The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [77]
“Johnny was dark, dark as you and me, and when he was a boy, he was skinny like he was hungry, but he wasn’t—we most always had enough. He was slow to fill out. But his eyes were something—deep and dark and fringed with those long lashes. I always envied him his lashes. He was smart too. He could do numbers in his head without hardly thinking. When he was a boy, he wanted to be a teacher, said he’d make his students do figures all day long. But then music took ahold of him and that was all he wanted to do, play and write music.”
“And Uncle Johnny played dance songs?”
“For a while he played on Sundays at church, but Preacher Bisbee made him quit, said his playing had too many flourishes, said he turned hymns into saloon music. Shamed Mama something awful.”
“What were the dances like?”
“They were a good time, something to look forward to. We had what we called the Second Street Social Club. Most everybody in the neighborhood belonged, and a few times a year we had dances at the grammar school. We got all dressed up in our Sunday best and the women served refreshments—punch and cake and such things. I liked the waltzes; it was pretty music. Most everybody could do a waltz, even if you weren’t very good. Mr. Brandon—he lived next door—he played the fiddle, except he called it a violin. If he wasn’t clear-headed enough, Johnny played the piano. But if Johnny got a chance to dance, he loved doing the cakewalk.”
“What’s that?”
“It was the rage; even white people danced it. Johnny was such a show-off, strutting his partners around, doing that high-stepping dance.” I pictured that for a moment and wondered if folks were still dancing it.
“But for me,” I said, “my favorite music of all was the blues. Maybe because of Mr. Brandon. He mostly played that fiddle of his at the dances, but once in awhile he’d get out his cornet and play the blues. I could sit forever and listen to his cornet.” Seeing Mary’s raised eyebrows, I said, “That’s a kind of horn, and with the right man handling it, it brought out a hurt you didn’t even know was there.”
“Does he still live by Grandma?”
“Grandma doesn’t live in the same place anymore.” I paused. “Don’t know what’s happened to Mr. Brandon. Hard to believe he’d still be living in that old falling-down shack. Every snow-storm that blew through, Mama just knew it’d come down on top of him, bury him alive. It was a disgrace how his landlord didn’t keep it up. But maybe that was Mr. Brandon’s doing. He used all his money for whiskey. Least that’s what Dad always said. There was talk that when he was a young man he went off to Europe somewhere to learn music and that he even played in an orchestra there. I don’t see how; he was a fair-skinned man, but he couldn’t pass—anybody could see he was a Negro. But he’s the one what taught Johnny the piano. He had an old upright in that rickety house of his, and Johnny took lessons every Saturday morning. Evenings Johnny studied his sheet music at the kitchen table, reading the notes, his fingers running up and down the table just like he was playing.”
“But what about you? Didn’t you get lessons?”
“I tried a few times, but I didn’t have it in me. All I really wanted to do was sit and listen. That’s what I did when Johnny was taking his lessons. I sat on the floor next to the piano. I’d put my hand on the back of it where it stuck out from the wall. Johnny’d play and I’d feel the music, listening all at the same time.” I smiled. “Mr. Brandon’s floor slanted good, I’ll tell you what. One end of the piano leaned against the wall. Johnny used to joke that he couldn’t play a piano unless it ran downhill. Mama wouldn’t let us go to Mr. Brandon’s if there was a storm; she was that afraid of his roof.”
I rested the back of my head against the railing post, hearing once again the piano