“Have you ever done horse?”
Esme looked at Darby as if she were crazy. “Are you kidding? I have bigger things in my life than dozing off.”
“Then how does it help the musicians?”
“It makes them more creative, gives them ideas while they solo, I guess.”
Darby looked over at the policeman again. “Does everyone know that he’s a cop?”
“Sure. It’s a game we all play. We pretend not to know; he pretends that we don’t know. My guess is he just likes the music. But you don’t want to encourage him.”
Stick sat on the piano bench and counted off the beat. He wore a scraggly beard and a shiny black suit. While the other musicians played, he rocked back and forth for a minute, then got up and started to dance a kind of jig, one hand on the top of the piano. Finally, he dashed back to the bench, and his hands slid across the keyboard, barely touching the notes, while his loafered feet tapped out a beat of their own on the floor. The sounds were strange and haunting. Fast, furious playing that sometimes sounded wonderful, and at other times off-key.
Darby took another sip of her whiskey sour and almost choked as Stick performed a set of arpeggios so fast his hands were a blur. When he finished, the audience rose to their feet, demanding more.
The next song featured the horn player, and the sound came out thick and sad. When he seared out a solo, the intonation penetrated into Darby’s body, like a musical bullet. She was reminded of the sound of the wind the night before Daddy died. A thermal had risen in the afternoon, the first strong, warm breeze after a long winter, smelling of mud and new growth. By the evening it was howling around the house.
“God sweeping away the cold,” Mother had said, to no one in particular.
Darby heard Daddy moan in pain upstairs, and she looked up from reading her book at the kitchen table. “Do you think we should give him something, or call the doctor?”
“Nothing to be done. The doctor can’t help him. I can’t help him.”
The last time Daddy was on the road, Mother complained about his absence, then turned on him viciously when he returned home and announced that he’d been fired. In a quiet moment, Darby asked him what happened. “I’m too likable,” he’d replied. “The boss considered me a threat to his job. And he was right.”
That winter, before he’d weakened, he bought a used sailboat and took to restoring it in their barn. Mother was aghast at the expense, and Darby could hardly blame her. The only water was the Maumee River, which wound its way through town. No one sailed there, too many rocks. Why buy a boat that you could never use?
Whenever the atmosphere in the house crackled with tension, Darby headed into the barn. Together she and Daddy planed the plywood hull, breathing in the scent of wood chips and varnish and shivering in the drafty space. Or she stuffed putty in the screw holes, then sanded them smooth while they compared their favorite Shakespearean characters. His was Falstaff. Hers, Cleopatra. When a waltz came on the transistor radio, he would grab her and they twirled around the barn together, and as the music ended, he’d bow low and call her Lady Darby.
His last night alive, Darby sat with him, reading aloud from Henry V. After he stopped breathing, she placed his hands on top of his chest like she’d seen in the movies and woke Mother at dawn with the news.
Mr. Saunders came calling for Mother shortly after. As soon as they married, he began taking digs at Darby. Most evenings she snuck out to the barn and sat in the unfinished boat and read, remembering Daddy’s whistle and the way he’d laughed and praised her handiwork. Until one day she came out to discover Mr. Saunders had smashed the boat to bits with an ax.
The trumpeter took center stage again. His knifelike sound pierced into Darby’s armor, the one she’d worn since Mr. Saunders had moved in. Darby breathed deeply, her whole body vibrating with the music. Her stomach turned, the bitter taste of alcohol still on her lips, and she stood and stumbled her way out the back door. She knelt down, squatting on her haunches in the most unladylike way.
“You okay?” Sam stood in the doorway, looking down at her. A halo of light shone behind him, so she couldn’t read his expression.
“I don’t feel well.” Darby took a couple of deep breaths. “Must be all the smoke.”
He disappeared inside. She’d made a fool of herself. Not that it mattered, of course.
He reappeared holding a cup. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”
She’d expected the harshness of black coffee, but instead her tongue came alive with a sweet, spicy flavor. Milk and sugar and something else.
“What is this?”
“Cardamom tea.”
“It’s delicious.” She took another sip.
“The cardamom spice comes from the forests of India and is good for lots of things, including digestion, hiccups, even bad breath.”
She placed a hand over her mouth. “Do I have bad breath?”
He laughed. “I have no idea what your breath is like. I just figured you might be ill.”
“The music, the trumpet.” Her explanation sounded so silly, even to her.
“Like you’re being chopped up into pieces, right?”
She looked up at him in amazement. “Yes. I couldn’t control my thoughts. Is it always like this?”
“Only with the best musicians.”
“I liked it, I loved it, when they all played together and it made sense. But most of the time it didn’t.”
“You’ll understand after you’ve listened to enough bebop. It’s like learning another language. It’s all a muddle at first, but then it rings clear.”
Darby wasn’t so sure.
“What the hell?” Esme poked her head out the doorway.
Darby passed the cup back to Sam and smiled. “I didn’t feel well.”
“Did Sam give you one of his mojo potions?”
For some reason, the question hurt. Darby wished she’d been the sole recipient of his special tea. Even though that was silly.
Esme helped her to her feet. “Come on, let’s scram.”
Darby was suddenly reluctant to go, but it was late.
Back at the Barbizon, Esme brought her in through the employees’ entrance at the side of the building, and they hugged quickly before Darby began the long climb up to her floor. She trod lightly, staring down at the steps, which is why she didn’t see the couple kissing on the third-floor landing until she was almost on top of them. They were pressed up against a tile mosaic, all blues and greens, some kind of lush underwater scene. Stella’s mermaid-red hair stood out against the background.
“Sorry.” Darby glanced away and attempted to maneuver past them.
Stella yelped in surprise and craned her neck around her date’s head.
“Oh, Darby, you gave me a fright! My friend Paul and I were just saying good-bye. But I’m glad to see you. I’ve been meaning to catch you and apologize. About the other night.”
“Okay.” She slid by them. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss the evening with Walter. But Stella untangled herself from her date and stepped out onto the landing, closer to where Darby stood.
“I’m impressed, you breaking curfew,” said Stella, flashing a conspiratorial smile. “You have a bad streak, too, don’t you?”
Darby considered the idea. She was sneaking in late after visiting a jazz club in a seedy part of town with one of the maids from the Barbizon. This was not what Mother had envisioned for her.
But she didn’t smile back.
“Yes, I guess I do.” She turned the corner and kept on moving.
CHAPTER SEVEN
New York City, 2016
Rose jumped into a cab and gave the driver an address on the West Side, shaking off the effects of another sleepless night. She was running late, but the morning traffic had eased and the taxi sliced through the park at a high speed. Her father’s nursing home was way over by the Hudson River, an old brick building surrounded by sleek glass high-rises.
His room was empty.
“Where’s my father, Regina?”
The Jamaican nurse laughed and shook her head. “He’s trouble, that man.”