Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do (15 page)

25

I
T WAS LIKE STEPPING BACK IN TIME.
An all-girl band was playing grown-folks music on a small bandstand. The vocalist, who couldn't have been a day over twentytwo, was singing the Billie Holiday classic “Miss Brown to You” like somebody had written it just for her. Their director, a sixtyish hipster with a kente kufi and a dark suit wielded his baton like a proud paterfamilias. Aretha had told me Club Zebra often showcased the talents of Spelman College music students, and I took these very serious players in dark evening gowns to be those young women.

Couples were seated at tables around the spacious dance floor while white-jacketed waiters brought champagne without being asked. The men, young and old, were all in dark suits or tuxes, and my outfit fit right in among the women's satin evening suits and silky “after fives.” People were still arriving in a steady stream, laughing and waving to their friends. All shades of the rainbow were well represented under that big African American umbrella. From eighteen to eighty, all gathering in one spot to enjoy themselves and one another. These folks looked
good
, and they knew it.

Zeke was standing at the door greeting everybody by name so they wouldn't forget this was still their neigh borhood bar, except tonight they had chosen to dress it, and themselves, up for the occasion. I stood beside Blue for a minute and just took it all in. Flora materialized at my elbow as Precious Hargrove arrived at the front door.

Blue turned toward me. “I've got to go greet the senator. I'll see you later?”

“What about me?” Flora asked.

“You, too.” Blue laughed and left us to resume his hosting duties.

I watched him moving through the crowd, greeting people, smiling, shaking hands, and remembered how it had felt dancing cheek to cheek.

“So what do you think so far?” Flora said, grinning at me.

“It's wonderful.”

I was watching Blue greet Precious Hargrove and a tall, handsome young man with a fresh haircut and a suit that looked more Hugo Boss than hip-hop. Precious had on a bright red satin skirt and an ethnic-flavored embroidered jacket that flattered her roundness without emphasizing it inappropriately. She's running for governor, after all. She can't be too
foxy
.

Blue and the young man were laughing together, and Precious wore her motherly pride like a diamond brooch.

“Is that her son?” I asked Flora.

“Kwame,” Flora said. “Smart, good-looking, and loves his mother. Precious did a good job with him.”

“Where's his father?”

Flora shrugged. “Died when he was a kid. Want to grab a table?”

“Sure.”

We were headed for some empty seats when a small tan man in a white dinner jacket intercepted us with a courtly bow.

“Ladies!”

“Peachy!” Flora said, giving him an enthusiastic hug.

When she stepped back, he looked at her, gave a low whistle, and turned to me. “Last time I saw this woman she was wearing hip boots and driving a pickup truck.”

Flora laughed. “But I clean up nice, right?”

“You clean up very nice. I'm surprised that Hank let you out looking so fine.”

“Stop flirting,” she said, “and meet my friend Regina Burns. Gina, this is Lester Nolan. He's responsible for this gathering in the first place.”

“Call me Peachy,” he said, with another small bow. “Nobody calls me Lester unless they want to sell me something.”

He was a very small man, with a full head of carefully brushed white hair, who looked to be in his early fifties. He was wearing the hell out of that dinner jacket, and he knew it.

“Peachy,” I said as requested. “So nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. Where is your husband anyway?”

A small cloud passed over Flora's face, but she smiled brightly. “He's in Detroit fighting off the bad guys.”

“Well, if bad guys are what you're looking for, Detroit's the place to be.”

One of Flora's gardeners was waving her over from across the room, and she excused herself quickly to avoid more talk of Hank and left me alone with Peachy. That seemed to be fine with him. He turned to me and spoke as if we were the only two people in the room.

“You know why they call me Peachy?”

I knew he was going to tell me. “No, why?”

“Well, I grew up in a little town called Dublin, Georgia, on a plantation where all they grew was peaches. We had to pick peaches. We had to pack peaches. We had to can peaches. We had to make peach cobbler, spiced peaches, and peach pie. My father even made peach wine. Would you like to sit down?”

“Thanks.”

The band had taken a short break, and I followed him to a table near the stage that had a small “reserved” card on it. A waiter appeared immediately and set down two glasses and a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket. Peachy nodded at the waiter to open it and continued his story.

“By the time I left Dublin, I was sick of peaches. The smell of them made me sick. The sight of them wasn't much better. So I decided to move to the big city and make my way as a musician.”

The waiter poured us each a glass of champagne, left the bottle in the bucket, and disappeared. Peachy ignored it.

“So I saved up my money from pickin' and packin' all those damn peaches and I dreamed about coming to Atlanta. I prayed about coming to Atlanta, and I asked God to deliver me from those peaches. I told him if he could do me that one favor, I would never have anything to do with any kind ofpeaches for the rest ofmy days.”

He was smiling broadly at his own tale since he had the advantage of knowing the punch line. I wondered what kind of musician he was, but he wasn't the kind of storyteller who left air for questions, so I just smiled back. You can't really drink champagne unless you toast first, so I ignored mine, too.

“One day, I figured, no time like the present, walked out to the freeway, and hitched a ride headed for the big city. The guy who picked me up was a horn player who had a buddy who was trying to put together a band. So I told him I could play guitar from hanging around the juke joints, and he took me to the audition with him. That's where I met
him
for the first time.”

I was getting confused. “Met who?”

He raised his glass. “Our host, Mr. Blue Hamilton.”

He tapped my glass lightly in what I guessed was a toast to Blue, but the story didn't stop there.

“So I played for him on somebody else's guitar, and he hired me on the spot. He sent everybody else home except me and my buddy, and we just started working on some arrangements immediately. Blue liked the old songs and I did, too, so we hit it off right away. When it was time to split, I told him we had just got into town and asked him which way was the YMCA.”

The memory made him chuckle, and he took another small sip of his champagne.

“He said, ‘Aw, nigga, you ain't gotta be stayin’ at the Y. Good as you play, you can come stay with me 'til you find a place.' So I said ‘Cool,’ and promised not to wear out my welcome. He said not to worry about it, and everything was everything until we pulled up in front of his apartment and the sign said ‘Peachtree Street’!”

He rolled his eyes in such comic distress that I giggled.

“So I had to tell him thanks, but no thanks. I'd go on to the Y until I could find a place.”

“Because of the street name?”

“That's just what Blue said that night, but I told him like I'm telling you, a deal's a deal. No more peaches. No way, no how!”

“So what did you do?”

I spotted Blue over Peachy's shoulder scanning the room, and I knew he was looking for me. I resisted the impulse to wave.

“I carried my no-peaches ass to the YMCA and slept on a lumpy mattress for three dollars and fifty cents a night until I could pay for a place.”

Blue walked up in time for the punch line.

“Because I had
integrity
.”

“Is this Negro bending your ear with the story of his life?”

I smiled up at him. “He was telling me how he got his nickname.”

“I gave it to him.”

“He didn't tell me that.”

Blue grinned at his friend. “I figured if peaches were the driving force in his life to the extent that he'd live at the Y for a month—”

“It wasn't a month!”

“—that ought to be his name just to remind me that even though he's my ace, when it comes to peaches, his judgment is just a little left of center.”

“A deal's a deal,” Peachy said. “The man upstairs knows why I did it.”

Aretha appeared in the doorway wearing a flowing pair of pale purple evening pajamas with a tight mandarin collar that set off her lovely neck to perfection. Long silver earrings swung in her ears while she chatted with Kwame Hargrove, whose mother was probably circulating and shaking hands. They were both smiling as they headed for a corner table. I thought about Lu's teasing:
Aretha and Kwame, sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

“You doing all right?” Blue said, taking a seat at our table and squeezing my hand.

“I'm fine,” I said, taking another small sip of champagne. The line between social drinking and silly drinking is too easy to blur if you aren't paying attention.

The band was returning to the stage, and the tables were filling up with couples and foursomes who were chatting, laughing, greeting old friends. Behind us a young couple waved at their friends on the bandstand, who acknowledged them with an unflappable cool that identified them as jazz musicians even more clearly than their ability to play their instruments.

Peachy chuckled. “These young sisters are something else, aren't they?”

I nodded, glad Blue was still holding my hand. Our table was right at the edge of the tiny stage and as I watched the women launch into the version of “My Favorite Things” that my less gifted neighbor has been trying for, I wished my mother could have seen them. Sure, it would have touched off a long discourse about what her generation sacrificed to get us this far down the road, but looking at these girls at their keyboards and drum sets, I figure she had some braggin' rights coming.

Zeke escorted Precious Hargrove through the crowded room, deposited her at a table near the other side of the stage, and headed straight for Blue, who squeezed my hand again and stood up.

“We're going to make a few presentations,” he said. “You've got the best seat in the house.”

“Show time,” said Peachy, polishing off his champagne and winking at me as he stood up and straightened his dinner jacket. “How do I look?”

“Fabulous!” I said, and he did.

“Gentlemen?” Zeke appeared at the table. “The hour is upon us. I'll welcome everybody and call this Negro up.” He inclined his head toward Peachy, and his dreadlocks shifted and swung the way they might have in a Jamaican breeze. “He can present the check to the senator, and then Blue can give us a few words of wisdom.”

“A very few,” Peachy said.

“Well, Brother Blue is always a man of few words, so I don't think there's any problem there.”

Zeke waited for the girls to finish their number and took to the stage as the audience applauded warmly. Peachy and Blue stood near the steps, waiting for their cue.

“Thank you to the Club Zebra House Band,” Zeke said, and the girls grinned at one another, fully aware that their college would probably be surprised at the name he had given their collective alter ego. “And welcome. This is a special night and one we look forward to every year.”

The audience, which now included people standing at the rear of the room and in the doorway, applauded again. Flora threaded her way between the tables and sat down next to me, still clapping.

“I didn't mean to abandon you,” she whispered. “Peachy didn't need to remind me that Hank wasn't around tonight.”

“No problem,” I whispered back. “Do you know why they call him Peachy?”

She rolled her eyes. “Peach pie, peach cobbler, peach wine …”

We giggled, and I saw Blue glance in our direction and grin. I grinned back.

“We want to give a special thanks to the ladies who worked so hard on this year's committee,” Zeke was saying from the stage. “And when I say
ladies
, I mean real ladies—the members of the Sensuous Ladies Social Club. Miss Green, are you here?”

A pretty brown-skinned woman in a tight green dress that celebrated her curves instead of trying to camouflage them waved from another table and blew him a kiss. “Thank you, baby!”

“Watch out, now! You know my wife doesn't like anybody calling me
baby
but her!” Zeke said as the crowd laughed. “I could introduce some more of y'all, but if I start that, we'll be here all night, so let's get to the most important reason for this gathering, which is to give away your money.”

More laughter. “You the best at that!” a voice shouted from the rear of the room.

Zeke laughed, too. “About to get better, so get out your checkbooks and give a big Club Zebra welcome to the man who started it all. Peachy Nolan, come on up here and relieve these well-dressed folks of their cash.”

Zeke surrendered the mike to Peachy and left the stage as people rose to their feet in a heartfelt greeting. Peachy, clearly pleased, waved them back into their seats.

“All right, all right,” he said, “what do the young people say? I'm
feelin' you
, but we got business.”

I saw Zeke go over to Precious Hargrove's table and escort her to the steps on the other side of the stage.

“When me and Blue started hosting this party fifteen years go, it was just something we did at his house or my house to honor the memory of my baby sister, Miss Janet Cassandra Nolan, and raise some money for anybody who was trying to do something good around here. We started with a couple hundred bucks for the soup kitchen over on Lee Street. Then we bought some band instruments for Washington High School and some athletic equipment for the program at the Boys and Girls Club.”

I hadn't realized until that moment that it was Peachy's sister's murder that had changed the course of Blue's life. The party was only a symbol of what was a much greater offering from one friend to another.