The Jazz Palace (30 page)

For weeks Pearl had been moving like a sleepwalker. She rose in the morning. She cooked and cleaned. She prepared the Jazz Palace for the evening by washing down the counters and making the glasses sparkle. These were the gestures she'd been doing for years, but now they were only that. Without her sisters Pearl didn't know how to sleep in the bed. She flailed from one side to the other as if being tossed at sea. Her dark hair grew matted from all the twists and turns. Her eyes had the circles and her skin had the pallor of the restless and the ill. Often Jonah found her outside of the covers, talking in her sleep. Once he came upon her sitting at the edge of the bed, but when he touched her, she was startled. “Why did you wake me?” she asked.

She hardly went to the lake, and when she did, often it wasn't to swim. Sometimes she just she sat on the shore, drawing random patterns in the sand. When she went into the water, it seemed so cold and chilled her in a way that had hardly mattered before. Pearl didn't hear a word from Benny. The rest of the spring and all summer he never appeared. She expected that he would have already stopped by, but then the last time she saw him she'd sent him away.

She thought he'd come to see her, too, but he hadn't. Perhaps he still blamed himself for Opal's death. She wanted to tell him the truth, and maybe one day she would. She found herself waiting for
his knock, hoping that the door would open and he'd walk in, sit down, and play the piano as if he'd never left. But he didn't. Though she tried not to wait, she did.

Over the past year she let her hair grow longer and wore it tied up in a bun. She wore shorter skirts and, as she walked along Michigan Boulevard on her way to work, men admired her trim and shapely legs, her smooth muscular arms. In the winter she began swimming in an indoor pool. She found she could not go long without putting herself underwater, without that steady rhythm of breathing in and breathing out. Still, the pool wasn't the same as the lake. The lake had no boundaries. She was drawn to its limitlessness, the sense of possibilities. The lake gave her hope.

She couldn't help herself. At night she dressed for him. She put on lipstick. Pearl didn't like to wait. She thought about trying to phone him, but she resisted. In the end she decided that he would not return. If he had planned to see her, he would have by now. Slowly her longing transformed itself into rage. He didn't have to come, and she didn't want him to. Pearl resigned herself that she would live out her days with her brothers who had remained unmarried, as she knew she would, above the saloon.

I
n the fall a salesman walked through the candy store and knocked on the Jazz Palace door. He had no trouble finding his way. He had been to dozens of speaks all over Chicago. He brought with him a booklet that described a new machine, illumined with colored lights, that played tunes, one after the other. It had an arm that reached for the wax recordings and, for a nickel, placed them on the turntable.

Moss and Pearl read the booklet from cover to cover. Moss was as taken with the machine as was Pearl, and they purchased one for the saloon. It arrived on a truck a few weeks later and took three Teamsters to unload it. The salesman came back to help them install it and put in the records they wanted to hear.

Pearl dropped the first coin in, then watched amazed as the lights flickered red and yellow and the arm dropped, scooping up a
record into the slot. Now they could have all the music they wanted. But on Monday night when Napoleon showed up, he took a shot of whiskey and gazed at the illuminated box sitting in the corner. “What's that doing here?” he asked.

Beaming with pride, Moss put a nickel in, and the machine lit up. Yellow and red lights flashed. A hand dropped down, picking up a record, and “St. Louis Blues” came on. Napoleon's eyes opened wider. Then he got up and walked across the room. Moss handed him a nickel and “Wild Man Blues” followed. Napoleon stared at the blinking display of red, yellow, and green, standing there in the middle of the saloon like a fiery beast, spewing Dixieland music and jazz.

Despite his failing eyesight Napoleon could see what this machine with its bright lights and blasting sounds meant to live music. “That's it,” Napoleon said. “We're through.” And he began calculating if he had enough money saved for a steerage ticket to Paris. He knew that with the invention of the jukebox, and Eliot Ness closing the cabarets, live music was doomed. His future would happen elsewhere.

That night he called Benny and had him meet him at a downtown bar, where Napoleon pleaded his case. “Come with me to Paris,” he said. “We can make something happen there.” There wasn't much holding Napoleon here. Maddy's children were grown and she'd found a man who shared her bed during the hours she was in it. She was all right to see him go, and Napoleon was ready to leave.

Benny sat fiddling with the piano, shaking his head. “You'll be back in no time,” he told him. “And I'll be right here.”

Napoleon looked Benny straight in the eye. “Nobody would have heard that flub. It was a simple mistake.”

“It was my mistake.” Benny shook his head, staring at his hands. “And I heard it.”

Napoleon understood that Benny was referring to many things. He shrugged. “Who cares?”

“Nice title,” Benny chuckled. “Anyway, that's not the reason.”

“Music is dead here, man. Or it's dying soon.” Then added, “Why? Why won't you come?”

“I don't want to.”

“I don't believe you.”

Benny lowered his eyes. “I have responsibilities.”

“That's true, Moon.” Napoleon nodded. “You always did.”

Benny winced, then glared at his longtime friend. “It's more than I can say for some people.” He waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming.

Already Napoleon was walking out the door. “I'll see you in Paris,” he said.

L
ate that night after a day of selling coasters, Benny headed home. It was a cold night, but he didn't bother buttoning his coat. His parents were asleep when he got in, and the living room was dark. He was shivering as he sat down at the piano. Its keys shone in the dark like teeth. He played a scale or two, fiddled with the phrase from his “Twilight Blue.” Then he sat with his head down like a scolded child.

It was as if someone had pulled a plug in him, and water drained out. The music had left him as easily as it had come. He had no idea how long he sat, his hands barely resting on the keys. Then he went to the window. He was grateful for the silence of the apartment, glad his parents were asleep. A light snow fell. It was the first snowfall of the season, and he stood, staring. It wouldn't stick. With his eyes he followed one flake, then another. He watched them go. Down to the ground. One flake at a time, joining the millions of other snowflakes. One after the other landing on the sidewalk, melting there.

For a long time he didn't move. Then he put on his coat, his rubber boots, and his cap. As he tiptoed toward the door, his father rolled in his troubled sleep while Hannah, who lay awake, clasped a hand to her heart. Something was different in the way Benny closed the door and left the house. At the bottom of the stairs he braced for the cold. A raw wind shrieked down from the north. Wrapping his scarf tight around his neck, Benny walked along Ashland. In the snow the streets were almost deserted. The occasional car sped past him. A taxi stopped to see if he wanted a lift, but Benny waved him
away. He wanted to walk. He was cold and shivering, but he didn't think about where he was going and why. He let his feet take him to wherever it was he was going. It was as if he were on a horse that knew the way home, even if he didn't.

His footsteps had a rhythm. A beat of their own. They made a little shuffling sound. He slipped and had to catch himself against a wall. A light powder covered the sidewalks and his footprints disappeared almost as quickly as he put his foot down. No one could follow him. Not that anyone would. He turned east. A dog in an upstairs flat started barking at him and Benny shushed the dog and told it to quiet down. A drunk lay in an alleyway. Benny paused, slapping the man in the face until he woke. “You better get up,” Benny told the man. “You'll freeze to death here.” The drunk slurred something, then struggled to his feet. Benny helped steady him until the drunk lurched down the street.

Benny kept heading east. He walked under the “el” tracks where for a moment the snow paused until he came out on the other side. He walked farther until the streets grew familiar. He recognized certain houses and shops. The kosher butcher with its Hebrew lettering. The dry-goods stores. Then he knew where he was going. He chuckled when he figured it out. He could turn around and head back but what was the point? He'd been going here all along.

Pearl was sitting up at the bar, her head resting in her hands, unsure of what to do with herself. For the first time since she could remember, all the tasks that had occupied her for so long were finished. There'd always been someone to care for, some chore to perform. And now there was none. She longed for a room that needed straightening. Something she had to fix. Perhaps the bar should offer olives and cheese on crackers. Perhaps she should clear out the candy shop and serve lemon ices again. But it all seemed like busywork. None of it was the task for which she was intended—though she had no idea what that task might be. It occurred to Pearl that this must be what it felt like to grow old.

A draft brushed past her, causing her to shiver. She rubbed her hands on her arms and tightened the shawl she'd thrown over her shoulders. Looking up, she saw Benny, standing in the doorway. He
was covered in a light coating of snow. His eyelashes were glazed with tears. She wondered what had taken him so long. “Benny, come in.” Pearl rose, gesturing his way. “You'll catch your death.” He nodded and, as he took Pearl into his arms, she brushed the snow away.

His hands were freezing as she rubbed them with her own. He trembled, but it wasn't from the outside. It came from his bones. He clasped her for a moment as he tried to get warm, then pressed his face into her hair. He had a million things he wanted to say, but it only came in a whisper she barely heard. “Thank you,” he said. She had him sit down while she made a pimento-and-cheese sandwich and a hot tea with brandy and honey that he drank in great gulps, though it scalded his mouth. She brought the heat back into his body as best she could. She knew he had come for something. And it was not just for her. He had lost his way.

The piano sat, cold and abandoned as Pearl had been in a corner of the room, and Benny looked it over as if he saw a stranger he thought he recognized. His fingers were still as he wrapped them around the hot mug. “I shouldn't be here,” he managed to say, and Pearl ran her fingers across his brow. “You shouldn't be anywhere else,” she replied.

A
ll the rest of that winter Benny came to the Jazz Palace, but he rarely played. Once in a while he fiddled, but mostly he sat at the bar. His hands and feet slowed, then came to a halt. His tapping fingers had ceased. Since the first time he appeared with Napoleon at the saloon door, Pearl had only seen him in motion. Now in his stillness she could see how lonely he'd been. As the weeks went on, she let him be. Perhaps in time he'd figure something out. Meanwhile she had other concerns. Customers were dwindling and money was scarce. No one had disposable cash. Even Balaban and Katz rarely stopped by. People could barely eat, let alone pay for music and beer.

Clubs all over Chicago were closing their doors, and in the late spring Jonah and Moss decided to shut the Jazz Palace down. At first Pearl resisted, but when she saw the tallies in the accounting books,
she agreed. They sold all the fixtures. The crystal chandelier and glasses went to the Edgewater Beach Hotel. They sold the mahogany bar to a prominent men's club and the bistro tables and chairs to a nearby synagogue. A restaurant that specialized in hamburgers bought the jukebox. But Pearl wouldn't let them sell the piano. No matter who came in or how much they offered, Pearl was firm. It was not for sale. She had her brothers cover it and move it into a corner of the candy store. Then they rented out the ground floor to a dentist who professed to have a silent drill and a painless way of straightening crooked teeth with a metal wire. He hung a sign of a tooth above what had once been the entrance to the bar.