Livvie's Song (17 page)

Marva glanced behind her and exhaled noisily. “Now, Will, do I look like the husband-stealing type?”

Her perfume was so strong, it should have been illegal. “Do you want me to answer honestly?”

Her talons sank deeper into his arm as she whispered in his ear, “You’re not married, are you? It’d be an awful waste if you were.”

He peeled her fingers off and smiled. “Excuse me, ma’am. I think I’ll move a little closer to the stage.”

“How about favoring me with a dance tonight, Will Taylor? I promise not to step on your toes.”

“Sorry, I’m not much of a dancer.” He started to walk away, but she stayed on his heels.

“I bet I could teach you a few steps.”

The sizzle in her voice told him she had more than dancing on her mind. He had to get away from her.

“Hey, Taylor!”

“New cook at Livvie’s Kitchen!”

He glanced in the direction of the voices and discovered Quinn Baxter and Sam Campbell, a couple of Livvie’s regulars, pushing their ways toward him through the masses. “Good to see you, Will,” Quinn said. “You come up here to play your harmonica? The band should be starting anytime now.”

“What? No, I just….”

Miss Hussy stuck out her hip and looked at him. “Well, I’ll be a sweet pea in a pod! You work for Livvie, do you?” She fingered his lapel and licked her rose-red lips. “Livvie and I went to school together. She’s such a….”

But her words were lost under Quinn’s piercing announcement: “Hey, Berkeley! I got you a fine musician. From what I hear, he plays a mean mouth harp.” Quinn raised a beefy arm and pointed at Will.

Good grief! This was not how Will had intended the evening to pan out. He wished for a trapdoor when the man slipping a guitar strap over his shoulder—Berkeley, presumably—skimmed the audience to locate his target. The crowd quieted.

“Well, come on up here, mister,” Berkeley said. “We could use some good harmonica playin’. Isn’t that right, boys?”

“Durn tootin’. I ain’t heard a good mouth harp in years,” said another man as he rosined up his bow.

Will had wanted only to hang around and hear a few tunes. Tomorrow was the Lord’s Day, and he didn’t feel like staying out late. But, in the seconds he had to decline, he heard verbal encouragement from complete strangers—the brazen Marva included—and felt them nudging him in the direction of the stage. He brought a hand to his front pocket. Sure enough, the rectangular mouthpiece was still there. This was the first time he wished he’d mislaid it. Shoot! His last performance had been in a prison yard, with an audience of inmates who’d always cheered him on. But what did a bunch of jailbirds know about good music? He wasn’t even sure he really knew how to play the thing, never having made a formal appearance or taken lessons, unless he counted the few pointers his granddaddy had given him. Mostly, he’d just experimented with it till he’d gotten the sound he’d wanted.

As if God would give a hoot, he uttered a silent prayer for divine help. After all, he didn’t want to make a complete idiot of himself. He also thanked the Lord for the one good thing about his being pushed to the front: Marva the Hussy got lost in the shuffle. For good, he hoped.

“Name’s Lewis Berkeley, but you can call me Berk,” the guy said as soon as Will stepped up to the stage. “This here’s my band.” He made introductions all around. There was Bob on the fiddle, Pinky on bass guitar, Rollie on the upright piano, Mel with a banjo, and a fellow by the name of Willard on drums. They all greeted him, smiled, and offered a quick handshake.

It seemed necessary to explain himself. He couldn’t imagine what they’d need with a harmonica player! “Listen. I don’t quite know how I got up here. I’m not going to lie; I’ve never performed—I mean, really played for anybody.”

Berk smiled. “Name a song you know.”

Which one?
He knew dozens, probably hundreds. Off the top of his head, he said, “‘Oh, Dem Golden Slippers.’”

“Ah, good old song,” Berk said, and the others nodded and readied their instruments. Berk set the rhythm with the toe of his boot and gave a sharp nod of his head, at which point Rollie made the piano nearly jump off its casters with his intro, Bob made his fiddle sing with chords Will had never heard before, the drummer held the beat, and the others dove in as if they’d practiced the song a hundred times before—and maybe they had.

For the first few measures, Will simply listened, enjoying the sound and wondering how and where to cut in. Soon, he decided just to go for it. Sucking in a breath, he put the harmonica to his mouth, then blew into the reeds, moving his lips up and down the ten-hole scale. He concentrated on blending in and keeping to the background. Yet it didn’t take long for him to get caught up in the music with a fervor that made him dominate the melody, doing improvisational trills and feeling freer than he had in a while. He was having the time of his life, thumping his foot on the wooden stage and taking in the enthusiastic claps, hoots, and roars of the swaying crowd.

Will Taylor was in his element.

“The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.” —John 10:10

Livvie moved about her apartment, trying to ignore the deafening noise overhead. Could that band be any louder? Granted, the beat was catchy, but it pounded like a thunderstorm.

She didn’t know why she was such a fuddy-duddy when it came to these Saturday night events. The folks who attended obeyed the no-smoking rule, as far as she knew, and, while she doubted their compliance with the ban on liquor sales, she’d never had to file a complaint with Sheriff Morris. Yet. Not that reporting it would do much good, considering his reputation for looking the other way when it came to bootlegging.

Still, the various groups that used the space, including the Wabash Rifle Club, who sponsored these dances, paid their monthly rent on time, thereby taking a financial load off Livvie’s shoulders. She could hardly complain about a little noise. And countless folks had told her they went for a good time, nothing more. Why, she could be up there herself this very minute if she’d accepted Will’s silly invitation. Thank heavens she hadn’t. Talk about rumors! She could almost hear them now: “Olivia Beckman must be done mourning her husband. Look, there she is with that new cook she hired. It’s about time that woman started living again.”

Never
, she told herself. She would never stop mourning her loss. Besides, what would Frank think of her taking up with a mysterious man such as Will Taylor, never mind that he was a faithful churchgoer? Attending church could be part of a charade designed to make him appear to be someone he wasn’t. Scowling at her bizarre thoughts, she walked to her bedroom to disrobe and begin her nightly routine.

And that’s when it struck her. Unless her ears failed her, someone upstairs was playing a harmonica. Could it be Will Taylor? The stage was directly overhead, and she was often able to make out specific tunes. Sometimes, she even hummed along if the song was familiar. With her head tilted back and eyes gazing upward, she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, then lowered herself to the edge of her bed and listened with rapt attention. From “‘Oh, Dem Golden Slippers,” the band moved into the mellow-sounding “Deep River,” followed by “Oh! Susanna,” and then straight into “Dixie.” The ease with which Will Taylor moved from one tune to another—if he was, indeed, the harmonica player—astounded her.

With nary a second more of deliberation, she buttoned her shirt again, hurried to the door, where her shoes were waiting, slid her feet into them, and scampered out the door and up to the third-floor landing.

***

In the shadows of a big oak tree, Clem watched people come and go from the third floor of Livvie’s Kitchen—large, boisterous groups, cozy couples arm in arm, and everyone in between. Each time the door opened, the music swelled in volume, and he could have sworn that a mouth harp took the lead. He knew only one person who could wail on a harp like that, and that was Will Taylor. From what he could tell, the place looked to be a popular Saturday night hangout. Folks had parked their cars and buggies in every available spot along the street. He wondered who owned the building. From his dimly lit hideout, he’d watched Will escort that pretty little dame upstairs to the second-floor landing, and he figured there were several apartments on that level. After that, when Will had skipped back downstairs and in through the rear entrance to the restaurant, Clem had circled back to the front to watch from across the street. Good thing he’d snuck off before Will had opened the front door, or he might have been spotted, and he couldn’t have that. Well, not yet, anyway. Oh, he intended to confront the guy, but there was safety in numbers, so he’d wait till Hank and Rudy arrived, when they would put their plan in motion. He only hoped that Hank would do his part. Fool had gone all skeptical on him lately.

Clem took a drag on his smoke and smirked to himself as two lovebirds sauntered past, giggling and whispering to each other, completely oblivious to his lurking. For some reason, he thought about Florence and his total lack of affection for her. Oh, he supposed he’d felt something at some time, but that had been several years and even more adulterous affairs ago. Sweat beaded on his brow and under his armpits as bile welled up in his gut. He spat, just missing his boot.
Man, that woman packs a wallop!
Not for the first time today, he ran a rough hand over his torn cheek, still swollen from that wretched candlestick. Thing probably weighed ten pounds. He should have gone for his gun after she’d flung it at him, but he’d figured she’d go for hers, as well, and he hadn’t been sure who was the faster shot. So, he’d stumbled out of the house instead, cursing at her even when he was out the door, holding his face as blood squirted out between his fingers.

Blamed brainless woman! That was the last he’d seen of her, save for a quick glance the next morning. And, with a little luck, he would never have to lay eyes on her again. He’d spent the night in the vacant building next to their apartment, nursing his wound as best he could with a couple of rags. In the morning, a noise outside had brought him to the window, and he’d watched her jump inside a cab, probably to go pick up her kid from her mother’s house. When the cab had disappeared around the bend, he’d rushed next door, grabbed the belongings he needed to survive, and taken every dollar and cent he could find, even those hidden in jars and under cushions. Then, he’d hit the pavement running, all the way rejoicing that he was through with that nagging swine.
Let her get her blasted divorce
, he thought.
She’ll hear no argument from me.
It was high time he found a woman who showed him a little respect, who doted on him and catered to his needs. Flo had never been able to acknowledge that men have needs. More bile had gathered in his throat, and he hurled a wad of it out into the night.

Across the street, the door off the second-floor landing opened, and he watched with interest as that pretty little vision of femininity from the restaurant stepped outside, locked her door, and then dashed up to the third floor, her shoulder-length, burnt golden hair flying haphazardly behind her. She wore the same knee-high dress as before, which showed off her shapely calves. Now, there was a woman who could soothe his hankering.

Clem sniffed, dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground, and snuffed it out with his heel. Man, he could use a good stiff drink about now. Once the sun set entirely, he’d scope out the whereabouts of Orville Dotson, the man whose name and address Fred had scrawled on the folded piece of paper he’d passed to him. Apparently, this Dotson fellow operated a still outside of town, and he was anxious to try his product. With a little luck, he’d be drinking himself into a stupor tonight.

Tomorrow, he’d call Hank and Rudy and tell them to get their sorry backsides to Wabash—the sooner, the better. A treasure of jewels lay hidden somewhere, good chance nearby, and they had a right to their shares, no matter that Will had served time while they’d gotten off scot-free. That’s what he got for being a numskull.

***

Livvie put a fist to the center of her chest and held her breath. Goodness gracious! Hadn’t she vowed never to set foot in this wretched dance hall? Other than to check for shattered windows, broken chairs, and the like, she never came up here.

The door was open just a crack, and Livvie peered inside, seeing nothing but the backsides of folks who swayed and clapped to the musical strains of “Dixie.” Gazing over their heads, she looked at the stage and, sure enough, saw Will entertaining the crowd with his toe-tapping rendition of the popular tune. Mercy, but he could play that thing!

By now, folks had started singing, their bodies still moving with the music:

I wish I was in the land of cotton,

Old times there are not forgotten,

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land.

In Dixie Land where I was born in,

Early on a frosty mornin’,

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land.

Why, I haven’t sung that song since…I don’t know when!
she thought. She’d had no reason to sing. Now, though, her lips tingled, almost aching to mouth the words.

The energetic clapping and lively singing continued as Will’s harmonica-playing soared with fervor. Before she knew it, Livvie found herself standing close to the stage and heard her less-than-stellar singing voice join in the chorus. Oh, but it felt good to sing at the peak of her lungs!

Then I wish I was in Dixie, hooray! hooray!

In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand to live and die in Dixie,

Away, away, away down South in Dixie,

Away, away, away down South in Dixie.

Another verse commenced, followed by the chorus and then another verse. When the song finally concluded, Livvie clapped and cheered right along with everyone else—until reality hit her with a giant thud. What was she doing, smack in the middle of this crowd of exuberant partiers? And what would Frank say? Livvie had been raised to believe that dancing was a sin, and Frank had been adamantly opposed to it, as well. Initially, he’d refused to rent out the upstairs space to bands and such, but the need for extra money had eventually overruled his qualms. Still, he never would have dreamed of setting foot inside this dance hall on a Saturday night.