Free The Jazz Palace by Mary Morris Page B

Monday nights, she remained in her bed, pretending to read or sew. Even Anna noticed that her insomniac daughter was no longer slipping downstairs when the music was playing. Her siblings were concerned that she was unwell, but after a visit to Dr. Rosen proved her to be sound, the family ignored her stubborn refusal to slip back down to the bar. But she was listening for what she hoped would be a song written for just her. All through the long winter and into the next spring she didn’t hear it and thought he’d forgotten, but Napoleon wanted to make it right. When he played thefirst version for Maddy, she said, “Why are you writing a song for a white girl?”
    Napoleon shrugged, “Because I want to.” And then he added as an afterthought, “Because I think she’s afraid.”
    “What’s she got to be afraid of?” Maddy asked, hands planted on her wide hips.
    “I don’t know,” Napoleon replied. “She just is.”
    Then Maddy softened, “Well, you don’t want to make her cry, do you? Write a happy tune.” She was right about that, the way she was right about most things. Napoleon changed the tempo until it was light and airy as angel-food cake. He put in a little laughing sound with a few barnyard animals, including a neighing horse, thrown in. But still he wasn’t satisfied. He worked with the Judge who moved the melody to the upper registers, lightened the tone, and played the chords an octave higher as well.
    When it was ready, Napoleon went back to Chimbrova’s to play for Pearl. It had been weeks since he’d seen her, sneaking down to the landing, and he wondered if she was all right. He said to the crowd, “We’re going to play a song for the little girl. It’s a blues lullaby I wrote to help her go to sleep. It’s called ‘An Oyster for Pearl.’ ”
    Pearl was lying in bed, her eyes open, with Ruby and Opal slumped against her, when the simple chords rose through the floorboards. She heard a pig oink and a car honk, the sharp awakening of the trumpet before it settled in to a lullaby. When she heard the sweet melody, she knew this song was for her. It lured her out of bed and down the stairs, first to the landing, and then under the steps where she hid with her knees to her chin. The tune was soft and lilting, a hush, but with a little swing laid under the melody. She listened as he played it through.
    When he saw her, Napoleon shifted his melody and improvised on his tune. She listened as if she’d waited her whole life for someone to play this song for her. This was no hand-me-down. Nobody else had this first. It was all hers and she wrapped herself in it like a blanket where she’d find her rest.

Eight

    In the fall of 1917 Leo Lehrman took out a loan to hire six Slovakian women who could make the smallest stitches in the world. In the old country these women made lace, sewed the most diminutive of flowers onto lapels, embroidered monograms on the handkerchiefs of gentlemen. They made wedding gowns and tablecloths that would be considered priceless in fifty years. That year, America entered the Great War. Recruiting parades were marching up and down Michigan Boulevard, blasting away on John Philip Sousa, and Leo hired women to sew trademarks onto baseball caps.
    They sat, hunched together on one bench, dressed in plain cloth dresses with bright-colored babushkas on their heads. If Benny was early and his order wasn’t ready yet, he plunked himself down and watched the Slovakian women pulling thread through the thick denim cloth. He was amazed at the precision of their stitches, the tiny strokes they made so swiftly that the human eye could barely see.
    Benny peered at their pursed lips, the concentrated stares at the fabric before them. Leaning forward, he watched the rise and fall of their breasts. Feigning interest in their stitches, he could look down their blouses. If he leaned forward a little more, he saw the dark circle where their nipples began. While he barely noticed the