Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands by Susan Carol McCarthy Read Free Book Online Page A

Mist’Warren. What we got here?” Luther takes his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and puts them on his nose. “Rhap-so-
dee
in Blue,” he reads. “How’s it go?”
    “You know this, don’t you?” Daddy asks. “I used to. Forgot all about it ’til Doto showed up with the sheet music.”
    “Can Ah hear it?” Luther asks with the briefest flash of his old self. Daddy sees what’s coming. Settling in on the sofa, so do I.
    “Play it for me, Mist’Warren,” he chides Daddy gently.
    Musically, Daddy and Luther are different as night and day. While Daddy works hard mastering his pieces, Luther has the ability to hear a song once and play it back, perfectly at first, then even better, embroidered with whatever he hears inside his head. In the comfortable, comforting game they’ve played for years, the rules are simple: Daddy plays first for Luther, then Luther returns the favor.
    When Daddy lays his hands on the keyboard, everything about him elongates. His head rises above an upright back. His legs extend flatly to the floor, right foot on the pedal, left toes gently tapping. His fingers stretch out on the keys, wrists flat.
    “Rhapsody in Blue” is my new favorite song. When Daddy plays it, I imagine I’m in a place far away from here, where people are nothing but nice to each other. I see it clearly inside my head:
    A beautiful ballroom, the handsome, tuxedoed gentleman and the charming Miss Rhapsody—a vision in sky-blue chiffon, swirling about her, around them as they dip and float across the polished marble floor. The sound of sophisticated music, the perfume of jasmine and orange blossoms fill the air, and her hair, with sweetness.
    “That’s a
fine
song. You played it right elegant!” Luther tells Daddy at its end.
    “Thank you, sir.” Daddy nods, ceremoniously yielding the piano bench to his old friend.
    Luther sits. His long, loose-jointed body curls over the keyboard, palms pressed together briefly as if in prayer. Lightly, he lays one finger, then another, on the keys, tickling out the La-Da-Dee-Da of the opening. Then, fanning his fingers like a faith healer, he plays. Once the basic line is laid, he begins his embroidery, threading twice as many notes as Daddy did. Elbows, arms and his entire right leg pumping, angular yet effortless, like an ibis taking flight. Mother appears in the doorway. Doto, Ren and Mitchell crowd the upper stairwell.
    Luther’s version of the song is local—less Rhapsody, more Blue. His lady lays sobbing-hearted on her bed, waiting for the one who has not come. Memories of their last perfect dance together fall like leaves onto the crumpled heap that was her party dress, now abandoned on the floor. At one point, she gets up, suddenly alert, certain he’s come. But,
no
, she realizes.
No
body’s there. Sinking back into bed, sadder than before, she knows he’s
not
coming, not tonight, not
ever
again.
    Oh, Marvin . . . Remember when I said I wasn’t looking forward to teenage dances because I didn’t know how; and you said,
“Don’t worry, li’l Rooster. Ah’ll teach yuh t’ Car’lina Shag with the
best of ’em!” Who’s going to teach me now?
    When Luther finishes, my entire family applauds him wildly. He looks up, dazed and distracted by a sorrow so thick it’s seeped out his fingertips. He nods, thanking us all. “No, Luther, thank
you
,” Doto calls from the top of the stairs. “That was wonderful.”
    “You’s most kind, Miz Doto,” he says softly.
    Doto says goodnight and herds the boys back into their bedroom. Mother returns to the kitchen and I remain, temporarily forgotten, on the sofa.
    In a voice worn and tired, Luther says quietly to Daddy, “Mist’Warren, Ah come for your help.”
    After their first year in Mayflower, my parents say, they asked Luther to stop addressing them with the customary Mistuh and Miz attached to their names. “We’re friends,” they told him, “our first names will do.” But Luther wouldn’t