CHAPTER 1
Modecai Ulysses Jefferson was a jazz musician. There was nothing wrong with him being a jazz musician, but what was wrong was that Modecai composed jazz music at four thirty in the morning and Miss Tallulah Brown, his landlord, who lived at 10 Mulberry Street in Way City, Alabama, had asked Modecai (politely) to leave. In other words, he was being tossed out of his apartment with the overwhelming support and appreciation of his fellow tenants, who'd had enough of Modecai Ulysses Jefferson and his four-thirty-in-the-morning music!
Benny's Pit looked like a typical southern greasy spoon restaurant that had died and gone to hell.
"Delores, let me plop an extra mound of potatoes on that plate of yours!"
Plop!
How did Benny know? Delores Bonet thought. Is it that obvious to everyone? He's come in here five times now, and five times I've taken his order—but why shouldn't I, come to think of it? I'm the only waitress in Benny's Pit.
Tell me, what do my eyes do? Jump through hoops when I see him? Or do somersaults? Don't tell me, because if they do, they'd better stop, and fast!
He always looks like he's in a struggle, though, doesn't he? He always looks like he's a brush or two away from a disaster. It's like the world's about to crumble in on him at any given minute if—oh well, I'd better get over to his table before the poor guy's food gets cold or, worse, he starves to death.
Listen, tonight I'm going to ask him his name. He knows mine, right? Dee. When he asked me, I told him Dee, Dee Bonet, not Delores Bonet, but Dee. Only Benny calls me Delores around here anyway. I guess he's trying to give this greasy spoon joint some class.
"Here you are. Guess you thought I'd never get back over to you with your order."
"Uh-uh, Dee, not at all; you're good at your job."
"Pork chops, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, greens, and ... what—what's your name?"
"Oh, uh, Modecai." Modecai's knife sliced through the tender pork chop on his plate.
"Modecai? Why, I never would've guessed that, not in a millions tries."
"It's what my dear mother and father stuck me with, all right: Modecai Ulysses Jefferson."
"Modecai's a nice name, uh, though, Modecai."
"I like it." Modecai was talking with a mouth crammed full of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and buttered corn on the cob. "Even though my older brother's name is Charles."
"Oh, so you got the short end of the stick, not Charles?"
"Yes, the short end. But who's complaining? It grows on you after a while—if you let it."
"Delores, order's coming up!" Benny yelled from behind the counter.
"Be right there, Benny."
"Tell me, Dee, why does he call you Delores when everyone else calls you Dee, including me?"
"Class, Modecai. Benny probably thinks `Delores' has a ring of class to it. Sounds, you know, better than Dee."
Cautiously, Modecai's brown eyes looked up at Dee. "Suppose I call you Delores, would you mind?"
"No, uh, not at—"
"Delores!"
"Be right there, Benny."
Modecai wanted to wink at her but thought better of it. He'd wink at a Dee but not a Delores. Besides, he wouldn't want to give her the impression he was coming on to her, in any way flirting with her.
Modecai's table was cleared of its mess.
Off in the corner of Benny's Pit, someone had dropped a nickel in the jukebox. A blues harmonica sounded like it held someone's fate in it like a muddy cup. The harmonica was singing like a Mississippi swamp mosquito that'd outgrown someone's thumb. It'd sting them if they got too close to it, that blood-fattened mosquito, so it was best to let it stay right where it was, singing in the tall, slack, lazy green grass, right at the edge of the mud-thick riverbank.
Modecai had come into Benny's Pit with a folded newspaper (the Way City News) sticking out his back pocket. He'd spread it across the table (half of it, at least). The paper, along with his glass of lemonade, took up most of the table's space.
He had to find a place to stay, didn't he? An apartment. Yesterday he wrote music for the entire day. Today, he thought for the entire day. He had the mind of a philosopher today and that of a musician yesterday. Way City, Alabama, was by no means a big city. Way City wasn't New York City or Chicago or—it was a small city, a rural town, for the most part, and how many places in Way City were there for a colored person to stay? For a colored person to rent out a room? The odds were stacked against him, big time.
But my days with Miss Brown are numbered, and I've got to find ... there's got to be something in this newspaper for me. Some room vacancies somewhere. I've only been in Way City for two months, so I don't know too many places around here. But I have to think the rents go for about the same rate. I don't think there's too much difference from one place to the other. What, Miss Brown has six tenants in her apartment building, three to a floor. From what I've seen in the two months I've been here, Miss Brown's apartment is the biggest one on this side of town. I hope I'm not being thrown out a luxury building, because if I am I don't want to see the next building that could be in my future. Man, not for the life of me!
"Uh, Modecai, what are you smiling about, may I ask?"
And since another nickel had been dropped into the jukebox, and since it was two blues guitars dueling like two wild cats' fur flying on a bandstand, Modecai's ears hadn't heard what Delores had said.
"Uh, Delores, could you—"
"The music—"
"It's loud!"
Delores turned down the jukebox.
Modecai was relishing Delores's smile, something he thought was sexy about her too. It was a small smile on a small, dark face. But it was a smile big enough to light up a small room the size of the one they were in now, in Benny's Pit, with tremendous sex appeal.
When she got back over to the low-standing table, she saw the newspaper spread across it.
"Modecai, are you looking for a room to rent?"
Modecai's eyes shot straight up from the newspaper. "Yes, I am."
"Where are you staying now?"
"Over at 10 Mulberry—"
"Miss Tallulah Brown's then? So why's she—"
"Tossing me out my apartment? I make too much noise."
"You! Now that I can't believe. Heh. Heh." Delores laughed nervously. "You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"
"It's my music," Modecai said, strumming the table with his fingers. "Uh, you see, Delores, I'm a jazz musician."
"Modecai, I can't imagine your music making noise, ever." Her ears had taken note of how Modecai's fingers were strumming the table.
"Lookit, Delores, not at four thirty in the morning!" Pause. "Uh, it's noise then to most civilized people in the world—not music."
"So, uh, so why ... why do you play your, uh ..."
"Jazz music?"
"So early in the morning?"
"I must."
"Must?"
"I'm a composer. I write music. I hear music every second of the day. Honest I do."
"Right now? This instant? While I'm standing here? While we're talking?"
"Every second, like I said."
Delores's eyes paid even more attention to the Way City News on top the table.
"Maybe I can help you out of your fix."
"You—how?"
"In the building where I live, there's a vacancy." Delores felt her notepad loosening from her hips, so she adjusted it before it bopped off to the floor. "Two...
