SIX
August 1957
“Really, Guy,” Jilo said as she joined him in the front room, “it’s close enough to walk from here. No need for your fancy friends to drive us.” Edwin Taylor had pretty much become a fixture around her home ever since Guy had moved in with her. Jilo didn’t much cotton to the idea of having to make nice with Edwin’s sister Ginny now, too.
Guy sat in the haint-blue chair that had once again made its way from the haint-blue room into the main room. Guy felt it was the most comfortable seat in the house, so the day after moving in, he had dragged it to its current position and claimed it as his own. He waved his hand, making a signal to stand clear of his fan, but Jilo didn’t budge. “It’s hot out there, woman,” Guy said, his voice languid and nearly drowned out by the drone of the oscillating fan positioned so that its sweep would cover him with each pivot. “In case you didn’t notice. Besides, it isn’t about the getting there, it’s about the impression we’ll make arriving.”
Jilo grunted. Guy had been going on for weeks about that Taylor girl’s shiny new Continental Mark II. “There is nobody at the Boxcar Club I need to impress.”
“And it isn’t about us making a good impression, either. It’s about the Taylors, the impression Edwin and his sister want to make when they pull up with us riding in the backseat. We are their entrée into what for them is an exotic world . . . the Negro nightclub. Now scoot.” He waved again, and she obliged him by stepping aside. As the full breeze hit him, he stretched out his legs, leaning back and laying his head against the ancient tatted doily her nana had always cherished. She hoped his hair oil wouldn’t stain it, but held her tongue. It wasn’t worth the fight that would ensue. “The Taylors, they’re important people,” he continued. “Especially around these parts.” Guy spoke to her like she hadn’t grown up in Savannah, as if she could have possibly escaped knowledge of one of the wealthiest buckra families in her own hometown. Guy was right that they were an important family. What he didn’t know was that the gossip shared by maids who worked in Savannah’s finer homes made it clear that, though wealthy, the Taylors were always kept at arm’s length by Savannah’s other leading families. Everyone, regardless of their position in society, agreed that there was just something not quite right about the family. Perhaps if Guy’s infatuation with their wealth ever faded, he’d begin to sense it, too.
She stepped between Guy and the fan again, surprised by the sensation of the breeze blowing up against the trickle of cold sweat tracing its way down her spine. Now that the breeze of the fan couldn’t carry away his scent, she could smell the alcohol on him. She stared down at him, trying to see even a glimmer of the man she’d fallen in love with. When they first met, hell, even when he was making his plans to leave her, he’d been so filled with drive, with passion for his work. That passion seemed to have dissipated the second he began spending time with Edwin Taylor.
Guy had made a big show of bringing home fresh canvasses. And he must have spent a small fortune on fresh oils. But so far he hadn’t made a single brushstroke. No, he spent most of his days sprawled out right here, in front of the fan, lulled into a near torpor by its incessant drone and the Taylors’ cast-off bourbon. He rose at dusk, the sound of Edwin’s approaching convertible his reveille, and then the two would be off until the small hours. Some nights, Guy would return, all sweat and spirits, and clamber on top of her; other nights, he would pass out at her side.
Until his nightly return, Jilo would lie alone in the haint-blue room that she’d once again taken over as her, their, bedroom. Robinson continued to share a room with Binah. At first Willy had carried on sleeping on a cot in the front room, but lately he’d taken to staying in the back yard in an army surplus tent. He’d be okay out there for now, but she had to get things sorted out before winter.
She wore no ring on her finger; Guy was beyond such “bourgeois” conventions, and took every opportunity he could find, especially when Edwin was in earshot, to pontificate against society’s small minds. Still, these two freethinkers had driven Willy from the house, mocking him for his effeminate gestures and the way he carried himself. They insulted him with cruel names, half of which Jilo had never heard before, though “catamite” was the one that seemed to bring them the most mirth, eliciting peals of raucous laughter. Edwin got himself so liquored up one night that he grabbed Willy, spun him around in a rough dance, and forced a contemptuous kiss on the boy’s lips.
That night, there had been no choice but to intervene. Jilo had pulled the bruised and frightened Willy from Edwin’s grasp, and then, to her astonishment, Binah had dived forward and slapped the white man’s face, leaving a dark red mark on his rosy cheek. Jilo had expected trouble after that, but Edwin just flushed red and stumbled out the door. When she turned around to look for Guy, he was already passed out in her nana’s old chair.
“How could a woman fall in love with such a man?” Binah asked from behind her.
She couldn’t bring herself to turn to face her sister. “I saw a spark in him . . . once.” At least I thought I did, she said to herself. “And he is Robinson’s father. A boy needs his father.” She allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder. Binah had a lost, faraway look on her face; her gaze was cast downward, and she was biting her lower lip. “Go on,” Jilo said. “Go see to Willy.”
Edwin had returned the very next night, and whether it was true or merely pretense, he seemed to have no memory of his actions the previous evening. A part of Jilo wanted to take him to task for his behavior, but she suspected that it would do no good. A man like that always sees himself as the hero. He’d find some way or other to excuse himself, and without a doubt, Guy would take his drinking buddy’s side. She had to get these Taylors out of their lives. They were a bad, disruptive influence. With Edwin out of the picture, Jilo would find a way to get Guy working. A way to get Willy back into his own house.
Jilo felt goose bumps crawl up her arm. “I don’t know, Guy,” she said, crossing her arms and trying to rub the gooseflesh away. “I know you like this Taylor fellow, but there is something off about him. I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel uneasy around him. And I’m not the only one. Ask anyone about the Taylors, and they’ll tell you there’s something odd . . .”
“And just who have you been asking about the Taylors?” Guy slid to the edge of the chair, suddenly alert. “Edwin. He’s my friend. How’s he going to feel if he finds out you been out shopping for gossip about his family?”
“I haven’t been gossiping. And I haven’t been asking anyone about the Taylors either. Not really. I’ve just been listening, whenever their name comes up. And their name comes up in casual conversation a whole lot more than any honest family’s name ought to.” Guy gave her a hard, long look before dropping his gaze down to the side, turning his head and lowering his chin, telling her without saying a word that he wasn’t interested in what she had to tell him. “People talk about the Taylors all the time. Most of it isn’t pretty.”
“Enough.” He met her gaze again, a hard look in his eyes. “They’re my friends. I can’t believe your lack of gratitude.”
“Gratitude?”
“If not for Edwin,” Guy said, slipping back into a more relaxed position, “we’d still be apart. It’s almost like he was sent to New York to bring us back together.” And there it was, the source of the uneasy feeling that had been lurking in her subconscious mind. Could their meeting have been arranged? The question had nearly risen up above the waters many times, only to be submerged anew as her conscious mind objected that the thought was utterly ridiculous. “It’s like it was fate. Meant to be.”
What if Guy and Edwin had never met?
“The least you could do is show him a little kindness. Unless Mother Jilo,” he said her working name in a contemptuous tone, “is above such niceties.”
“You’ve been drinking,” she said. Her words came out sounding like an accusation, though she’d intended them as an excuse for his harshness. “Quite a bit, by the smell of you.”
“And the night is young,” he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “I got a lot more drinking to do. Now go get yourself prettied up, girl. Got a big surprise coming for you.”
“Bourbon. Ice,” Ginny called over her shoulder to her brother, two years her junior, according to Ginny. Then she turned back to Jilo, leaning in so that she would be heard over the music. “So nice to let the men fetch for us for a change, isn’t it?”
Jilo smiled, but didn’t respond verbally. She doubted this Taylor girl with her blonde brushed-under pageboy and soft hands ever did much of her own fetching anyway.
Jilo felt embarrassed by her own appearance. Her hair was a bit of a mess. She’d been wearing it covered in her Mother Jilo guise for so long now she’d stopped paying much attention to it. Binah had been encouraging her to try some of the new hair relaxers, but until Guy’s return, she hadn’t cared to put much thought into her appearance. After Guy’s return, she’d been faced with much bigger problems. Earlier, as she was dressing before her mirror, she had considered commandeering the wig Willy kept hidden in his small steamer trunk of belongings, but the day was too hot and sticky for a wig. She reached up, without realizing what she was doing, and patted the back of her head, like her subconscious mind felt a simple pat or two could fix the frizz.
“Your hair is lovely,” Ginny said, picking up on the gesture, if not her very thoughts. “So untamed and earthy. You blacks are just so much more in touch with nature than we whites are.” Jilo wondered for a moment if this coiffed and pampered young woman could be serious. The thought brought an actual smile to Jilo’s lips. Yes, she realized in flabbergasted amusement, the girl truly believed she had just paid Jilo a compliment.
Jilo felt her mouth gearing up, readying itself to tell this cotton-candy-pink confection of a woman just what she thought of her praise, but then she noticed Guy and Edwin pressing through the crowd, drawing near the table. Guy had two whole bottles of bourbon in his hands. Jilo prayed that Guy had swallowed his pride and allowed the young man with the deep pockets to pay for the liquor. Edwin followed on Guy’s heels, carrying a tray over his head like one of the fancy waiters Jilo had seen in the movies. On the tray sat an ice bucket and glasses.
“Your dress is beautiful,” Jilo said, offering a compliment of her own rather than the barb she’d nearly launched. What she said was true, if not entirely heartfelt. Jilo had made her best effort, managing to squeeze into one of her old Kingfisher Club favorites, a pale yellow, hammered-satin peg-top dress that, in spite of having been aired outside all day, still held a faint scent of naphthalene. She had no doubt that this was the first time Ginny’s dress had been worn. Its boatneck cut was demure, but it was sleeveless, so it displayed the young woman’s athletic yet feminine arms to their best advantage. The fabric was a pale blue satin with a pattern in a soft gold of what appeared to be leaves and vines looped through other less familiar shapes.
“Balenciaga,” Ginny said as if the word should hold some meaning for Jilo. She shifted as Edwin leaned over to place the tray on the table. “Father says it’s a shame to waste such a pretty dress on such a plain girl.” She reached over to grab one of the glasses. “But I say fuck him.”
Jilo’s mouth fell wide open, incapable of believing such language could come from such a pretty, young society lady.
Edwin laughed and clanked a still-empty glass against his sister’s equally empty tumbler. “Fuck the old man,” he called out, as if it were a toast. “C’mon, Guy.” He grabbed two cubes of ice from the bucket, using his fingers rather than the tongs provided for that purpose. “Get to pouring.”
“I’m sorry,” Ginny said looking at Jilo, shoving her own glass toward Guy. “I know with all the real problems in this world, such slights shouldn’t matter . . .”
“But you are a very pretty woman,” Jilo said, surprised to feel any level of sympathy for this debutante.
“And I thank you for saying that,” Ginny said, grasping her now-full tumbler and taking a good swig. “It’s only Father prefers a more delicate type, like our mother. When Father is feeling generous, he refers to me as ‘handsome.’ ”
“Poor mother,” Edwin said, rolling his eyes, then knocking back his tumbler of whiskey as if it had only contained a shot rather than three fingers. He didn’t offer any further context for his comment.
“Yes, poor mother,” she said, her tone so dispirited that Jilo nearly began to feel sympathy for the line of Taylor women in general. Ginny took another drink, her voice rising, sounding more gay. “I keep telling Father that if he wants to savor a delicate beauty, he need look no further than his son Edwin here.” She threw her head back, laughing.
“Hey-oh,” Edwin said, patting his hand on the table, either protesting her comment or urging Guy to refill his glass. Jilo remained uncertain of which. Edwin turned toward her. “The old man would positively blow a gasket if he knew we were here.” He turned and flashed a gleeful look at his sister. “Couldn’t you just see the old boy?”
“What, he doesn’t approve of dancing?” Jilo said, the words powering their way out before she could throw the brake on her tongue. She felt the tip of Guy’s shoe tap roughly against her calf. His lips were puckered, and a line ran down the center of his forehead.
“Well, no, he’s quite fond of dancing . . .” Edwin began, his voice trailing off as he recognized the sarcasm in her voice. “Jilo, you have to understand, my father, he thinks along the old lines.” He leaned back and waved his hand back and forth between Ginny and himself. “We certainly don’t share his opinions.”
“Of course not,” Ginny said, relaxing into her chair.
“You wouldn’t be here,” Guy said, raising his own full glass in salute, “if you did, now would you?” He clinked glasses with Edwin, then knocked back a gulp. Even in the low light, Jilo could see that his eyes had already gone glassy with drink. Without a doubt, Guy and the Taylor boy had sampled a few shots before choosing the bottles they had brought back to the table with them.
“No . . . we . . . would . . . not,” Edwin shouted over the swelling music, each word coming out as if it were its own separate and complete thought. He flashed a drunken smile at Jilo, looking for all the world like an imbecile rather than the scion of Savannah’s wealthiest family. While trying to make small talk, Jilo had once asked the boy about the nature of his family’s business. He’d only mumbled about being involved in a bit of this and a bit of that before deflecting the topic entirely. “I’d so much rather talk about your family’s business,” he’d said. “Imagine, a line of witches, going back how many generations now?” Jilo had told the fool boy till she was blue in the face that there was no real magic to it, but he kept worrying the subject like he believed there might truly be something to it, turning it over again and again like a dog gnawing the meat from a shank bone.
“We have to find a way,” Ginny said, leaning forward, running her right hand over her left shoulder and then down her left arm, “to begin to welcome you all into the white world, just as easily as you have accepted Edwin and me into yours.” She motioned around the club, evidently feeling they’d been welcomed with open arms, oblivious to the uneasy stares and nervous whispers Jilo’d witnessed all evening. “Anyone with half a brain can see that Jim Crow is an abomination. Even if separate but equal were truly equal, it would still be wrong. The racial minorities must be integrated into the white world.”
“To making room in the white world,” Edwin said, raising his glass.
Jilo felt torn by Ginny’s seemingly sincere words and her brother’s obvious enthusiasm. Part of her felt that she should be glad these young, wealthy buckra seemed to want the same damned thing she wanted—a legal and enforceable acknowledgement of the equality of every human being, regardless of their color. Still, something was missing. “Thank you kindly for the sentiment,” Jilo said, “but I do wish you’d realize the world isn’t white. You might be in the majority here, but if you take into account the racial makeup of most of the world, whites are the minority.”
Edwin’s face froze, a look of annoyance rising to his eyes, and Ginny startled. The white woman’s gaze lost its focus for a moment, and she seemed to be partaking in an inner dialogue. Guy’s hand darted out, pulling hers beneath the table and giving it a hard squeeze, with the full intention of hurting her. She tugged it free, feeling a fire explode in her. Oh, hell no. Drunk or not, she thought, he was not going to start that kind of nonsense with her. She was just about to tell him so when Ginny interrupted her thoughts.
“You’re right,” Ginny said, holding her glass up to Jilo, smiling and shaking her head. “You are right. I’ve got to start looking at things through different eyes. I try to reach out. I try to do right in this world. But I sometimes get trapped within my own tiny perspective.” She lowered her glass to the table, and reached out to lay her hand over Jilo’s. “If I can count on friends like you to call me out on it when I do”—a wry smile formed on her lips—“I might grow into a woman of substance rather than a mere confection.” Jilo was so shocked by her choice of words, one that seemed to have been gleaned from her own thoughts, she tried to pull back her hand, but she found herself incapable of doing so. The look in Ginny’s eyes spoke to her of an honest and loving, if clumsy, soul. “I do hope someday you might think of me as a friend.”
Jilo surprised herself by laying her free hand on top of Ginny’s. “I think we might just be friends at that,” she said.
“Ah, it’s time, Guy,” Edwin said.
“Time for what?” Jilo said, a sense of caution overriding any feeling of new warmth. That these two men were in cahoots over anything left her feeling anxious. Both were already pushing back from the table, clearly not intending to answer her.
“To prepare for your surprise,” Guy said, adding, “not that you’ve earned it the way you’ve been speaking to our guests.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Guy,” Ginny said.
“Wait,” Jilo called out as the men stepped away. “What’s the surprise?”
“Aha,” Edwin said, wagging a finger at her. “You just hold on and you’re gonna see.”
“And hear,” Guy added, clasping his arm around Edwin’s shoulders and leading him over to the bandstand.
Jilo turned a worried glance to Ginny, who just smiled and shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.” She turned in her seat to keep an eye on the men.
The lights dimmed, plunging the room into utter darkness for a few moments. The band began to play as the lights came back up, and a bright spotlight shone down on the girl singer who had taken her place by the conductor, setting fire to the royal-blue sequin gown she wore. The men in the room went wild at the sight of the exotic beauty. No. Jilo stood and took a few shaky steps toward the bandstand. The singer turned to face the audience, her warm auburn hair newly coiffed to better frame her lovely face. It can’t be. The band began to play, but the catcalls threatened to drown them out. The conductor stopped the music, signaling for the hecklers to quiet themselves. Once they’d settled down, he turned back to the band. Jilo recognized the tune, “I’ve Got It Bad, and That Ain’t Good.” She felt her heart fall to the pit of her stomach. Standing there, in a low-cut flashy grown-woman evening gown, offering up her own sweet voice to the swine in this room, was Jilo’s own little Binah.
Ginny came and stood beside her, taking her hand. The moment they touched, a shriek of feedback on the mic caused many in the audience to throw their hands over their ears. Jilo pulled free of Ginny’s hold. She pushed her way through the crowd that had gathered around the stage, shrugging off Guy’s grasp as she passed, stopping Edwin’s advance with a single look. Sparks shot throughout the room as the overhead spotlight exploded. Shouts and shocked cries filled the space. The conductor turned. “Just an electrical surge, everyone. Nothing to get excited about.”
Paying no attention to anyone, Jilo mounted the steps to the bandstand and laid her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “No,” she said, sliding her hands down to catch hold of Binah’s, “this is not the life for you.” Binah tried to pull back, her pleading eyes not focused on Jilo, but—Jilo felt her blood go cold as she followed Binah’s gaze—on the Taylor boy. Binah opened her mouth to protest, but Jilo dragged the girl down the steps and out of the club.
When a car pulled up to the house, Jilo was almost relieved to hear something other than the sound of Binah’s weeping and Robinson’s howls, which had begun the second Binah slammed into the house. Jilo had never seen her act that way before. It broke her heart to think her little sister, like Guy, had fallen under the Taylors’ sway.
Jilo had sent Willy and Robinson to her room. There was no way Guy was going to be sleeping in there tonight anyway.
She made her way to the window, tugging the curtain just far enough to the side to peek out. It was the Taylor girl’s black Mark II rather than her brother’s flashy red Corvette. Letting the curtain fall back into place, she waited for Guy to come bursting through the door. Well fine. They would have it out tonight. She could put up with a lot, but the sight of her sweet baby sister dressed and painted up like a whore, this she would not, could not bear. Guy was too lazy. Too self-centered to come up with such a scheme. No, it had to be that Taylor boy who’d tempted Binah with music and sparkle, a weakness for which she’d inherited from their mama. Binah was a good girl. She did not belong with these dirty musicians. Dressed up like that, they wouldn’t see her as a girl. They’d see her as woman. And they’d get ideas.
Jilo stood directly before the door, her stance wide and her hands on her hips. She was surprised by a light knock on the door. Then another. She crossed to the door and cracked it open. She hadn’t thought to turn on the porch light earlier, so her visitor stood in shadows, only a thin bar of light landing on her. Ginny stood there alone. Jilo opened the door wide.
“I know what you’re thinking. I do,” Ginny said, “but I don’t plan on forcing my way in, and I’m not here to convince you you’ve overreacted.” It surprised Jilo to realize that these were her actual thoughts, though they hadn’t yet surfaced in her conscious mind. “But I’m here to do neither.” Her voice dropped. “I’ve come to warn you.”
“Warn me about what?”
Ginny lowered her eyes, looking ashamed. “About my brother, for one thing. He’s my brother, and I love him.” Her gaze rose back to meet Jilo’s. “I hope he will grow into a good man, but he isn’t quite that man yet.” She reached through the door and took Jilo’s hand. “Your sister, she’s lovely. She has a light that shines from within. She’s precious, and you need to protect her from . . .”
“From your brother,” Jilo said, and Ginny nodded.
“Edwin, he’s fascinated by her. Infatuated with her. He won’t intend to, but he will take her and destroy the light that’s in her. You can’t let him.”
Jilo grasped Ginny’s hand tighter. “Can’t you do anything to discourage him?”
Ginny shook her head. “Not my brother. Once he’s set his heart on possessing . . .” She paused. “And yes, it shames me, but that is the right word, he won’t give up. What I can do is try to find someone shinier, someone less innocent, to draw away his attention. But it’s up to you to show your sister that a man like Edwin is not the man for her. That’s not the only reason I’m here, though. Your sister, she isn’t my main concern. You are.”
Jilo shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” Ginny said, looking her up and down. “I felt you draw on my power.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I felt you access my magic.”
“Your magic . . . ?” Jilo said, flabbergasted. A wave of panic washed over her as a memory began to surface. The sight of Poppy, hunched over, her eyes red as hell’s most precious rubies, murderous. Jilo herself rising. Lifting off the ground. She pressed her hands to her temples, refusing to let the memory claim its rightful place in her personal history. “You’ve had too much to drink. You need to get on home now.” She moved to shut the door, but Ginny held up her hand. Visible ripples, like heat coming from hot asphalt, shimmered off it. The woman didn’t lay a finger on the door, but it felt like a strong man was pushing it open. Jilo slid back into the room as the weight of the door pressed into her.
“Stealing magic comes with a price,” Ginny said. “I don’t know how you managed it.” She stopped, seeming to search Jilo’s eyes. It was the oddest sensation she’d ever experienced, but for a moment, Jilo felt something akin to a tickle inside her mind. She shook her head, trying to put an end to the prickling. “Maybe you don’t either,” Ginny said, “but somehow you did, and it’s a dangerous game to be playing.”
“I’m not playing any games.” Jilo’s unease flared into anger.
“No, perhaps you aren’t, but we need to examine what happened tonight. If the wrong people learn of your abilities, if they learn this ‘Mother Jilo’ character you’ve created has real juice behind her, you’ll find yourself in over your head in no time.”
“I want you to leave.” Jilo put all her weight into the door, but it still wouldn’t budge.
“Of course,” Ginny said. Jilo was surprised to recognize a look of hurt in her eyes. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ve handled this badly. I was just so taken aback.” She lowered her hand. “I do still hope we can be friends.”
Jilo laughed. “I don’t see how that can possibly happen.” She slammed the door shut, the bang reverberating through the house. In her room, Robinson began to wail.