Goodbye Without Leaving by Laurie Colwin Read Free Book Online

I Was a White Shakette for the FBI ,” I said.
    â€œNo, seriously,” said Johnny. “You have had a unique experience.” This sentence made me wince. I would never have a unique experience again.
    I dialed Chicago and called Mack Witherspoon, who was responsible, if anyone was, for my being a Shakette in the first place. I told him I was looking for a job. He suggested I tour with Ronnie and the Tramps, but I said I was looking for a desk job. Even I knew that the day of the girl group was coming to an end. Mack said I should call his friend Pee-Wee Russell, of Pee-Wee’s Lunchtime in Space on radio station WIS (What I Say). Pee-Wee was a big fan of the Shakelys and he would know my name. Maybe he could find me something.
    It turned out that black-owned radio stations don’t usually hire white people, but Pee-Wee, who actually had been a fan of mine, took pity on me. He said he would call up a man he knew, the Reverend Arthur Willhall of the Race Music Foundation, and see if any research jobs were available. They didn’t pay very well, was that all right?
    I said it was.
    Pee-Wee said that the Race Music Foundation was in Harlem. Was that all right?
    I said it was fine. An hour later I was on the subway.
    It was a cloudy autumn day. The sky was the color of pewter, against which the yellow leaves glowed. The sidewalks were the color of slate because they were slate. The Race Music Foundation was housed in an old brownstone on one of Harlem’s nicer streets. The neighborhood surrounding it was somber and old-fashioned. The building itself, a slightly crumbling five-story house, looked mournful.
    I walked up the stairs and rang the bell. The door was answered by a tall, grim, skinny man wearing a dog collar. This was the Reverend Willhall himself, who led me into what had once been a parlor but was now sectioned into an office. On the wall in back of a large desk was a looming poster of Mississippi Fred McDowell which read I DO NOT PLAY NO ROCK AND ROLL . I had been warned by Pee-Wee that the Reverend was no fan of rock and roll, which he felt was black music polluted by commercialism.
    I sat down in a camp chair and he sat at the desk. Outside, the light lowered. It looked as if it might storm. A London plane tree out in front let down large yellow leaves. The Reverend sat with his elbows on the desk, his fingertips pressed together.
    â€œThe Race Music Foundation has as its purpose”—the Reverend intoned in a deep, rich voice—“the preservation of the music indigenous to the black man. Gospel, blues, rhythm and blues. We do not believe that society as a whole is interested in this music except to plagiarize, or bastardize, or use it as fodder for its own commercial purposes.”
    He did not appear to be speaking to me, and I was tempted to look behind me to see if there was an audience he was, in fact, addressing.
    I said, “You mean that white society is just going to rip it off unless you save it.”
    The Reverend looked at me as if I were a worm. He closed his eyes and opened them again, giving himself the aspect of a lizard.
    â€œQuite,” he said.
    I heard myself sigh heavily.
    â€œIn this very house,” the Reverend continued, “in this very house, ninety years ago, was born Mother Clara Hart, the foundress of the Hart African Gospel School. It is her generous heirs who have given us this building for our work.”
    He fell silent and closed his eyes. I began to shift uneasily in my chair. I felt I ought to do something, so I coughed. The Reverend Willhall opened his eyes again.
    â€œWe have organized an international network of researchers—a kind of living archive. These researchers send us endless material which must be meticulously catalogued and preserved. On this floor we house the library and reception room. On the second floor, our audio department and research rooms. On the third and fourth floors are the audio library, print,