Diary of a Blues Goddess (17 page)

"That long? I don't know if I can wait."

"Sorry. Don't date wedding singers. We are notoriously unavailable."

He leaned over and kissed me. "I'll call you over the weekend, and Monday I'll cook you jambalaya like you have never had before."

"Doubtful. Remember, I've lived here all my life. That would have to be one hell of a jambalaya recipe," I teased, kissing his cheek, which smelled of shaving cream and Polo cologne.

"But this is my family's recipe handed down through generations . You'll be
begging
me for cold beer."

"You're on."

We lingered on a kiss, and then I walked up the steps to the house and inside. Friday, eleven in the morning. In the Heartbreak Hotel, that might as well be predawn. My normally shy cat, Roxie, came and leaned against my leg. She had been avoiding me since Judy Garland, Dominique's cat, arrived. I think she was jealous. But other than Roxie's purr, the house was still. Dominique was probably still sleeping, as was Jack, because knowing him, he went out drinking after our fight, and when he was angry, he drank too much. And Nan always slept until noon. With eye shades on. She swore by them for her beauty rest and tried to convince me to wear them. It was just a little too Gloria Swanson in
Sunset Boulevard
for me.

I crept up the stairs and into my room. I pulled off Rick's sweatpants and climbed into bed still wearing his oxford. I wanted to feel close to him. I kept telling myself that this wasn't love. It was infatuation. Lust. But I missed him already. I was going through orgasm withdrawal.

My phone rang. Caller ID Maggie.

"Hello, Mags," I said, assuming she wanted all the dirt on Casanova Jones.

"Don't say anything. Don't tell me how stupid I was… but I slept with Jack last night."

"What?" I couldn't be hearing this.

"I know. It was crazy. Listen, I can't really talk. I have to blow out one of my customers and do a foil job. But he came over. We went out drinking. Hopped from bar to bar and ended up back at my place. We woke up naked with a telltale wet spot on
my
side of the bed. I don't even remember if it
was good
, Georgie."

My head started pounding. I wanted to come clean and tell her everything right then and there. But then she'd be even more upset. Her voice was trembling.

"I've liked him for 50 long, and now this? Sloppy sex I can't remember. This isn't the way I wanted things to go. Now it'll be awkward. I wanted fuck-your-brains-out, rock-your-world sex. Not who's-on-the-wet-spot sex!"

I had fuck-your-brains-out sex last night, but I wasn't going to make Maggie feel worse. I leaned over to my nightstand and grabbed my aspirin bottle. Colossal and sudden headache. And I had to play a funeral directors' convention with Jack tonight. I longed to lay him out in a coffin for size. I popped two aspirin and took a swig of water from a glass I always keep by my bed.

She went on, shouting slightly over the background whir of blow-dryers and the usual hair-salon chatter. "Should I talk to him about it? Pretend I don't remember anything? He ran out of my apartment so fast this morning, Georgie. I'm humiliated."

Not nearly as much as if she knew about Jack and me.

"Maggie, honey, we'll sort this all out."

"Will you talk to him?"

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Please?… "

"Maggie—"

"Please. I'm
begging
you. As your closest female friend—and I mean female with actual estrogen. As the woman you bought your first vibrator with."

"Technically, that was Dominique. You were just as embarrassed as I was. We both gave her our money."

"Fine, as the woman who nursed you through your breakup with the married creep. As the woman who—"

"Mags, I know who you are. You're the woman who dyed my hair pink two years ago with a bad batch of henna… But even so, all right. I'll talk to him." Right after I punch his lights out with my grandmother's favorite punch-to-the-nose technique we learned in self-defense class.

"Promise?" Yes.

"How was your date?"

"Very hot."

"Tell me later?"

"We're playing a gig. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Maggie."

"I'll see you tomorrow actually. I'm waxing Angelica's eyebrows."

"She's coming over?"

"Didn't you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"She moved in. To the Heartbreak Hotel. She walked in on Frankie with his ex."

"What is this, Mardi Gras? Has everyone I know lost their fucking minds?"

"I don't know. So I'll see you tomorrow."

"See ya, Mags."

My head pounded, and I took another aspirin. Not that I thought it would help. Jack had made Rick sound like the bastard. Once a cheat, always a cheat. But instead, he had certainly made a fine mess of things.

What is it about New Orleans? The city has a rhythm of sex. It's in the steaminess. You just imagine hot supercharged sex then lazy naps beneath ceiling fans. If you 'walk through certain neighborhoods, the street corners have full bands playing on them, brass, drums, singers, dancers. Making music that sends a pulse through your veins, a pounding beat that taps sex-sex-sex against your heart. Music and sex and alcohol. Mother Music as my aunt called it.

And voodoo. Dominique is very superstitious about things like that. The city has a history. Marie Laveau was the most famous voodoo queen of them all. If you go to her grave at St. Louis Cemetery, it's covered with black candles and trinkets that followers of black magic leave behind. Maybe someone had cast a spell over everyone I knew. Made us all blind with lust.

I wondered what my great-aunt Irene would have to say about love's foolish spell.

February 16, 1939

I am in love. I scarce can write it without trembling. I've never felt this way before. Not ever. Sure… on the road I hear all kinds of talk. I once was at the Apollo Theater and T-Bone Malone was makin' eyes at me. This piano player, that one. This sax man. That one. Musicians. They're all full of the same sort of lines. Trying to get this New Orleans girl to believe they really want her for more than just fun and games. Uh-huh. Like I was just born yesterday, as Myra might say. Now, you go out with a band touring on the road, people look at you a certain way. Like you must be that kind of girl. I like to say to people I'm not. But I don't think they believe me. They think that I'm all about fun.

Musicians are known for the weed we smoke and the drinks we drink. 'Specially jazz musicians. See, everyone gets that what's happening in music now is changing music. We're making something new. Something special. And these are wild guys. They know they're makin' some amazin' music and it gets them all crazy.

Then once people hear me sing, people say to me, "Girl, you sing about love like you really know what you're talking about." So they have these thoughts and ideas about me. They draw some conclusions, though the conclusions are wrong. Love? No, I never knew love before.

New Orleans is the city of love and the city of jazz. Paris the city of lights. I love Paris. But New Orleans is part of me. I forgot that. I forgot that until I came home. When I left, I thought I hated New Orleans. Hated its heat. The way it creeps all over you and makes you sweat. Hated the way Myra was treated better than I was on the streets. People sometimes thought I was Myra's maid! But now that I am here and in love, New Orleans is magical. Everything about it is bright like the sound of a trumpet.

This love is secret. I can barely breathe. I think about… this love and it just sets me on fire. Takes my breath away and then sends me over the moon. I stare at the moon out my window at night and wait, every hair standing on end. Waiting. Waiting. Counting the seconds.

At first I thought, I'm in love so I surely can't be singing the blues and my sad songs. But love sure can give you days you feel sad. I sing the blues… it's like remembering every sadness I ever had. Like the day Pa died. Now, he was about the kindest man you ever met. And Mama, her sickness. I think about them, and I feel sad. I want my love to last forever. To live forever. I know it's too much to ask of God. But I'll do some asking anyway when I say my prayers.

I've lost my mama, my baby brother, my papa. Let me have this one love, Lord. Let me have it without you stealing it away from me. Don't take it from me. Give me this. This one. Please. Lord. Please.

Yes. I can sing the blues. I take this longing I have as I wait. Wait for my beloved. And then I sing it downstairs at the piano. I think my voice is better, richer, finer. I can do anything because I have love. I can fly. I can be free. Really free. In the hours past midnight. I am free.