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

“Kick off,” Baby sighed.

But Libby broke into “St Louis” again. Baby, with a little whoop, came clambering after, his sticks slicing into the drum rim, a staccato “Dixieland.”

The first gentleman frowned, touching Libby’s arm, “Remember what that means? Means ‘Ol’ Man River,’” he said calmly, as though correcting a slight error. “Toot sweet. Know what that means? That’s French. Means right now.” No harm done, however. Just that his friends here, a bunch of boys from down South, were dying to hear that song again — up to him to see that they got satisfaction — knew there would be no trouble about it.

“We’ll play it for you later on,” Libby said quickly. “We got some other requests besides yours. How many you got now, Baby?”

Baby held up eight fingers, very prompt.

“Coming up,” he said.

The first gentleman was undecided. “Well…” he drawled. Libby began a popular song. The first gentleman faced his friends. His eyes more or less met theirs and found no agreement. The boys looked kind of impatient, like a bunch of boys out for a little fun and not doing so well. He turned to Libby again.

“We just gotta have that ‘Ol’ Man River’ some more. Boys all got their hearts set on it,” he said. “Right away! Toot sweet! Toot — away!” There he’d gone and made a joke, and the boys all laughed and repeated it to each other. Libby played on, as though she had not heard. The first gentleman took hold of her arm. She gazed steadily up into his bleary eyes.

“Not now. Later.”

“No, you don’t. You gotta play it right now. For a bunch of boys from down South. They all got a hankerin’ to hear that ‘Ol’ Man River’ some more.”

“So you best play it,” another gentleman said, leaning down hard on the old upright piano. “On account of I’m gonna take and give ear. We kinda like how that old song sounds up North. Whatcha all need. The drummer will sing,” he said, and looked at Baby. Baby looked back, unsmiling.

Libby chorded lightly, waiting for the gentlemen from Mississippi to get tired. They could not see how it was with her and Baby — never.

“You ain’t gonna play?”

Baby’s eyes strained hard in their sockets.

“We ain’t comin’,” Libby said.

Baby’s eyes relaxed and he knew the worst part was over. They felt the same way about it. They had made up their minds. The rest was easy. Baby was even a little glad it had happened. A feeling was growing within him that he had wanted to do this for a long time — for years and years, in a hundred different places he had played.

Secretly majestic, Baby sat at his drums, the goal of countless uplifted eyes — beseeching him. For it seemed that hordes of white people were far below him, making their little commotions and noises, asking favors of him, like Lord, please bring the rain, or Lord, please take it away. Lord Baby. Waves of warm exhilaration washed into him, endearing him to himself. No, he smiled, I am sorry, no favors today. Yes, Lord, they all said, if that’s the way it is, so be it.

But somebody objected. The manager’s voice barked, far below, scarcely audible to Baby in his new eminence. “… honoring requests,” he heard, and “… trouble with the local,” and “… wanting to get a sweet-swing trio in this place a long time now.” And the manager, strangely small, an excited, pale pygmy, explaining to the gentlemen from Mississippi, also small, how it was, “That’s all I can do in the circumstances,” and them saying, “Well, I guess so; well, I guess so all right; don’t pay to pamper ’em, to give ’em an inch.”

Baby noticed Libby had got up from the piano and put on her coat, the long dress hanging out at the bottom, red.

“I won’t change,” she said, and handed Baby the canvas cover for the snare drum.

“Huh?” Baby said foggily. He set about taking his traps apart. Dodo, not wearing his white service coat, came over to help.

“You don’t have to,” Baby said.

Chief, freezing outside in his long, fancy maroon coat, opened the door for them. “You all through, Baby?”

“Yeah, Chief. You told that right.”

They walked down the street toward the car line. Baby, going first, plowed a path for Libby and Dodo in the snow. Window sills, parked cars, and trees were padded with it. The wind was dead and buried. Baby bore the big drum on his shoulder and felt the sticks pressing tight and upright in his vest pockets, two on each side. Libby had her purse and street clothes rolled up under her arm. Dodo carried the snare drum.

Softly as snow, Libby laughed, “That’s all I can do in the circumstances,” she said.

“I got your old circumstances,” Baby said.

Then they were silent, tramping in the snow.

At the corner they waited in a store entrance for a south-bound streetcar. Libby raised a foot now and then, shuddering with cold. Dead still, Dodo breathed down inside the collar of his overcoat, retarding his breath, frowning at the little smoke trickling out, as though it were the only thing left in the world to remind him he was alive. Baby talked of taking a cab and finally did go out into the street to hail one approaching. It slowed up, pulled over to the curb, hesitated… and lurched away, with Baby’s hand reaching for the door. Baby watched the cab speed down the snowy street, following it for a few steps, speechless. There was nothing to do. Without looking, he saw Libby and Dodo shivering in the store entrance. They had seen the cab come and go. They had not moved an inch. They waited unfooled, as before, for the Big Red.

“What’s wrong with you, Baby?” Libby called out. A tiny moment of silence, and she was laughing, gradually louder, mellow octaves of it, mounting, pluming…

Like her piano, it seemed to Baby — that fine, young-woman laughter.

“Why you laugh so much, woman?” he inquired plaintively from the street. Then he moved to join them, a few steps only, dallying at the curb to temper the abruptness of his retreat. Like her piano on “Little Rock”—that fine, young-woman laughter.

THAT SUMMER WHEN Father Eudex got back from saying Mass at the orphanage in the morning, he would park Monsignor’s car, which was long and black and new like a politician’s, and sit down in the cool of the porch to read his office. If Monsignor was not already standing in the door, he would immediately appear there, seeing that his car had safely returned, and inquire:

“Did you have any trouble with her?”

Father Eudex knew too well the question meant, Did you mistreat my car?

“No trouble, Monsignor.”

“Good,” Monsignor said, with imperfect faith in his curate, who was not a car owner. For a moment Monsignor stood framed in the screen door, fumbling his watch fob as for a full-length portrait, and then he was suddenly not there.

“Monsignor,” Father Eudex said, rising nervously, “I’ve got a chance to pick up a car.”

At the door Monsignor slid into his frame again. His face expressed what was for him intense interest.

“Yes? Go on.”

“I don’t want to have to use yours every morning.”

“It’s all right.”

“And there are other times.” Father Eudex decided not to be maudlin and mention sick calls, nor be entirely honest and admit he was tired of busses and bumming rides from parishioners. “And now I’ve got a chance to get one — cheap.”

Monsignor, smiling, came alert at cheap .

“New?”

“No, I wouldn’t say it’s new.”

Monsignor was openly suspicious now. “What kind?”

“It’s a Ford.”

“And not new?”

“Not new, Monsignor — but in good condition. It was owned by a retired farmer and had good care.”