J. Powers - The Stories of J.F. Powers

“Well, what do you know!” crowed the gentleman from Mississippi. “So you’re from down South!” He was greatly pleased and already very drunk. He eyed his friends, four or five of them, distributing his discovery equally among them.

“You never know,” he explained. Then he appeared to suffer a pang of doubt. He turned quickly to Libby again, as though to make sure she was still there. His eyes jellied blearily and in them an idea was born.

“I know,” he said. “Sing… sing — sing ‘Ol’ Man River’ for the boys. They all’d sure like that.”

Without responding, Libby looked down at her hands, smiling. She measured chords between her thumbs and little fingers, working her amusement into the keys. Baby stared at the mottled hide of his snare drum, at the big one’s rim worn down from playing “Dixieland.” The gentleman from Mississippi got worried.

“Aw, sing it,” he pleaded. So Libby sang a chorus. The gentlemen from Mississippi were overwhelmed. They loved the song, they loved the South, the dear old Southland. Land of cotton, cinnamon seed, and sandy bottom. Look away! Look away! They loved themselves. Look away! Look away! There was the tiniest touch of satire in Libby’s voice, a slightly overripe fervor. Baby caught it and behind the bar Dodo caught it, but the gentlemen did not. Dodo had put down the martini glass he was polishing and look away! look away! — good.

At the bridge of the second chorus, Libby nodded “Take it!” to Baby. He stood up, staggering from the heat of the fields, clenching his black, toilworn fists. In profound anguish, he hollered, giving the white folks his all, really knocking him-self out.

“Tote dat barge

Lift dat bale

Git a little drunk—”

Baby grimaced in torment and did his best to look like ol’ Uncle Tom out snatchin’ cotton.

Behind the bar, unnoticed, Dodo’s sad black face had turned beatific. “—And you land in jail!” Dodo could not see the other faces, the big white ones, but he could imagine them, the heads fixed and tilted. It was too dark in the place, and he could make out only blurrily the outlines of the necks. Ordinarily he was capable only of hating them. Now he had risen to great unfamiliar heights and was actually enjoying them. Surprised at this capacity in himself, yet proud he could feel this way, he was confused. He went further and started to pity them. But his memory stood up outraged at his forgetfulness and said, Kill that pity dead. Then he remembered he was really alone in the place. It was different with Libby and Baby, though they were black, too. He did not understand why. Say their skin was thicker — only that was not why. Probably this was not the first time they had jived white folks to death and them none the wiser. Dodo was not like that; he had to wait a long time for his kicks. From his heart no pity went out for the white men. He kept it all to himself, where it was needed. But he had to smile inside of him with Libby and Baby. Only more. Look at that fool Baby! Jam up!

“Bend yo’ knees

An’ bow yo’ head

An’ pull dat rope

Until yo’re dead.”

Baby sat down with a thud, exhausted. The gentlemen from Mississippi brayed their pleasure. My, it was good to see that black boy all sweatin’ and perspirin’ that way. They clapped furiously, called for drinks, gobbled…

“And bring some for the darkies!”

Baby swallowed some of his drink. He looked at the beaten rim of the big drum, then at the sticks. He took out his pocketknife and scraped the rough, splintery places smooth. He glanced at Libby and ventured the kind of smile he felt and knew she did. He finished his drink. The gentlemen from Mississippi hung around the piano, getting drunker, shouting in one another’s faces. Nervously Libby lighted a cigarette. A college boy tried to make conversation with her while his honey-haired girl assumed an attitude of genuine concern.

“Can you play ‘Hot Lips’?” He was the real American Boy.

“Don’t know it,” Libby lied. She wished she didn’t.

“Can you play ‘Sugar Blues’?” Right back.

“Don’t know it.”

One of the Mississippi gentlemen, who had been hanging back, crowded up to the piano, making his move. He drained his drink and pushed closer to the piano so as to brush Libby’s left hand with the front of his trousers. Libby moved her hand, sounding a chord that Baby caught. The gentleman, grinning lewdly, tried to follow her hand up the keyboard.

“That’s all right,” he snickered. “Play lots of bass, honey.”

The first gentleman from Mississippi, drink in hand, stumbled over from the bar. He told Libby to play that “Ol’ Man River” song some more. Libby hesitated. Then she lit into it, improvising all around it, and it was a pleasure for Baby, but the first gentleman from Mississippi was not happy. He said if that was the best she could do she had better try singing. Libby sang only one chorus. The gentlemen from Mississippi, though they applauded, were not gratified. There was an air of petulance among them. They remembered another time they heard the song, but it was not clear now what had made it different and better. They saw Baby all right, but they did not remember that he was the one who had sung before, the good one that toted their bars, lifted their bales, and landed drunk in their jails. Something was wrong, but they saw no remedy. Each gentleman suspected the fault was personal, what with him drinking so heavy and all.

Dodo, behind the bar, had not enjoyed the song the last time, hating the coercion the white men worked on Libby and Baby, and feared his advantage was slipping away. In a minute he would be hating them to pieces again.

“Can you play ‘Tiger Rag’?” The American Boy was back.

“No.” Libby made a face and then managed to turn it into a smile for him. He held his drink up for the world to see on the night before the big game.

The honey-haired girl wrenched her face into a winning smile and hit the jackpot. “Can you play ‘St Louis Blues’?”

“How you want it?” Libby said. She put out her cigarette. “Blues, rhumba… what kind a way?”

“Oh, play it low down. The way you people play it.” So Libby would understand, she executed a ponderous wink, narrowed her eyes, and made them glitter wantonly behind the lashes. “ You know,” she said.

Libby knew. She played “St Louis,” losing herself in it with Baby. She left the college boy and the honey-haired girl behind. She forgot she knew. She gazed at Baby with her eyes dreamy, unseeing, blind with the blue drum, her head nodding in that wonderful, graceful way. Baby saw his old tuxedo in the mirror, its body shimmying on the chair, and he was pleased. The drums, beating figures, rocked with a steady roll. They were playing “Little Rock Getaway” now, the fine, young-woman music.

And Libby was pleased, watching Baby. And then, somehow, he vanished for her into the blue drum. The sticks still danced at an oblique angle on the snare, but there were no hands to them and Libby could not see Baby on the chair. She could only feel him somewhere in the blue glow. Abandoning herself, she lost herself in the piano. Now, still without seeing him, she could feel him with a clarity and warmth beyond vision. Miniature bell notes, mostly blue, blossomed ecstatically, perished affettuoso , weaving themselves down into the dark beauty of the lower keys, because it was closer to the drum, and multiplied. They came back to “St Louis” again.

“Stop.” The first gentleman from Mississippi touched Libby on the arm. “When I do that to you, that means ‘Stop,’” he said. Libby chorded easily. “Some of the boys like to hear that ‘Ol’ Man River’ some more.” He straightened up, turning to the other gentlemen, his smile assuring them it would not be long now.