There’s no breeze in this room. The window is firmly shut, lights from cars and signs streaming in, casting the white walls in pinks and greens and blues. I fiddle with the charm around my neck. It’s an old, tarnished thing, barely a star at this point, but I can’t seem to let it go.

Papa’s not here tonight, and I feel dizzy having the stage to myself. Of moving through the crowd alone, lighting it up. I know I was born to this. Mama was a singer in her day, and ‘quite the dame,’ all the fellows agree.

“Miss Taylor! You’re on.”

“Of course,” I step onstage and shield my eyes. The searing red lights illuminate clouds of smoke swirling around the crowd, the glint of narrowed eyes and dirty bottles.

“Good evening!” I call, giving a wave to the crowd. “My name is Trixie Taylor- yes, that Taylor’s girl, so y’all better love my show-”

A faint bubble of laughter; my smile comes easier.

“I’m gonna sing a couple lil’ melodies for y’all tonight. Sound good?”

There’s general assent and I grip the microphone and give a nod to my piano man.
I start with some Gershwin, to make the old-timers happy. Then a cute Mamie Smith number for the younger dukes. I finish with a song by a new fella, Louis Armstrong.

I saw him in a club in Chicago with Papa. He’s kind of underground, but I relish any opportunity to go a bit outside the box. The lower pitch gives me the opportunity to get into the beat, to croon, to have some gravel in my throat. To sing from my soul.

After the show I bounce around the room like a shaft of light, beaming and chatting with the men. Most of them I know. Ours isn’t really a club for newcomers. But at the back, half in shadow, is a man I’ve never seen before. He’s handsome, high cheekbones and regular features, with a mop of chestnut hair poking out from under his tilted hat.

I walk towards him with my hand extended. I know I’m easy on the eyes- a thick curly bob, thin eyebrows, rouged lips and cheeks. And then he stops me dead.

“Those are some gams you got there,” he comments, leaning back in his chair.

I flush, “Pardon?”

“Nice gams.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

All pretensions of civility are off. Least he could do is keep it in his head.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes. Do you know who I am?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Well, Sweetheart. Congratulations! I’m your new husband.”

“Oh, really,” Another whiskey-mad suitor. But his eyes stop me. There’s no humor in them.

“Really,” he grins.

“You’re off your rocker. Why-”

“Sit down,” he commands.

For some reason, I do.

“You may not be used to it, Sweetheart, but I need you to be serious. Then you can go back to your canary bit.”

“Say what you need to say,” I whisper, stung.

“I heard you were hard to handle,” he chuckles, lighting a thin cigarette. “You care about your old man?”

“Yes. Hurry up. My car is waiting.”

“Relax. I cancelled it. Now, like I was saying. Me and your pa, we have an arrangement. I have some…debts to pay off. And he- well, let’s just say, it would do him good to have me in the family. I mean, who’s gonna jail the father-in-law of the good Officer Hemmings? None of those daisies would dare. So here we are.”

“Officer? I don’t buy that,” I finally manage.

He cocks an eyebrow.

“Why shouldn’t I just pack up and skeedaddle out west?” I continue, gathering steam, “I got money, and out there a woman’s got rights. Heck, I could just vanish straight up.”

“I dare say if you vanished, the same would happen to your pa. Ya follow?” He asks, bluntly. Quietly. There’s a threat in his eyes. I feel cold all over. Tough as Papa’s always been- I need him safe.

“How do I know you aren’t tryna pull a fast one on me?”

In answer, he pulls out two pieces of paper and lays them on the table. A letter and a telegram. The letter is addressed to Nathan Hemmings. And it’s about Papa.

I have to reread it a few times.

“Suspicion of-” I look up, mouth agape. Papa’s always been a…. tough man. He’s never much liked rules. But this? Nathan nods grimly.

“Read the other,” he tells me, taking a drag.

The telegram.

DARDANELLA BEARCAT AVAILABLE STOP STEP ON IT STOP SIGNED OLD MAN RIVER STOP

Papa always loved that song. And Old Man River? A long held code of ours for danger. Although apparently it wasn’t just ours.

He folds the papers into his breast pocket and stubs out his cigarette. I rub the charm around my neck. I wish Mama was here.

“Dance with me.” Nathan demands, extending a hand.

Open. Waiting. A thin, vicious scar runs across his palm. It looks old. He must have been a boy when that happened. Tiny. Serious. With that cowlick. Why does my mind go there? He’s the villain, not the hero.

I follow him onto the floor. Numbly drape my arms around his neck. Sway back and forth. Let forth a timid smile, make it spread. No one who looked at me could suspect anything other than perfect bliss.

“You know you must,” he whispers close. I nod, head heavy, brain woolen. The star around my neck cuts into my collarbone, but as he presses tight, it cuts him too.

“I want a gorgeous ring,” I mumble. I can’t bear to look up at him now, knowing he must be grinning like the cat who got into the cream. My throat is thick, eyes hot. I won’t let him see. He places a gentle kiss on my neck and I shiver, hairs raising down my back.

“Done.”