Joplin's Ghost (59 page)

While Carlos flipped on more lights and tried to find a way to control the aluminum bay door, Phoenix leaned against the piano, craving support. A splinter pierced her skin right above her elbow, but she barely felt it. Most of her body felt numb, and the rest was already in pain.

Was that the sound of
Sarge
laughing, somewhere close to here?

A clang and a loud whirring chased Sarge’s laughter away. Phoenix smelled humid air as the bay door slid open, letting in the night sky. Phoenix looked outside, and a large ramp was already in place, affixed to the wide doorway. She had known she was supposed to bring the piano here, but the affirmation felt good. A streetlamp made the alley golden.

“Step back,” Carlos said.

Carlos rearranged the hand truck so that he was behind the piano, and he pushed. The piano’s weight forced the Rosenkranz to slide down the ramp, ancient wheels growling across the surface. In an instant, the piano was at the center of the narrow alleyway, beneath the last rung of the fire escape. The closest thing to it was a Dumpster.

Someone squeezed her shoulders from behind, saying something close to her ear, but she couldn’t make out his voice anymore. Her ears were failing her. Her lungs, too. When she breathed, sand sifted through her lungs and tried to climb into her throat. The pain was dazzling.

Clipped before she could fly. Stories untold, sent back to the sky.

She turned around to ask who she was, but he was gone. He had told her where he was going, but she had forgotten. Looking for gasoline? That might be it.

But she couldn’t wait. She grabbed the first bottle she found in her pocket. It took her an eternity to unscrew the pink cap with such numb fingers, but she finally got it open, tossing liquid across the piano keys until the bottle was empty. Then, she shook the last droplets out on the piano as if she were seasoning a meal.

Her hand trembling, she searched her pocket for the lighter next. She found it, using both hands to try to coax out a flame.

“Wait,” a voice said, startling her. She expected to see Scott, but she didn’t quite recognize the face he was wearing. “If you want to burn it right, use this.”

The scent from the unmarked clear jug was strong enough to make his point. With a wild swing, she emptied the jug’s contents across the piano’s case, dragging herself from one corner to the next, making it glisten. She drenched the two candelabra last, filling their cups until they overflowed.

You don’t even know your name. You’ve died a dozen times already. Somewhere, you were never born.
A voice mocked her; not quite a whisper, and not quite human.

And the voice was right: She
didn’t
know. She
didn’t
remember. But she didn’t have to.

Her hands couldn’t negotiate the lighter—its operation baffled her, suddenly—so it fell while she grappled with it. She saw the glow of the pearl case as it skittered toward a sewer grill, but she was too tired to chase it. The man beside her swiped, rescuing it before the sewer swallowed it. The man created fire, it seemed, with a snap of his fingers.

The tiny flame fascinated her. He gave it to her, careful to press her numb finger where it needed to be so the flame wouldn’t die.

“Ashes to ashes,” he said.

“Amen,” she finished, and lowered the flame to the middle C.

The Rosenkranz became a ball of angry fire, its keys blackened and consumed by flames. The piano’s outrage shot fire into the sky, clawing for food, but there was nothing within its reach but asphalt and bricks. Even the Dumpster beside it refused to burn, protecting its trash.

Watching the spectacle of shooting flames, the veil across her memories faded. She couldn’t pin down her name yet, but she remembered what she must do. Tonight, she would rest in the arms of the man her soul had loved since before she was born, reunited.

In a few hours, she would bury her father.

Tomorrow, she had music to write.

Don’t wanna die for a while—

I think I’ll fly for a while.

P
HOENIX
“Gotta Fly”

Soon

“Test, test, test—one two, one two.”

The microphone was hot, so it squealed under Phoenix’s breath. La’Keitha strummed a charging minor-seventh chord on her Fender, and her impatient feedback fed the screeching. Jabari and Devon covered their ears. When the sound guy went red in the face, racing to adjust the levels as if Phoenix would have him beheaded, she smiled at him:
No big deal, man
. Andres scraped his gourd-shaped
guido,
working out rhythms in his head, burning off his nerves. Andres rarely spoke a word before a show, keeping his head bowed, hiding his face behind his sheet of limp brown hair. Phoenix wondered how a man so shy could make his living on the stage.

With two hours before showtime, the tables were still empty, but there were already two dozen people at the Scott Joplin House, clumped inconspicuously in the back, against the wood-paneled wall of the recreated Rosebud Bar. Every time Phoenix looked up, another person or two had appeared, silent arrivals. Gloria hadn’t wanted to open the doors yet, but Phoenix didn’t care who sat in on the sound check. Besides, the people inside were either press or had friends who worked here, so what could she do? It didn’t cost her anything to let them watch.

Gloria came behind her to give her a gloom report. “Some of them have cameras, Phee.”

“It’s just music,” Phoenix said. “It belongs to them already.”

“Hey, not
my
part, sister,” Jabari muttered. “My part belongs to my landlord.”

“I don’t care if it’s a phone, a pencil eraser, a shoelace, whatever—if I see anyone shooting video with
anything,
they’re out.” Gloria sounded more like Sarge all the time. That helped, some days. Other days, nothing helped except knowing where he was. Laughter and light.

“Do what you gotta do, cuz. Make yourself happy.” The chords to “Gotta Fly,” the first song on the set list, were playing in Phoenix’s head. She was far away from her cousin’s turmoil.

“Don’t kick out any fine ones, Glo,” Jabari said.

Instead of answering, Gloria gave Jabari the finger before she left the stage, a heartfelt stab. Gloria was a fool if she couldn’t see how much Jabari liked her, Phoenix thought, and he was a fool if he didn’t tell her soon. Their stubbornness wasn’t cute anymore. Philadelphia had been insufferable, with the games those two kept playing.

“Good luck at the Grammys, Phoenix!” a man called from the back, and the watchers erupted into unrestrained applause. They weren’t press, then; they were fans. Or, maybe both.

Phoenix felt a ripple through the band. They had just gotten their heads together since last week’s nomination announcement, and she hoped their minds wouldn’t scatter again. The band had endured oblivion, but she wasn’t sure they could weather what was coming now. Jabari gave a cocky grin, flinging his long dreadlocks over his shoulder while he fingered a quick bass line to “For the Love of Money” by the O’Jays, and Devon revved up his turntables, scratching a lead-in to a bomb bass-and-cowbell beat that had the younger watchers swaying before Devon pulled his white fedora over his eyes and stepped away from his instrument, always a tease.

“We won’t need luck. We’re the
soon-to-be
Grammy-winning Phoenix & Fire,” La’Keitha said, one arm raised in a fist that reminded Phoenix of Sarges. “Luck is for posers. I just feel bad for the lip-synch posse about to get shamed.”

“Everybody needs luck, so thanks,” Phoenix said into her mike, loud enough to talk over La’Keitha. The last thing they needed was a self-worship service before a show, even if La’Keitha’s guitar was as good as its hype. “It’s good to be playing together again, and we’re humbled someone hears us.”

Phoenix & Fire. The
New
Fire didn’t sound right anymore, although T.’s raps and Devon’s turntable wizardry as MC Matrix made them sound newer than ever. The planet’s most powerful element needed no qualifier. Besides, you couldn’t go back. Nothing stayed the same.

A woman’s voice called out. “You seen any ghosts lately, Phoenix?”

Phoenix couldn’t miss Gloria’s I-told-you-so gaze from the bar counter. Maybe it
wasn’t
a great idea to have a crowd at sound-check, if they were bold enough to start asking questions.

“No ghosts,” Phoenix said, trying not to sound weary. Ghost questions had been unavoidable on her solo tour, but this was an old conversation. She wasn’t interested in being the poster girl for every ghostbuster and psychic wannabe. That wasn’t her fight. Everyone would learn what they needed to know before long.

“There are no ghosts here,” Van Milton spoke up, “but there
is
a fine museum next door.”

Phoenix hadn’t seen Milton come in, and the sight of him made her smile. She unhooked her Liberation and left it on the stand so she could walk up to Milton and give him a hug. Milton reminded her of her father, if Sarge’s life had been more gentle. “See? You didn’t believe me. Told you we’d come,” Phoenix said, rubbing his bald scalp.

“Seeing is believing. Phoenix, we’re honored. It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing.” The curator waved to a white man across the room, beckoning. “You remember Ed Berlin.”

Edward A. Berlin was a pleasant-featured man with glasses and a full head of graying hair that always looked slightly windswept. Phoenix hadn’t seen Scott Joplin’s biographer in at least a year, maybe more. His last contact had been an impassioned e-mail begging her not to use Scott Joplin’s name on her
Joplin’s Ghost
CD if the pieces were not authentic Joplin. Phoenix had given up on convincing her most vocal skeptic, so she was surprised to see him now.

“Hell must be frozen over somewhere,” Phoenix said, shaking Berlin’s hand.

The scholar looked sheepish. “We’ve had disagreements, but I can appreciate a wonderful composer. I’m on a research trip, and Van said your band was here. I didn’t want to miss it.”

“No ragtime today, though,” she warned him. “This is Phoenix & Fire.”

Berlin looked offended. “I hope you don’t think rags are all I listen to. I’m a little more well rounded than that.”

“My fault,” Phoenix said. “Seriously, thanks for coming. It means a lot.”

“No,
you
mean a lot, Phoenix,” Berlin said, his reserve melting. “I’m very impressed with your Scott Joplin Adopt-a-Piano program. What a brilliant way to keep Scott Joplin alive.”

“That’s not just me. You can thank G-Ronn for that.”

Phoenix and Ronn didn’t see each other much nowadays—hardly at all since Sarge’s funeral, except for occasional brushes backstage when their paths crossed—but when she’d called to ask if Ronn would donate money to help her launch a program to put pianos and electric keyboards in the homes of inner-city schoolchildren who wanted to learn how to play, he donated a million dollars. Between Ronn’s involvement and the proceeds from
Rising
and the off-Broadway and CD versions of
Joplin’s Ghost,
the program was a pet charity, always in the news. Her mother was promising to step in as head of the board of directors, so Phoenix figured any kid under the sun who wanted a piano would be able to have one soon.

“Don’t let her be modest,” Van said. “Phoenix is the spirit behind it.”

Berlin put his hand on Milton’s shoulder. “Van, what were you telling me about those schoolchildren here in St. Louis?”

“Cutting contests,” Milton said, grinning. “Little seventh graders competing after school, playing Joplin. I’m trying to put together a regional contest here this spring. We’re finding some talented young people, and they take to the piano like ducks to water.”

“They’ve always been there,” Phoenix said.

Berlin chuckled. “It shouldn’t surprise me, because I know ragtime’s roots, but I never thought I’d see this interest in the music again. I thought times were too different,” Berlin said, then he sighed, studying her eyes. An argument was on the way, she thought. Berlin lowered his voice. “Now Phoenix, as much as I admire ‘Lenox Avenue Rag’ and
Symphony No. 1,
you’ll never convince me that’s authentic Scott Joplin music on your CD. Sorry.”

Phoenix shrugged. “Can’t convince everybody,” she said. She knew, and her family knew, and that was plenty. That was enough.

“But it’s top-flight ragtime, and I congratulate you,” Berlin said. “Even if I don’t think you channeled him, I do think Scott Joplin is watching all this and smiling somewhere.”

“Hope so,” Phoenix said, but that wasn’t true. She knew Scott wasn’t sweating about who was paying attention to him and who wasn’t anymore, a lesson she hoped she had learned from him. Scott had left those worries far behind.

La’Keitha sounded her Fender again, challenging her with the intro to “Gotta Fly.”

“Hey, Phee, is this a sound check or a press conference?” La’Keitha called.

Phoenix shot her a look and turned back to the scholars. “Sorry for my friend’s manners.”

“What manners?” T. said, and the group snickered behind her.

“No, no, don’t let us keep you,” said Milton. “Go, Phoenix. Be a star.”

The stage was too crowded. The Rosebud was intended for ragtime concerts with a single piano, not a full band. But this was a special event, a limited-seating fund-raiser for the Joplin House, so nobody would mind the way they looked as long as the music was good. Besides, they had more room here than they’d had in her parents’ garage in Cutler Ridge.

As Phoenix strapped on her Liberation, she noticed that the audience of early arrivals had grown. By now, the more determined had claimed the tables in the front, and the growing crowd reminded Phoenix of the arena audiences that followed her from city to city: New Age ghost-lovers, young music fans and ragtime die-hards. Their dress ranged from tie-dye and sandals to suits and ties to hip-hop chic, but they had her music in common.

Phoenix was intrigued by a black couple sitting near the stage, especially the young man. Early- to mid-twenties, close-cropped hair. Tree-trunk shoulders. The name popped to her like a childhood memory:
Kendrick Allen Hart.
She had met him in another life.

Andres was already counting off with his drumsticks, so Phoenix didn’t have time to walk over and say hello. But she found his eyes and smiled with a
Whassup, Kendrick
nod. Kendrick’s grin filled the room. People liked being remembered. Kendrick’s date looked at him with new eyes, shocked and impressed. Phoenix knew that feeling well.

“…
Three…four…
”

The sound of Phoenix & Fire brought the Rosebud Bar back to life.

H
ey, have you seen Carlos?” Phoenix asked, pulling Gloria away from her plate.

In the hour left before the show, the band had escaped to a meeting room upstairs to eat a catered meal of St.-Louis-style barbecue, Milton’s thank-you. Downstairs, the audience was a throng already.

“Haven’t seen Carlos in a while,” Gloria said. She licked barbecue sauce from her pinky in a delicate way only she could master. “Not since he said he was taking a tour of the house.”

Gloria said it casually, but there was nothing casual about that, and she knew it.
That
was a surprise, from Carlos. He almost hadn’t come with her for this concert, since he had fallen out of the habit of trailing after her on tour. He had his life, too.

But this was different. This was Scott’s house. She had thought it should matter.

Phoenix knew she had only convinced Carlos to come because it was a one-day gig, and she had promised him Sunday in St. Louis to themselves, a vacation. Her project was due in her electronic music class at USC’s Thornton School of Music on Tuesday anyway, so her real life was still back in Los Angeles. She had to stay in the habit of spending time with him, or they were in trouble. They almost hadn’t survived the two years she’d dedicated to
Joplin’s Ghost,
and she understood why. Carlos had loved Joplin’s music long before he met her, but their experiences had flavored Joplin with something he didn’t like the taste of. Too much history, in every way.

“Where are you going?” Gloria said, when Phoenix turned to walk away.

“To find my man,” Phoenix said. She nodded toward Jabari, who was laughing across the room with T. over a plastic cup of beer from the keg. “You should take the hint.”

Gloria feigned disgust, shaking her head. “No way. Too effing immature. He’s not ready.”
She’s in love, and she knows it,
Phoenix thought. And Jabari
wasn’t
ready. It was hard to grow up while you were getting famous, and love was scary. Love might be the scariest thing.

“Then trust yourself, Glo,” Phoenix said. “I’ll be back.”

“Like hell. You’re not walking over there by yourself.”

“Excuse me? I’m not an invalid.”

“No, you’re not. You’re
Phoenix,
which is worse. I’m walking you over.”

Phoenix tried not to hear the steady hum of two hundred excited voices as she and Gloria got out of the elevator and slipped out of the Rosebud’s side door. Milton was going to have crowd management problems, she thought. This wasn’t the chaos at Staples Center, but small audiences jostled her stomach, too, at least until the set started. She had been surprised by the classical music Grammy nomination for
Joplin’s Ghost
—she hadn’t won, and hadn’t expected to, given the controversy—but she hadn’t performed that night. No pressure. This time, Gloria said the Grammy people had already scheduled them.
That
would be interesting.