Blanche gave me the same look any number of white women have over the years. I didn't pay any attention to it.”

“And you talked to the First Lady about Wendell Cotton?”

“Yes, Mrs. Roosevelt's sympathetic to Wendell's case, but, as she says, her hands are tied. There's only so much she can do. And it sounds like the President's not going to intervene. Speaking of Wendell, what did you think of the talk tonight?”

“I think the whole situation is horrible,” Maggie said, crushing out her cigarette. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not unless you can convince the President to intervene with the Governor and stop the execution.” A thoughtful look passed across Andi's face. “Do you want to meet Wendell? It's easy to talk
about
him and think of him as some kind of abstract idea—but he's a real person, you know. A sweet boy, who had to grow up too fast.”

Maggie had never considered the possibility of meeting someone on death row. “I—”

“We need people who understand our side of the story. Too many of our stories get twisted by the white press. We need witnesses. We need storytellers.”

Maggie realized what she was being asked. “I'd be honored.”

“How about Christmas dinner with Wendell? I'll be there, with Mother Cotton. The prison's relaxing the rules as the execution gets closer.”

Christmas dinner in prison?
“Count me in.”

“Good!” Andi exclaimed, draining her glass. “And I'm not all gloom and doom, by the way. I don't believe God's left anything to chance. Personally, I believe that God's put me here in the middle, so that I can stretch across the world's divides. I can talk to everyone—and I think it's God's plan for me.”

“That's beautiful,” Maggie said, genuinely moved and also getting tipsy. “My sister—half sister—was planning on being a nun. She's religious, too.”

“Does your sister still live in Boston?”

She lives in Berlin and might already be dead or dying in a concentration camp as we speak.
“No—it's a long story.”

The band acknowledged applause and then counted down to “Take the ‘A' Train.”

“
This
is what's important in life—jazz.” Andi threw her arms wide to encompass the club, the stage, all the stages across America where the music was played. “I could pout about all the pain and injustice, or I can listen to jazz. I'll choose music any day. And it's no accident the coloreds and the Jews are leading the way. Gives you hope, doesn't it?”

“Jazz is popular in London, too,” Maggie told her. “But it's definitely American music. You can't be full of hate and listen. You can't hate and dance.”

“Music will save us! Music and dance!” Andi grabbed Maggie's hand. “Let's be soldiers of music! Generals of jazz! Divas of dance!” She pushed her chair back and stood, pulling Maggie up with her. “Come on!”

They ran to the tiny dance floor as the trio swung into a song from
Sunday Sinners
. “I'll lead,” Andi said as they began to jitterbug, stepping and turning, twisting and spinning.

“But I'm taller…”

“I'll lead,” Andi insisted. “Come on—don't think, just dance!”

Prentiss watched the door of the Music Box through the smoky fog from the driver's seat of his dark green Lagonda coupe. He'd trailed the two young women from the church and waited, taking the occasional sip of bourbon from a monogrammed silver hip flask. Rats, searching for food, scuttled between the garbage cans by his car.

Maggie and Andi were walking arm in arm and laughing as they left the club.

Prentiss watched them and grimaced. Had they talked about Wendell Cotton? Had they mentioned Blanche?

He slipped out of his car and followed them up the alley in the shadows, their echoing laughter increasing his anger. He knew it was dangerous to follow them. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was just the kind of thing, like the incident with the prostitute, that could harm his political career, but he wanted to scare them. Just that, scare them. He pulled his hat down to cover his eyes.

Maggie and Andi had stopped at an intersection to let a car pass. “What's a white woman like you doing with a darky like that?” said a man's low voice behind them. Maggie turned. He was tall and broad and walked around them with long steps to block their way. A wide-brimmed black hat hid his face from the light of the street lamp.