The Devil Take the Blues--Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Beatrice

It was only meant to be Agnes, Tim, Frank, and I. The wedding, I mean. Agnes squealed when I told her about this dark man and how he had “swept me off my feet.”

“But you’re not…?” The question hung on her lips as she gazed at my belly.

“No,” I said sharply.

I lied and said that we had spent months exchanging correspondence. We had met last spring at the Parish fair, he an important businessman who traveled frequently. I had put him off at first, what with the age difference—Frank had laughed loudly when I had told him that—but he kept writing letters in secret and had them hand-delivered to me by one of his employees. He was so private, you know.

Agnes ate it up. I struggled to lie to her; it felt dirty, and I was sure it was one of the many lies to come. Still, she eagerly volunteered to help cobble my wedding together. I tried to tell her that I didn’t need all that, and it was just going to be a family thing.

For truly, what was the point of a wedding? So many of my own friends were so keen on getting hitched that I wanted to grab them by their ruffles and shake them. A wedding is not a marriage. But so many women get into a tizzy over gowns and flowers and shoes and guests and cards, and none of that mattered when it came to choosing a life partner. I didn’t understand any of it. What was the point of throwing that big of a party that was going to last only one day? So many of my friends had married themselves off—Agnes included.

But a marriage? Marriage was something different. I never had any experience with it; what little I had had soured me toward the whole institution. My grandmother, standing broken hearted when she caught my grandfather cheating. My father, leaving my mother to raise two daughters by herself. What was a marriage but a sham promise between two people, who were too lonely and short-sighted to choose any better? I had thought that I would never have a reason strong enough to get married. I had seen women bind themselves to men and lose themselves in the process. If I were to damn myself, marriage seemed like a pretty good way to start.

“Agnes, it’s just a party.” We stood outside my house, sunlight kissing our heads.

“Just a party? Beatrice, you only get married once in your life! We can get Marie to make the beignets, Charles from church to make some barbeque, he’s got that secret recipe that’ll make you cry it’s so good, Hank’ll get the crawfish going, you know he always has those traps full, and if I call Betty Lou right now, I could probably twist her arm to make her shrimp and grits…”

I caved. We spent the afternoon stringing up fairy lights in the trees and hanging different colored bottles on the porch. We borrowed some tables from the Church and set them outside underneath the trees.

“We’ll just have to manage without tablecloths,” said Agnes. We busied ourselves making tea, slicing lemons, and sweeping off the porch. Agnes and I managed to pull Mama’s old wedding gown out of storage, gently beating it free of dust.

“Coupla generations too old to be truly beautiful, but it’ll do in a pinch,” sighed Agnes. She twisted my hair into a braid. I couldn’t regret getting married; not while she still lived.?

When Frank drove up in his car, a canary yellow Rolls Royce Phantom—he had bragged that his was the only one in the state that had matching yellow-walled tires—my heart beat faster. How on earth was I supposed to act normal around him, much more in love?

When he stepped out of the car, four more people came with him. Soon, half the town ambled up. You tell just one person about a party in a small town, and people’ll find a way to arrive.

By the time everyone gathered, the sun was low in the sky. Everyone fanned themselves, the preacher man intoned some words over us. I barely looked at Frank, but when the preacher said, “Till death do you part,” I smiled. I managed to find some humor in a holy man marrying off a hellion and thought that I could at least talk to Frank about that whenever the hustle and bustle was over.

“You may kiss the bride,” said the preacher.

I closed my eyes and leaned forward, and Frank gave a respectable, chaste kiss. His aroma of tobacco lingered around me, and I found his lips not unpleasant. Scattered applause broke out.?

“And now, we need a shovel!” said Frank.

One that had been laid aside for such a tradition found its way into his hands.

“Ain’t no whiskey been buried,” I whispered to Frank. “Hasn’t been time for that.”

He winked at me. “That’s what you think.”

He walked over to the large oak that overhung the house. After a few shovelfuls of rich, red earth had been pried up, he stuck his hand down and pulled up a whiskey bottle that had been placed there, face-down.

“A toast!”

As the whiskey was passed around from guest to guest, Frank held up his own glass.

“To my beautiful wife, Beatrice, who has been the most open-minded and willing of brides,” began Frank.

Agnes stood beside me. “Odd kind of start to a speech, don’t you think?” she said.

I inclined my head a fraction of an inch. “My husband is…rather unique.”

“Love brought her here on this day, and love will see us through. I look forward to a lifetime—” here Frank leveled his gaze at me— “and beyond with you. To Beatrice.”

“To Beatrice,” chorused the guests.

After everyone had drank, Frank then did something that no one, not even me, expected. He gestured to the house and said, “Now, as a way of thanking you fine folks for coming, I have engaged a most special band to play for you. Enjoy the music and enjoy the party!”

A hurricane and all its fury could not have impacted me with more force than the sight of Angelo walking out of Frank’s house. My knees nearly buckled out from under me, whether from guilt or relief, I couldn’t say. I thought he was dead; surely, he was dead. Maybe we were all dead, or in some horrible dream of Frank’s. Maybe this was the real way he tortured people. Not with fire and brimstone but with memories.

However, the guests did not welcome the sight of Angelo and his band like I did, did not relish the sound of them tuning up. More than one person clicked their tongue, and several murmured how it was high time to get a move on.

“Now,” tutted Frank. “If y’all want some of the best whiskey—that’s right, whiskey—in this dry parish, then you’ll stay and not utter a single word against this talented group. Otherwise, no whiskey. For chrissakes, just relax and enjoy the music,” he added. He nodded to the band, and they struck up a zesty tune.

My fellow Azomans didn’t know what to make of Frank and his pronouncement, but many a throat was as dry as the creek in summertime, and it had been a good while since any of them had had any liquor, much less good liquor.

He was nothing if not a tempter. Only one person stomped off, but the rest murmured that as long as they didn’t have to talk to them, they could sit a spell. Shame to let good whiskey go to waste. Frank was more than happy to chat up the guests, while I stood rooted to the spot as the live oak in the front yard.

I longed to run to him, to touch him, to see if he were truly alive. My stomach churned. In my cowardice, I had not even asked the Sheriff what had happened to him. In many ways, I had not wanted to. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t breach the social contract that they made everyone sign at birth.

Only when they were finished with the song did I dare approach. When Angelo saw me, he became as still as a dead man’s heart.?

“I thought they killed you,” I whispered.

“No.” A swallow. Bob of his Adam’s apple. “Your…husband helped me. He chased off the Sheriff and his posse.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “For everything. There’s so much I wish I could tell you. I’m sorry for the way things happened.”

He simply nodded to the crowd. “I think you should get back to your wedding.”

?

?

*

Frank

For the first time in a long time, I was happy. At first, I thought I was dizzy or fearful for those human reactions are so deeply entwined with happiness that it was hard to tell them apart. My heart raced. My stomach fluttered. All that nonsense. But happy I was, for I had Beatrice, if in legality if not in heart, but I was sure to win her in time. And I had a house full of people, laughing over the blueberry lemonade, fingers sticky with pecan pie, stomping their muddy feet to muddy music. A fiddle soared in the air like a blackbird, and my fingers twitched.

I got to know each and every person who meandered onto my property. LouAnn Simmons, who had a penchant for looking in her neighbor’s window and reporting all she saw to her husband, who had long since stopped listening to her; David Leighton, who stored so many possessions in his yard that he screeched like a banshee if anyone threw the slightest needle, thimble, or tinned can out; Tabitha Warbler, who had abandoned her children in North Carolina to come here to live with her man, only to discover he up and left her for a man out in San Francisco.

Everybody has a vice; some are more easily hidden than others. But everyone has an addiction. And if they say they don’t, well, then their addiction is lying.

Even Agnes managed to not quite get on my nerves. After all, I could be magnanimous. She was going to leave eventually, so what did I have to fear from her? What did I have to resent? I could laugh with her, taste her homemade pie (damn it, it was good), and even joke about Beatrice behind her back. The only thing I couldn’t quite figure out about her was what her vice was. She was sweet. Much too much. I would find that vein of bitterness, though. It would just take time.

In the meantime, as I made my rounds among the guests, grasping their arm, looking into their hearts, delighting in and despising what I saw, a handsome man caught my attention. His limp was not noticeable, the way his piercing blue eyes were or his blond hair that was swept back and to one side. Nor near as noticeable as his chest, too broad for an office man.

He stopped to speak with another man, whose jowls were almost as protruding as his nose. They shook hands briefly, and I would not have given the exchange any more notice, if not for what happened next. He broke away from the man walked up to me.

“Man of the hour,” he said, reaching his hand out. “Congratulations on marrying my sister-in-law. Guess that makes us brothers. Name’s Tim Stevenson”

I shook his hand, admiring the strength in it. One did not live one’s entire life in a Baptist church without learning how to shake hands. I replaced my hand with a drink, and he saluted me and took a swig. Then a gulp.

Beatrice would come to hate me, but I had to discover what drove this man. What made him tick. Of all the people at the wedding, he moved with such quiet assurance that it made it impossible to look away. A man who knew his place in the world. I could humor him. I humored everyone. They would all end up dead, so what did it matter?

“So I hear you’re after the position of City Mayor,” I said. “Must be nice in a place like Azoma. Quiet. Not a lot of worry or work.”

“It’s something small, but I’m planning on working my way up,” he said. “Eventually I want to run for Senator. Who know, maybe one day president.”

“Are you now?”

Fiddles blazed in the background. The hair along my scalp tingled in a most delicious way. “What’s your platform?” I slogged a drink from my cup.

“Prohibition.” His grin could charm the fur off a cat.

“Worthy cause.”

“The best.” He took another drink. “Glad I ran into you. My wife keeps me on a pretty tight leash. Keeps harping about me takin’ a swig ever’ now and then. Man’s gotta have a little fun, doesn’t he?”

“Of course,” I agreed. I knew all about fun. I had spent eternities building up fun, drowning myself in pleasure of all sorts. My life was one big party, and I was never going to live any differently.

Or so I hoped.

?“You know you’re pretty brave to be taking up with Beatrice,” said Tim.

A smile played across my lips. “Oh really? Why?”

Tim held up his hands. “No disrespect to my sister, but she’s a firecracker. She’s constantly checking up on Agnes, and I have a feeling she’ll do the same to you.”

I sipped my whiskey. It wasn’t as good as it could have been, surrounded by blues music and all manner of naked, nubile bodies, but it was good enough.

Tim leaned in. “That’s why we need an escape; we love our wives, but they can get to hen-pecking, can’t they?” He chuckled.

“Yes, they need a cock to show them, right?”

Tim guffawed. “You got it. That’s why we men gotta have our own thing. Leave this prissy business to the ladies.” He leaned in. “You’re smart, marrying into a family with a little bit of property, and you’re from… where in the hell are you from?” He laughed.

I just smiled.

”You’re a helluva lot more educated than about three-quarters of the folks around here.”

My, and people said I had a forked tongue.

“That’s why I want to invite you to a special, exclusive club,” Tim continued.

Funny, I wanted to say the same to him. I took another swallow. Alcohol did nothing to my system; I was perfectly incapable of getting drunk, but I loved the taste of oak and cherry.

Tim took no apparent umbrage at my silence and plowed ahead. “It’s for aspiring gentlemen such as yourself. Now, you’ll have to quit associating with a certain type of people—” he glanced at the band. “But it’s a chance to really turn your dollars into gold.”

“I can already do that. What else?” He did not know I meant it literally.

Tim had the equivalent reaction of a hiccup: a sudden pause, but he was nothing if not determined. “A man who knows his way around the market. I like that. So here it is, very simple: you sign up for this club, and you are automatically admitted into the upper echelons, because you are my brother-in-law. You’ll have a title and rank far above everyone else.”

Son of the Morning, Anointed Cherub, Ruler of This World, and Authority Over the Air was a good enough title for me. Not that I imposed any of that on my own self, mind you.

“Go on.”

Where is Beatrice? I wanted to wrap her in my arms and swing her through the night.

“So all you have to do is make a yearly donation, then you can have the ability to sign up other people. You’ll even get a profit from those who you sign up. If you sign up just four people, it’ll pay for itself.”

“So where does your cut go?”

Tim’s eyes flicked across my face. “Beg your pardon?”

“Your profit from signing me up. You said that if I sign people up, I’ll get a cut. So tell me: where is your cut going from the people you sign up? Who’s really in control?”

Tim gave a cautious laugh. “That’s not—of course, there are other leaders, but—” Tim tried to pivot. “But the point is that you are in control, Mr. Charbonneau. Frank. We’re brothers, now, right? This is a sure-fire way to make some money.”

I stared at Tim until he looked away. But right before he did, I saw a flash of anger across his face. This one did not like to lose. I could sympathize with that.

“No, thank you.”

“What?”

“I said, no thank you.”

“But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The chance to prove yourself to the preservation of the white race. The hidden secret to power, wealth, and privilege.”

I waved a hand in the air. “What are those compared to music?”

What were they, indeed? Men would rip apart the world for the slightest grasp at power; like most superficial peddlers, Tim was not selling the preservation of the white race, prohibition, or anything else they claimed, but control. Power. Flip open any catalog, and the advertisements sold control. Turn on the radio, and there it was again. Oh it could be using a special soap to wash your clothes, some preacher hollering about salvation, or a new pill to help you lose weight. Take back control of your life! People would cut each other down for the insignificant, fleeting chance at control, but what control did any of them ever have?

But humans could build something beautiful with music. It was so simple that I wondered how they could not see it.

“What are—now, it’s—” he laughed nervously. “Tell you what. How about you and Beatrice come with Agnes and I to dine with the Dixons some time soon. He’s the head of our chapter, and I know he’ll make you see reason.”

Dixon. Jowly man who smelled of stale sweat. Oh I would come to the dinner, but it would be in a very different form. No one ever made me do anything.

“I offer my most sincere apologies, but I am afraid that I must be getting back to my wedding. My chance at happiness lies elsewhere, and I do not like being under the influence. Any influence.” I raised my glass and took a final swallow. “Now, if you all with excuse me, I see a fiddle that looks ready to be played.”

I turned and walked back into the swinging frivolity of the party. Would I have chosen differently, had I known what trouble that snake would bring me?

No.

But I would have guarded my harmonica more closely. Just like I should have my heart.?

*

Beatrice

I saw Frank walk away from Tim, and Tim sauntered over to where Agnes and I were standing, attempting to find a patch of shade. Lace, although seemingly airy, did not breathe.

“You’ve chosen an interesting man to marry, Beatrice. If I weren’t a gentleman, I’d say he’s a low-down upstart with far more words in his mouth than brains in his head.” He paused. “But I’d never say that.”

My mind was too much on harmonicas and pianos to consider Tim’s words, but Agnes froze like the ice we didn’t have. Her eyes flitted between Tim and I. She gave a nervous laugh, and began to say, “Why, Tim—”

“We’ll leave soon anyway,” he said. “I’m going to find a decent spot of shade. Hot enough to melt a man’s shoes out here.” He flicked the sweat from his forehead and strode away. He was probably still sour with me for causing such a stir with Angelo. Throwing mud on his good name. If I were him, I’d still be angry with me, too.

I turned back to Agnes. She had a note of apology on her face.

“I don’t know what got into him,” she said.

“My husband has a way of bringing out the best in people,” I muttered.

Still, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about any of that. It had worked. The bargain had worked, and Agnes was still here, with me, on this side of death.

I suddenly hugged her and did not let go.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” I whispered as I inhaled her scent. She always smelled of sweet milk, of honey, of straw in sunlight. For a moment, I was a child again, playing with her in the mud, walking to the general store with pennies in our pockets ready to buy candy, making paper dolls or bunnies from wash rags.?

Agnes laughed; it almost sounded real. “I’m glad I’m here too,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you get married. You were always too good for these boys around here anyway.” Agnes tried to pull away, but I only held on tighter. She felt so real, so solid beneath my arms that I never wanted to let go.

“So were you,” I said.

I tried to tell her everything I couldn’t in a few simple words. But they failed.

We parted, and she waved off my last statement. “I love Tim. Sorry he’s kind of cranky today. The office has him doing double-time, trying to track down all these speakeasies.”

“I don’t mind,” and I did not. I was out of the woods where haints and fetches dwelled, arm in arm with my sister. That she would die did not seem like a physical possibility. It was so easy to pretend like my sister would never die, while she was young. While her hair was still golden and her limbs strong and supple. How did we pretend that people were anything but mortal? Surely I knew that my sister would die someday. But in the abstract, like the scientists told us that time was but a relative notion. The more I seemed to understand, the more I realized I did not, and could not understand. That once I thought I understood the finality of death, the utter and complete loss of the existence of my sister, the more I knew that I knew absolutely nothing.

We walked over to where a group had gathered on the porch. The sound of violins sliced through the air, a sweet melody picked up the pace. People grew rowdy, stomping the ground, clapping their hands, hooting and hollering. One violin sent out a stream of notes, and another answered.

“How have you been?” I asked.

“Overall, good,” Agnes responded. “Still trying to conceive, but you know, that takes a few tries.”

“It does. It’ll happen in its own time,” I responded. I glanced at her arm. Bruising was there, dark and purple, like storm clouds. “What happened there?”

Agnes noticed my glance and tugged at her sleeve. “Clumsy,” she laughed. “Bumped into the stair railing in the middle of the night.”

Something about her voice seemed off; it didn’t fit her. It was like someone was a puppeteer, pulling her strings. That voice was buried under layers and layers. Was that what happened when you got married? That you changed, burying yourself under the other person’s habits, personality, goals, wishes, whims, until you were as trapped as a fossil under the earth?

And something that that bruise made me think that I could not always protect Agnes; she would suffer bumps and bruises along the path of life, and I would not always be there to protect her. Although I thought she had settled for Tim, I was glad that he would be there to protect her when I couldn’t.

But music pulled our attention away. Frank was seated on the porch, sawing away at one of the fiddles. When he played, it seemed as though he put his whole soul into it (if he indeed had one). He pulled his bow deeply down and his strong fingers skimmed so lightly over the strings that they seemed like bumblebees sipping sweet nectar from flowers. He would shoot off a riff or two, then the other violin replied.

Show off. But the crowd was eating it up like molasses on a biscuit. It had been a while since a good fiddle contest was had.

Charles Maycomb walked up to us. “Congratulations, Ms. Beatrice,” he said, tipping his hat a fraction of an inch up. “Mrs. Stevenson, now, ain’tcha? I recollect that you taught me how to keep my two left feet in motion during our schoolin’ years. May I show you that I have adhered to your lessons?”

Agnes laughed and took Charles’ outstretched hand. “Charles, you’re a ham. Of course. You don’t still put spiders in girl’s braids, do you?”

“Only if they truly deserve it,” he said with a wink to me. “I’ll bring her back, Mrs. Charbonneau.”

They set off and joined the reel that everyone had took up in light of the violent clash of fiddles. Frank continued to play. He suddenly looked up and locked eyes with me. It was as though he were playing only for me in that moment. For a brief moment, admiration bloomed within me. I could appreciate good music and the skill it took to learn and play. I was not sure whether Frank used some otherworldly prowess to play, but damn, he was good. I still did not know if I could trust him, but I could trust that anyone who could play that well had something more to them.

Couldn’t I?

Tim strode over to where Agnes was dancing. He yanked Charles around by the shoulder. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the sound of music and laughter and screams of delight from the other dancers, but it didn’t take a plum genius to know that Tim was upset. He swayed, his eyes glazed, his forehead shiny. Now, I could take gossip on the chin all the livelong day against myself, but I didn’t want the barflies and Baptists wagging their tongues against my sister. I walked over to Tim and Agnes, my feet sinking softly in the moist earth.

“Anything the matter?”

“Peachy,” Tim replied. “Never better. But I’m tired. Let’s go, Agnes.” He jerked his head toward their car.

“Not yet, Beatrice still has to throw the bouquet, and there’s still the cake—”

“Now.”

Agnes’ shoulders drooped just a fraction, and she gave me a small peck on the cheek.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” she said. “Just divine.”

I watched her walk away, and for a moment, my heart was calm. She was still here. That was all that mattered. I kept my end of the bargain. Nothing could touch her now, for seven months, at least. I still needed to find her killer. If I did that, then I would save us both.

The responding fiddle tore through the air and ripped my attention back to the porch. The player had stood up and was now progressing through a series of notes so dizzying that I wondered if he hadn’t made some deal with Frank too.

When he finished, Frank played one last response, and it sounded… humbled. He was acknowledging his own defeat. With a flourish, he stopped playing and bowed his head toward the player. Everyone leapt to their feet and cheered.

“I haven’t had competition like that in ages,” Frank said, smiling and lifting up his head. “I guess I owe you this.” He proffered his violin toward the man.

The man only smiled and said, “Can’t separate a man from his instrument. But I’ll take the rest of that bottle of whiskey.”

“Only if I can share the first glass with you,” said Frank, handing over the bottle. “And if you play a victory song or two with the band here,” he added.

He eyed the band up and down, then the whiskey bottle. “You boys know ‘Ol’ Man River?”

“‘Course, who doesn’t?” replied Sam.

He tucked his violin under his chin, and away they played, lubricated by Frank’s own brew.

Everyone stayed until midnight. After Agnes left, I stayed mostly to the shadows, watching and loving these easy, terrible, evil, golden-hearted folks. The fireflies lit up the air with their calm glow, fading in and out like people’s dreams on a hot afternoon. I listened to every single song Angelo and his band played.

When everyone had stumbled home, Frank and I gathered ourselves to go into his home. We were silent in the car ride back to his house. I crossed his threshold, knowing I could never go back. The huge space seemed eerily quiet, as though nothing had lived within its walls for a hundred years. The white marble looked like bone in the pale moonlight. Crystal chandeliers clinked above my head. A grandfather clock ticked somewhere deep within the corridors.

I placed a trembling hand on the bannister, steeling myself to ascend.

Frank came up behind me and placed his hand on mine; it was only then that I realized that my fingers were ice cold.

“Your room is the second door on the right at the top of the stairway. I told you that I am not a monster. Sleep easily. I’ll see you in the morning. I hope you’ll accompany me to the recording of the Honey Dripper’s first album.” he said. He creaked his way up the stairs.

Angelo.

Going to listen to someone record an album should have been the very last thing on my mind. I needed to search for, and find, the one who would kill my sister.

Trouble was, I was not a detective, nor even halfway smart, come to think of it. I had not the slightest idea of how in God’s name I was going to find that person or even get started. I was just tired. So very tired. The only thing that I could possibly think about was ascending the plush, carpeted stairs. I was alive. Agnes was alive. That was good enough for now. I had thought that I would never sleep a wink in the house of the devil, but when my head touched the silk pillow, I dissolved into sleep.

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