Iron Lace Part 34

Sometimes a man got more than he asked for.

He set down his gla.s.s and pulled her close. Her perfume had the same spicy notes as the incense she burned. He was reminded of Asian and African markets, and exotic, veiled women.

"This town needs a revolution," he said.

"You know a town that doesn't?"

"You've lived here all your life. Do you really see the way things are? I walked down streets today where the guard dogs are specifically trained to attack Negroes. An old man I pa.s.sed told me that. It was meant to be a warning."

"Had a neighbor once who trained her Doberman to bark at white people, just for spite. Little kids on the street could pet it, dog would wag his stump of a tail and s...o...b..r for affection. White man pa.s.sed by, he'd snap and strain against that chain, hoping for a white-man steak for dinner." She kissed his hair. "You want to tell me what's got you planning battles in the streets?"

"I feel impotent."

"Now, I can say a word or two about that."

He smiled, despite his heavy heart. "Why did you stay here, Belinda? Why didn't you move out and on? You got a good education. You could have gone north or west."

"To the promised land?" She clucked her tongue in disbelief. "Never believed that, and I still don't. Can you really tell me it's better anywhere than it is here? That when you're in New York or San Francisco, people look at you and see a man first? I understand what's happening here. I don't have to get used to a whole new kind of racism. And when I teach my little boys and girls who they are, what they have to do to be proud, I know exactly what I've got to say."

"And that's why you stayed?"

"This is my home. n.o.body's chasing me out. This town belongs to me as much as it does to anyone. And I can make a difference here."

The words were an echo of something Nicky had said to Phillip years before. He had questioned her decision to live in New Orleans, and she had replied that she didn't know a place that needed her more. Her music could open doors.

It had, too. Club Valentine had been open to Negro and white from the moment the sign went up, even though that kind of racial mixing wasn't strictly legal. Whites had stayed away at first, but they had begun to trickle in when the lure of Nicky's artistry became too potent. One small building on Basin Street had been integrated before the public schools, the swimming pools and the lunch counters.

He realized that he wanted to see Nicky tonight, after all. He wanted to see her standing on that Basin Street stage, the object of praise and outright devotion. He wanted to watch her there and know that nothing Aurore Gerritsen had done to her had dimmed his mother's bright spirit.

He wanted to figure out what to do from here.

"I suppose you think I'm crazy," Belinda said.

"No. I think you've already figured out things I've never even thought about."

"Glad to share my wisdom."

"You share more than that. You share everything. Why?"

"You haven't figured that out yet, either?"

"You don't get much in the bargain."

"I get you. Sometimes. So far, that's been good enough." She stood. "I can make that dinner."

"No, let me change, and we'll go."

"Before you go looking for your things, I made room in my closet and hung your clothes next to mine. You can fold them and put them back in your suitcase if you want. It's up to you."

He watched every step Belinda took as she left the room. His mother moved with the same proud grace. Phillip had never expected to meet a woman who held her head as high as Nicky held hers. But this woman did.

And so, despite everything she'd confessed today, did an old woman on Prytania Street.

Club Valentine was already crowded when they arrived. The fragrances of red beans and boiling crawfish debated the fine points of Creole cuisine. They were seated at a table near the stage before Jake found them. He kissed Belinda, then ordered some of everything for them before they could protest.

"Stuffed artichokes are particularly good," Jake said, flopping down beside Belinda. "And the crab came out of some bayou south of here just this morning."

"Where's Nicky?" Phillip asked. He called her by her first name as often as he called her anything else. Neither of them knew exactly how it had happened. It had always been that way.

"She doesn't like to come out before she sings. Too many requests. But I'll tell her you're here."

"Might as well let us surprise her."

"She'll be glad you're here. Last night she's headlining for a while. We've got a group from Savannah coming in tomorrow. She's ready for a break before Mardi Gras. Place will really be hopping then."

Nicky's upcoming break made it a perfect time to tell her that Aurore Gerritsen was her mother, of course. She would have some time to a.s.similate it, to decide what, if anything, to do about seeing Mrs. Gerritsen. But Phillip couldn't imagine pa.s.sing on that bit of news to her. Not until he knew more.

He was going to have to go back and hear the rest.

"Phillip?"

He looked at Belinda and saw that Jake was gone.

"What's going on? You were staring off into s.p.a.ce, and I know it's not that woman over there in the purple dress that's got your attention."

"How do you know?"

Her laugh was deep and rich, cafe brulot on a steamy honeysuckle night. "Because you're with me." She rested her hand on his. "How about some company to get your mind off your troubles?"

"You're sitting there, aren't you?"

"Some friends of mine just walked in, and we've got room. We can share some of that food Jake ordered." At his nod, she stood up and caught the attention of two couples waiting near the doorway that led into the bar. Phillip stood when they reached the table. None of them were familiar, and it occurred to him how little he knew about Belinda's life when he was away from her.

Introductions were made, and everyone was seated. Sam and Vivian were a striking couple in their early thirties, and from the conversation, it was clear this was a rare night away from their two children. Sam was a junior high school princ.i.p.al, and Viv designed and sewed costumes for carnival floats, something she could do while their children were in school.

Debby and Jackson weren't married. Debby, who looked like a teenager, taught sixth-graders at Belinda's school, and Jackson worked in a bank. They were an unlikely couple, Jackson with a bulky, powerful physique suited for a Mississippi River longsh.o.r.eman, and tiny Debby, who didn't weigh as much as a bale of cotton. But from the way Jackson hovered over her, it was clear that he intended to make their relationship permanent.

"We've heard about you," Sam said. "Belinda's told us about your work, and I read your interview with Martin Luther King last fall. Very impressive."

Phillip was used to hearing that his work was impressive. He wasn't used to hearing that Belinda had told anyone about him. He wondered how the subject had come up, and exactly how she had characterized their relationship.

The food arrived with a round of drinks for everyone, and the talk was as satisfying as the crawfish. Phillip hadn't really been in the mood for company. He had met most of the local people who were active in civil rights, and some of those who were vehemently opposed, as well. But he'd never had a desire to make friends in New Orleans or to involve himself in any way in daily life here. As the evening progressed, however, he found himself warming up to the two couples. He had rarely experienced this instant camaraderie.

Watching Belinda with people who obviously cared about her gave him new insight, too. She blossomed under their attention, like a flower preening in the sunshine. He hadn't even noticed how quiet she was tonight until she wasn't quiet anymore. As he watched her, he realized how much he had come to depend on her understanding, and how little understanding she demanded of him. She was a complex woman, but her complexity was part of her charm. He could live with her forever, delve into her mind and soul for a hundred years, and there would still be uncharted depths.

Nicky's band played for most of an hour before she finally appeared. The club, always crowded, was busier tonight than Phillip had ever seen it. Mardi Gras was still weeks away, but the carnival season was in full swing. By the time Nicky came out onstage, the celebration was at a high pitch.

Nicky, dressed in an emerald satin sheath, took the mike off the stand. "Now all you good people got to simmer down just a bit so you can hear what I've got to tell you."

The room went wild. It was always this way. Phillip had seen his mother perform beneath the harsh glare of a bare lightbulb, as well as the diamond light of a dozen crystal chandeliers. Always, sometime during the evening, when the crowd realized the immensity of her talent, there would be a tribute like this one.

This crowd knew exactly what they would be getting. Nicky was theirs. She belonged to them, a child of Storyville, a child of their beloved city. It was the New Orleans in her voice that had made her famous, and the New Orleans in her voice that made them love her.

She launched into a song, her own rendition of "Heat-wave," obviously aware that they wouldn't quiet down until she did.

There was an edge to the excitement tonight, an electricity that crackled through the crowd. In the past, Phillip had always avoided the carnival season in New Orleans, but now he felt its effects. Carnival was a primal, emotional celebration, and that spirit infused the room tonight. Everyone was reaching for something, for a brief taste of joy, for a connection, for sustenance. Lent was learning to live without, but carnival was asking and receiving. And tonight the patrons of Club Valentine were asking Nicky to fill the holes in their lives with her talent and her presence.

"She's the best," Viv said, during the applause. "And the best thing that ever happened to this city. Why did she come back here, Phillip, when she could have lived anywhere in the world?"

He thought about everything he'd learned. "I don't know. Maybe it was in her blood."

"She came back because she knew we would love her like n.o.body else ever had." Belinda was looking straight at Phillip, and she wasn't smiling. "She looked around one day and knew it was time to go home. And that's what she did."

He thought about Belinda's words during the remainder of Nicky's set. Belinda's own life had been an eternal Lent, forty days of deprivation, then forty more, until she had learned to expect nothing else. She had been deprived of most of the things people needed to grow strong and emotionally secure, yet she had. With very little help, and very little rea.s.surance.

But what about now? Belinda didn't expect anything of him. That had always been perfectly clear. But in the spirit of carnival, was she reaching out to him? Was she telling him that it was time for him to come home, and that home was right here, with her?

The room seemed to grow smaller and more crowded. His mother's voice soared above the whispers, the clatter of silverware. The beat grew steadily faster; the volume rose higher and higher. His head began to pound, and he closed his eyes for a moment against the smoke of a dozen cigarettes.

He missed seeing the man leap up to the stage.

Belinda put her hand on his arm. "Phillip..."

He opened his eyes and saw a fat middle-aged man who had clearly had too much to drink, swaying just yards from his mother. No one from the band had reacted yet, it had happened so quickly. Phillip sat forward, ready to spring if necessary.

"She's got it under control," Belinda said, holding him back.

Nicky had her hands on her hips, and she was shaking her head at the man like a tolerant schoolmarm. She had stopped singing, but they were close enough to hear her tell him to get down and stop making a fool of himself. It was the same voice she had used on the rare occasions when Phillip got into trouble as a child.

The man swayed, as if he planned to obey if he could just remember how. The sax player, who rivaled Jackson for size, started toward the man to help him off the stage, and from the corner of his eye, Phillip could see Jake heading their way. That would have been the end of it, and should have been. Except for the cops.

Phillip wasn't sure where the two policemen came from. They were white, which put them in a distinct minority tonight, and they were young enough to be new academy graduates. The cop with the blond crew cut looked uncomfortable, as if he knew that there was no reason to interfere. The other, dark-haired and flat-featured, was obviously in his element. He pushed his way past people who didn't need to be pushed, shoving tables as he made his way up front. He had his nightstick in his hand, and he thumped it against his thigh as he walked.

Phillip could see the next few seconds as clearly as he could see the dark-haired cop stomping his way to the stage. Club Valentine was a neutral zone in the conflict between the races. A truce had been declared here, led by his mother and defended by everyone, black or white, who walked through the front door. But the cop, this c.o.c.ky, reckless representative of the outside world, could undo all that. If he dragged the drunk off the stage and roughed him up in full view of everyone there, all h.e.l.l would break loose. It was carnival season and tolerance was a Lenten virtue.

Phillip was on his feet and blocking the cop's progress before he'd even made a conscious decision to interfere. "Officer." He stood his ground, and he didn't smile. "There's nothing to worry about. We've got this under control." He had his back to the stage, but he knew that behind him, the drunk was being hustled away.

"Get out of my way!"

Phillip moved closer and lowered his voice, holding out his hands to make sure that the cop knew he wasn't a threat. "I'm Phillip Benedict. My mother and stepfather own this club. We appreciate your concern, and we're glad you've got the courage you need to do this job. Because it takes courage. If you lift a hand to that man, all these people are going to come down on you like gravy on rice."

The cop put his palm against Phillip's shoulder and shoved, but Phillip was prepared. He didn't budge. "Look," he said, just loud enough for the cop, and no one else, to hear. "You push me again and I go down, you're going to be at the bottom of a pile of bodies six feet deep. And I know what the mayor would say if you caused that kind of problem here. Nicky Valentine draws people to this city, especially this time of year. You want to be known as the man who started trouble at her place?"

For a moment Phillip thought the cop wasn't going to listen. He wanted a fight, and he wanted to be the one to spark it. Worse, he wanted a fight here, in a place renowned for tolerance. That was why he was in this room, to prove something to himself and everyone else like him. To prove that black and white could not enjoy themselves together without an explosion.

"You see your people stay in line," he said. "We don't want nig-"

"I wouldn't use that word right here and now," Phillip said smoothly. "Or my people, as you put it, might stand in line to have first chance at you."

The cop with the crew cut came up behind his partner. "Come on. There's no problem now. Let's go." He shook his head once for Phillip's benefit. It was almost imperceptible, but more than Phillip had expected. This cop knew what his partner was, and he didn't approve.

"I'll sing you out, gentlemen," Nicky said from the stage behind them. As if it had been planned, she swung into "The Times They Are A-changin'," a Bob Dylan song that Phillip had never heard her perform, but which she performed tonight with feeling. The cops were gone by the second verse, and Phillip took his seat.

The crowd whistled and stomped their approval at the song's conclusion, even after Nicky had left the room. Sam leaned across the table, his face serious. "You ever thought about going into politics?" he asked Phillip.

"Last time I looked I was still black."

"The times are changing. It won't be long before we'll need men like you to run for office here. This city's about to bust wide open."

"If I'm not mistaken, I'd have trouble voting in New Orleans, much less making a bid for mayor."

"Sam's right," Jackson said. "We need you here. We're looking for men who don't back down and don't kiss up. Educated men who can stand tall."

"Not my city, and not my home." The words came as naturally to Phillip's lips as any he'd ever spoken. The episode with the cop was symbolic of everything he despised about the South. He had been forced to become involved, something a good journalist never did. And now he felt a connection he didn't want to feel. He had taken stands every day of his career, but they had been impersonal and rational, and his stomach hadn't churned afterward with emotions he didn't want to recognize.

"It could be your home," Sam said.

"No. I don't think it ever could." Phillip looked at Belinda and saw his answer written in her eyes. Her expression didn't change, but he knew that something had changed between them.

And that, too, stirred up emotions that he didn't want to recognize.

When he arose the next morning, Belinda was gone. She always left early for school, but this morning she had probably left the house just after dawn. The sun was barely over the horizon, and only the call of a mockingbird broke the neighborhood's stillness.

They hadn't fought after they returned home last night. Phillip had tried once to explain what he'd said to Sam, but he hadn't been able to explain what was behind it. He hadn't been able to tell Belinda about Aurore Gerritsen and the prejudices that had caused her to abandon his mother. He hadn't been able to tell her about his own revulsion at being descended from a man like Lucien Le Danois, who would murder his own child rather than admit to her existence.

What had he learned about his Louisiana roots that would make him want to stay?

He found coffee brewing, but no note. He drank a cup over the morning paper, but by the time he went to the closet to get clean clothes, he was no closer to knowing what he should do that day than he had been upon waking.

He opened the door and stared at his suitcase, lying prominently on the closet floor. It was fully packed, although last night his clothes had been hanging beside Belinda's.

He had only to snap it shut and he could be on his way again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.