Joplin's Ghost (31 page)

Phoenix glanced behind her at Danielle and Monisha, the backup singers, who stood in matching black spandex with smiles pasted, waiting for the cameras to come on. She wished Arturo were here instead. They were decent singers—and they were model-thin—but Phoenix knew Serena would have chewed them up if she had been brave enough to show herself.

An
APPLAUSE
sign lit up, and a disembodied man’s voice barked: “And five…four…three…two…” The audience came to life, clapping and hooting while red lights popped on atop the video cameras to widen the view by a couple million people.

Alex Compton stood on his mark, before a mammoth screen showing Phoenix’s publicity shot from her promo packet—sultry eyes gazing from beyond a mask of mascara, a hip thrust seductively to one side—the photo she thought made her look like her twin sister, the pretty and daring one. “Her joint
Rising
is about to drop, and her first single, ‘Party Patrol,’ is blowing up. Everybody’s talkin’ about it, and I’ve got her
first
. From Three Strikes Records and executive producers G-Ronn and D’Real…
Pheeeeeeee-niiiiixxxxx
…”

The audience applauded as if they loved her already and had worshipped her for years. The air was as thick as the wind before a storm. Phoenix’s ears popped.

Egyptian strings blared around Phoenix, her orchestra of one playing on the speakers from the song’s intro. Then came the rhythmic burr of the Egyptian tabla, and the funkilicious Marshall Jones bass line D’Real copped from that old Ohio Players cut, “Skin Tight.” The song exploded to life, compelling motion. Behind her, Phoenix’s dancers swayed and bobbed. Phoenix had rehearsed so long, her hips rolled right, then left, without direction from her.

So, THIS is what this feels like,
Phoenix thought. It was a perfect memory.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the moment’s significance passed. Phoenix took a deep breath, listening in silence as her cue to sing sailed by on the recording. The girls behind her waited a confused millisecond, but they hit their cues, singing backup to her silence. The music pounded on without Phoenix, with only her faint vocal underneath the music track to help her remember where she was supposed to be.
I think I’m losin’ control…out on this Party Patrol…

Sing, sing, SING,
the aware part of her shrieked, but Phoenix felt so detached from herself, she might be sitting next to Carlos in the audience, watching as this fool stood frozen on the stage. Finally, tired of watching herself, Phoenix raised her arms until they were above her head, and she waved with long, slow swoops. The black sleeves of her costume fanned around her, as if she thought she could fly.

The music stopped abruptly. Uncomfortable confusion jittered through the audience, but the
APPLAUSE
sign came on and everyone forgave her, calling out encouragement. Maybe they thought she was afraid, and they were right. But not for the reasons they thought.

Phoenix brought her microphone to her lips as she stared out at the abyss behind the lights. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for the change in the program, but bear with me,” she said, and her voice was sure of itself. Didn’t she owe her audience the truth?

“I’ve been in communication with the ghost of Scott Joplin, a black composer who died in 1917, and I’m going to play an excerpt from an opera that hasn’t been heard in a hundred years. You’re about to witnesses a piece of history sent to us from whatever’s on the other side of the curtain. If you still want to hear ‘Party Patrol,’ tune in to your radio. Peace.”

Did I just say that?
It was hard to remember, even as she sat at the piano bench. The audience was so silent, she wondered if they’d left while her back was turned. The cameras were still on, red lights staring. In the corner of her eye, Phoenix saw the producer waving her clipboard at someone across the stage. Sarge was nowhere in sight.

Thinking of Sarge startled her.
What the hell am I doing?
But she didn’t wonder long.

Phoenix’s eyes closed, and she played. Key of F. Jaunty bass notes and a trilling high F to start, then a folksy introduction in a flowery ragtime style. As she played, words came to Phoenix’s mind that slipped easily across the melody, a perfect fit. At first she thought she was improvising to match the piece, but then she realized she was
remembering,
somehow.

Phoenix leaned to her mike stand and sang the first act of her ghost’s lost opera:

S
he sang as she never had, until perspiration sprang to her forehead, and her throat felt raw, until her mouth was parched. Phoenix’s hands capered across the piano keys with eerie precision, drawn to the chords and elegant melody flourishes, always at perfect harmony with her soaring voice. She sang with ease, and not a single note wavered.

Phoenix sang for six minutes solid, nearly twice her allotted time, before Sarge walked to the piano and rested his palms across her shoulders, which was how she knew it was time to stop.

Phoenix heard three sets of enthusiastic, clapping hands. But the
APPLAUSE
sign was nowhere to be found.

H
ere, cuz, drink this,” Gloria said. The liquid in the styrofoam cup was tepid, some kind of tea. Phoenix couldn’t taste it. She wanted to spit it out.

“I’m not thirsty.” Phoenix’s voice was a whisper. She’d shorn her throat, or it felt like she had. Every piercing note on the stage had left tatters. Her heart was a drill in her chest, as it had been since Sarge led her offstage and she understood what she had done. No, it wasn’t what
she
had done—it was what her ghost had done to her. He had taken her sleepwalking again, only this time she’d been awake.

“Drink it anyway. And take some deep breaths. Inhale for five seconds, exhale for five.” It was easy to forget that Gloria was trained as a lifesaver, until Phoenix needed her.

Tremors came in violent waves, from her toes to her scalp. She huddled on a corner of the leather love seat in the green room, her limbs drawn up tightly around her. Her teeth chattered, but she didn’t feel cold this time, only weak. None of her muscles remembered how to support her. Her fingers were trembling so badly, she had to sit on them to keep them still.

“Th-that wasn’t me out there,” Phoenix said.

Serena sat at her feet, rubbing Phoenix’s knee. “It’s all right, girl. God was just workin’ through you. That was the Spirit in you. It’s all right.” Serena bowed her head and whispered
Yes, Lord. We heard you, Lord,
squeezing her knee so hard it hurt. Phoenix craved the way Serena’s faith was so uncomplicated, without competing versions of God in her head. Phoenix wanted to call for God today, and she wasn’t sure how.

“I want to see Carlos.”

“You know Sarge won’t let him back here,” Gloria said.

“Gloria…I
need
to see him.” She wished she could raise her voice above a whisper. Carlos had always understood, so maybe he would understand now, too. She needed to hear him say she had nothing to worry about, that her ghost would not hurt her. Carlos was always so confident about that, but she didn’t know. This was different. This was scary.

Gloria sighed. “I’ll see what I can do about Carlos, but drink this first. And breathe.”

“I fucked up,” Phoenix whispered to Gloria after another sip. “Huh?”

Gloria smiled a sour smile and nodded. She pulled Phoenix’s head close, kissing her forehead. “Yeah, you fucked up, cuz. We all do it. Life goes on.”

“That was the Holy Spirit in you, Phee,” Serena said, gazing up at her with bright eyes. “Did you hear yourself? That wasn’t you alone. That was the Spirit, girl.”

Phoenix hadn’t told Serena and Trey about her ghost. Gloria already knew, so that was different, but Serena had been so excited about getting her ready for
Live at Night,
there were long hours when Phoenix had forgotten her ghost altogether, and she hadn’t minded the respite. Otherwise, if she wasn’t careful, she was watching for him all the time. Waiting for him, just as she was now. He wasn’t in the mirror anymore. Was that her ghost in the microwave door popping itself open no matter how many times Trey pushed it shut again, as if they were playing a game? Was he in the starbursts of static floating across the muted television screen? He might be the sheen on the fresh-mopped black floor. Sometimes, most times, it was hard to tell.

When the door opened, Phoenix hoped Carlos would walk in, but it was Sarge. Sarge’s eyes sat with hers only an instant before they went to Gloria. “How’s she doing?”

“A little better.”

“Good, because we need to bust ass out of here. We’ve overstayed our welcome.”

“What about the show?” Phoenix whispered, but she didn’t look up at him. Her father had not returned any of her gazes since he’d taken her offstage, shaken her shoulders, and begged her to perform “Party Patrol.” She’d flatly told him no, but only because she could hardly stand, not because she didn’t want to. Looking at Sarge hurt.

“You ran live on the East Coast, but they’re editing you out of Central and Pacific. Any other questions?”

“I’d better talk to Ronn,” Phoenix said, remembering.

Sarge backed away and laughed, a sound soaked in anger. “Ronn’s already called me, since apparently Alex called him. I don’t think Ronn wants to talk to you this minute. Not right this minute.” When Sarge left, the door closed gently behind him on a hissing hinge, but he would have slammed it if the door had been the slamming kind. He had slammed it in his mind.

“Come on, Trey,” Serena said, standing up. “Let’s go. You’ve got the right touch for putting Grandaddy in a better mood.”

Her sister and nephew might be the only ones with the power to reach Sarge today. Strangers might not have seen it, but the rage in his eyes had left a bloodstain on Phoenix. She didn’t think she had ever seen her father so angry. When she was sixteen, he’d bound his anger into a fist, but now it didn’t have anywhere to go.

“You sang real pretty, Aunt Phee,” Trey said, smiling down at her.

“Thanks, lil’ bit.” Phoenix’s voice was hoarse and thin.

Phoenix was glad when Serena took Trey away. She didn’t like her nephew seeing her like this. Even if she told him her ghost story, he would probably think she was just strung out, because that was exactly how she looked. Sarge must think she was Malcolm all over again.

“Sarge thinks I was effing around,” Phoenix told Gloria.

“He’ll get over it.”

“You don’t think that, do you?”

“Nah, you sounded too good to be effing around,” Gloria said. “That was genuine. The cameras were on you, and you wanted to say something, not just shake your ass. That took guts, Phee. No kidding. I admire what you did.”

“Don’t admire me,” Phoenix said. “It wasn’t me.” The tremors came over her again.

“Who was it, then? The ghost again?” Gloria didn’t hide her incredulity.

“Who else could it have been? I don’t know that song. I couldn’t do it again now.”

Gloria sighed. Despite hearing the stories and seeing the music, Gloria was no more impressed with her ghost than she’d been that first day at the Joplin House. “The mind is a funny thing, Phee. I learned that in psych. Don’t stress about it now. It happened, and it’s done,” Gloria said. “Can you make it outside to the car?”

Phoenix nodded. “I just want to go home, cuz.”

With the exception of Sarge, who must have left ahead of them, Phoenix’s family flanked her as she made her way through the endless hallways of the studio. She tried not to feel the burning eyes on her as Serena held her steady by one arm, Gloria by the other.
Yeah, she was wildin’ out in the green room, too,
she heard her makeup artist say, already embellishing the tale.

Outside the television studio’s rear entrance, the uniformed driver opened the black stretch limousine’s door for her. The chauffeur looked like he should be driving a hearse instead.
He must be baking to death in that black suit and cap,
Phoenix thought. Still, he was the only one who smiled at her, so his smile meant all the more. Gloria and Serena guided her into the cavern of the limousine.

“Phoenix!”
a girl’s voice yelled.

Phoenix turned and saw two college-age girls, one white, one black, standing at a respectful distance with a handwritten placard over their heads:
PHOENIX ROCKS
!!!!!! “We
love
you!” the girls shouted in unison. One of the girls waved a gold-colored CD that flashed in the sun,
Trial by Fire,
the last one Phoenix had recorded with her band—the CD all of them, Sarge included, had believed would be The One. Seeing that CD was like seeing her child exhumed from its grave. Phoenix’s eyes fogged as she waved back to them.