Lair of Dreams

“You clean up nice, Poet,” Theta said.

“You are…” He searched for the right word. “Incandescent.”

Theta arched a thin brow. “Remind me to pack my dictionary next time.”

Memphis smiled big. “Next time. I like the sound of that.”

Clarence shot Memphis a look and opened the door, but Memphis waved him off.

“Aren’t we going in?” Theta asked.

“Not here. It’s a surprise, remember?”

Memphis escorted Theta over to Seventh Avenue and 134th Street. A cop walking his beat approached and Memphis hung back, keeping a careful distance from Theta. The cop tipped his hat to her, and Theta managed a tepid smile in response. When the cop moved on, Memphis fell into step with Theta again.

“Next corner,” he said.

“So what’s this big secret you got planned?”

“You’re about to find out. Close your eyes,” he said. “Now. Take three giant steps. Aaand… open.”

Theta blinked up at the bright marquee. “Small’s Paradise? Is this a joke?”

Memphis hooked his thumbs under his lapels. “Do I look like I’m kidding in this getup?”

“Okay, I give: What’s the occasion?”

Memphis grinned. “It’s the eighteenth anniversary of our very first date.”

“This joint is swank. Where’d you get the cabbage for this, Poet?” Theta whispered as a white-gloved doorman ushered them inside with a cool “Good evening.”

“Oh, sold some stock. Made a fortune on Canadian whiskey. Found out I’m actually a Rockefeller. You know how it goes,” Memphis said. In truth, he’d been saving his money for weeks.

Memphis tipped the headwaiter five hard-earned dollars, and they were shown to a decent table—not as nice as the ones occupied by the really rich folks who could afford to tip a lot more than five dollars or the famous folks who could just waltz right in and have a table put down for them beside the dance floor, but it would do. The rule in the nightclub was that you could bring in your own flask, but Memphis wanted to buy bootleg from the waiters. It was expensive, but it kept the money here in Harlem, and it made Memphis feel like a real swell to do it in front of his girl. He wanted Theta to see him not as a struggling poet sharing a bedroom with his little brother in his aunt’s house while running numbers for a Harlem banker, a fella trying to figure himself out as he moved along, but as a man in the know. A somebody. Like the kind of crowd she ran with on the regular.

The house band—Charlie Johnson’s Paradise Orchestra—kept the jazz percolating for a throng of dancers packed in so tightly it was a miracle anybody could move at all. Tuxedo-clad waiters twirled and danced between tables, keeping their heavy trays hoisted high above their heads without spilling a drop. There was even one enterprising waiter on roller skates. The whole atmosphere was one of a glamorous, anything-goes circus.

“When this band gets tired, the other band’ll take over,” Memphis said over the noise. “You never have to stop dancing. They’ll still be going strong come sunup. We can stomp all night long.”

“Let’s hope there’s no raid this time!” Theta shouted back.

“If it weren’t for that raid, we never would’ve met.”

“That’s true. But one escape is enough, don’tcha think?” Theta said.

A waiter swooped down and delivered their cocktails, disguised in teacups. “Here you are, Miss. Sir,” the waiter said, and Memphis could hear the subtle judgment lurking just under the courtesy: What’re you doing here with a white woman?

“Thank you,” Memphis said, making a point to be extra polite, even though it made him mad to do it. Like he was apologizing for some crime he hadn’t committed. Even now, as he sneaked a look around, he could see disapproval in the faces of some folks. But maybe if he became a great man, a respected poet, it would be enough to let them bend the rules. And Memphis was writing every day now. Already he’d filled a notebook with new poems. Like the one in his pocket he’d written especially for Theta.

Memphis kept stealing glances at her now as she watched the dancers, hoping she was impressed. The last time they’d been together at the lighthouse, Theta had said that everything was fine, but Memphis could tell it wasn’t. He was worried that it was him, that he wasn’t enough. It was part of the reason he’d wanted to make tonight special.