Who in their right mind wanna live in that ass-backward place? Nothing but bumpkins live in Brooklyn.”
“True.”
“When she leaving?”
“She’s already gone. Left two days after the funeral.”
“Aww, that’s a shame. I sho’ would have liked to have said goodbye.”
* * *
After the tragedy, Emma placed their Saturday-night house parties on hiatus, but word of mouth was slow to spread. The following weekend some folks showed up as usual, bottles in hand, ready to party. Even though the house was dark and as quiet as a tomb, they still rang the bell.
When Emma opened the door, her solemn face said it all. But some people just aren’t very perceptive.
“Girl, you look like someone died!” a woman cackled.
Emma didn’t crack a smile.
“Wait, someone died for real?”
Emma closed the door without a word.
Chapter 28
“I’m thinking about enrolling in nursing school,” Lucille announced suddenly while she and Emma sat in her kitchen sipping sweet tea and chomping on fried bologna sandwiches.
Emma’s mouth dropped open. “Nursing school?”
The good times, Lucille explained, were rolling to an end. “With the Depression and things being the way they are, we ain’t selling records like we used to.” She shrugged her shoulders. “My manager says my style of music is going the way of the dodo bird.” A wounded chuckle escaped her.
“Nursing school?” Emma echoed.
“Um-hum, what else am I gonna do? Day work?”
Emma slowly shook her head. She’d traveled that road, and it had been bumpy and unforgiving.
“I can see it now,” Lucille spoke dreamily, “me walking into some white lady’s house in my starched maid’s uniform, all ready to attack the baseboards and her husband’s dirty drawers, and then . . .” She paused dramatically; her eyes stretched saucer-wide and when she spoke again her voice was shrill and animated: “Oh my! Is that Lucille Hegamin? The Lucille Hegamin? Why, I saw you perform at the Panther Club, and I have all of your records!”
The women howled with laughter.
Lucille wiped tears from her eyes. “I won’t put myself through that type of embarrassment.”
“And the house?”
Lucille’s face clouded. “Gonna have to let it go.”
Emma reached across the table and closed her hand over Lucille’s. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I . . . we all had some good times here. It served its purpose and served it well. My season is over. Seasons come to an end. Don’t the Good Book say as much?”
Emma nodded.
“Besides, it wasn’t always easy being Lucille Hegamin—”
“The great Lucille Hegamin,” Emma corrected with a smile.
“So they say,” Lucille sighed. “People don’t know how hard I had to work. How much I had to give up.”
“I know,” Emma said.
Lucille turned toward the window—sunlight lit the tears swimming in her eyes. “You know, it wasn’t easy being in Mamie Smith’s shadow.”
Emma squeezed her hand.
“You don’t get no parade for being second,” Lucille huffed.
Emma, eager to brighten the grim mood that had befallen the kitchen, hurriedly changed the subject. “So, when you gonna start nursing school?”
“Hmmm, I don’t know yet. Right now, it’s just a thought. Until I make up my mind, I’m going to ride this train until it runs out of steam.”
“Oh?”
“Umh-hm. I’m booked solid for the next six months.”
“That’s good.”
“God is good.” Lucille winked and raised her glass of sweet tea in salute. “I’ve got some dates booked down south, and I was wondering if you think Harlan might wanna come along.”
Emma was struck. “Really?”
“After all he’s been through, seeing that child doing what she did . . .” Lucille trailed off, shaking her head. “I just think it would be good for him to get away.”
Emma grinned.
“Best he see for himself that this life ain’t as easy or as glamorous as folks think. Best he see the for-real-deal before he jump in with two feet.” Lucille drained her glass, slapped her chest, and belched. “What you think, Emma? You think he ready for the road?”
Emma beamed, “Yeah, I think he is.”
Chapter 29
Harlan, all of sixteen, having only really been in Macon and Harlem, hit the road green, brimming with delight.
In a rickety bus that had seen better days, the veteran musicians and their entourage rolled out of New York on a spring morning thick with the scent of flowering things.
They traveled for days, covering mile upon mile of open road and ever-changing countryside. Harlan watched with amazement as emerald pastures gave way to fields choked with cotton stalks, plantation estates, and ramshackle shotguns.
Their first stop was Wilson, North Carolina, and even though the country was crawling through the muck and grime of financial ruin and despair, you wouldn’t have known it by the number of people who came out to see them.
“Man, you look as green as a frog!” the squat, flat-faced drummer named Cecil laughed. “You scared?”
They were about to perform on a makeshift stage in a dilapidated barn that reeked of livestock. Lucille was on the bus, donning her dress for the evening.
Harlan looked down at his sweaty, trembling hands. “No,” he gulped nervously.
The drummer shoved a half-empty jar of corn liquor at him. “Drink this, it’ll calm you down.”
The swig Harlan took would have been too much for a drinking man, much less a young boy who’d only stolen sips of beer. He gagged.
The drummer laughed again, slapped Harlan hard on the back, and told him to take another. “You’ll get used to it,” he said.
Harlan’s hands stopped shaking, but now his head
