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  Tré nodded in agreement. Jayden walked away.

  He tried to find his song; tried to find that brilliance—that excellence—everyone said he had, but the more he played, the more frustrated he became. He wanted to play more than music—wanted to give the world something deeper than a beautiful arrangement. He wanted to play his life in song. But this tune wouldn’t come, no matter how much he tried. He pressed his fingers hard against the ivory, filling the room with dissonant noise.

  Gingerly, hands embraced him from behind. They made their way across his shoulders, then traced his spine.

  “You know, when I was a boy, my daddy used to play all night long,” Jayden said. “I’d listen from my bedroom as my Mama cursed and cried, but he’d keep playin’. Like she was just singin’ the words to his songs. After she fell asleep he’d come get me; sit me down on the bench and teach me. Then he’d put me on his lap and play poetry with glazed eyes. I wanted to be him, baby.”

  Janie sat beside him, running her fingers down his thighs. “It’ll come. You’re just puttin’ a lot of pressure on yourself, that’s all.”

  “I got a reason to be nervous, don’t I? This can make or break me—set us up for life—and I ain’t got any ideas. I can’t stop shakin’ and I’m sweatin’ all the time.” He looked into her eyes, asking for understanding; asking her permission for the easy way out. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him.

  “It’s late. Come to bed.”

  “I can’t. I ain’t got no melody. No song—”

  “Yeah, you do. It’s inside. You just gotta let it go.”

  “What if it don’t come in time?”

  “Then it just isn’t time. Not the end of the world. There are other gigs, other clubs—”

  “Of course there are other gigs and other clubs, but you only get one shot at the Hippodrome.”

  Janie moved from the piano bench to the side of the bed and patted the mattress. He hesitated. She frowned. “Look, baby, you’ve been playin’ all day. I don’t think your song is gonna break through tonight.” She grabbed his arm. “Let it go.”

  “A little longer, Janie.”

  She sighed. “Maybe tea will calm you down. I’ll be back.” She left the room.

  Jayden fumbled with the keys a little more before finally giving up. He shifted to Miles Davis’s “My Funny Valentine,” played half the song, then stopped, his muscles tensing. He took the plastic bag out of his pocket and held it, running his fingers down the smooth shaft of the needle. Frantically, he searched for a lighter.

  “What you looking for?” Janie asked.

  Jayden shoved the bag back in his pocket. “Nothin’.”

  “I love it when you play that song.” She handed him a steaming cup.

  “Thank you.” He drank quickly. She watched intently from the bed.

  “I want you to know that whatever happens tomorrow, I’m proud of you.” She tugged on his arm, gently but with persistence.

  Reluctantly, he moved toward her. Without wasting time, she kissed his cheek. She moved her lips down to his neck while unbuttoning his shirt. He ran his hands down her curves. His body shook. He tried to push past it—tried to take control—but there was no use. Janie moved away from him.

  “I’m sorry, baby—”

  “Don’t be.” She laid her head against the mattress, pulling Jayden to her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, gripping him tighter when the shaking grew more intense. He stayed in her arms all night.

  Streetlights illuminated the stone exterior of the Hippodrome. Ivy covered the building; portraits of Jackson Ward adorned its façade. The marquee read: Come See the Stars of Tomorrow. Rain fell like the notes of a sonata, but that didn’t stop people from coming. Smooth lavender music filled the air, blending with the sound of rainwater. On most nights, people only danced on stage. Tonight, however, bodies trickled down the aisles, whiskey perfuming conversation. Women swayed their hips to syncopated music and men smiled because they knew it was all for them. The vast majority dressed casually. Janie and Jayden stood out, she wearing a tight red dress and he dressed in a five-button suit. They grabbed a booth against the back wall.

  “This place used to be classy,” Janie said.

  “This whole neighborhood used to be classy.” He fiddled with the plastic bag in his coat pocket. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, baby.”

  “Play something old.”

  “I need something new.”

  “Improvise.”

  An announcer in a bright white penguin suit marched to the center of the stage and grabbed the microphone. “Are y’all ready for live music?” he called out.

  People clapped and yelled in excitement.

  “We’ll start the show in about ten minutes. Until then, enjoy the piccolo, get loose, and relax.”

  Janie placed her hand on Jayden’s thigh. “You’re gonna do fine.”

  He smiled uneasily. “I gotta run to the bathroom. I’ll be back.” He made his way through the crowd of staggering people. In the haze he saw Tré sitting at the bar. The kid lifted his glass. Jayden nodded in acknowledgment. Once inside the bathroom, he headed straight for the stall. Muted music leaked inside. He took out the bag, mouth watering, hands shaking in anticipation. Thoughts of his father, his dreams, his future overwhelmed him. The music shifted from the jitterbug to classic jazz. “My Funny Valentine.” He pressed his head against the cold metal of the door, fighting. The room spun. Jayden leaned against the toilet, nauseous. He breathed hard into the bowl until the feeling went away. Slowly, he made his way back out of the stall; stared at his blurred image. “I can do this,” he whispered, splashing water on his face. He reentered the club, body shaking once more.

  “Jay! Jay, over here!” Quincy sat in a booth surrounded by beautiful women. Grudgingly, Jayden approached him. “You ready?”

  “It’ll be the best you ever heard, man.”

  Quincy smirked. “Took your medicine, ay?”

  “Naw, don’t need it.” Quincy’s smirk turned to a frown. Jayden headed back over to Janie. She took his hand.

  “You gonna be wonderful, baby.” Her eyes sparkled, confident reassurance.

  He believed her.

  But the moment of truth came too soon. The announcer reemerged. People dashed to empty booths and chairs. “I got a real treat for y’all tonight!” he exclaimed. “This first act comes to us from the business management team of Quincy Freeman. Now, y’all know Quincy only works wit the best.” Jayden’s heart pounded through his chest. The world moved in slow motion but the announcer’s words blared with the intensity of a thousand trumpets. “I want y’all to give a warm welcome to that most excellent, that most gifted, the fifteen-year-old sax phenom himself, Tré Andrews!”

  Jayden’s world came crashing down. The kid marched onto the stage wearing a light blue suit and top hat that almost swallowed his eyes. He took a bow, and started playing.

  Janie rose from her seat. “Come on, baby,” she said softly. “Let’s get outta here.” He followed her in disbelief.

  Before they got to the door, Quincy jumped in front of them, sweat dripping from his forehead. He started talking fast.

  “Look, man, it’s nothin’ personal. It’s just that the kid is marketable and he got looks and he dances real good. That, and he’s ready. Don’t be mad. It’s just business.”

  Hot anger rose from the depths of Jayden’s soul. It took everything he had not to swing his fist. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the plastic bag. He threw it at Quincy, then walked away.

  The two wandered down 2nd Street, silent. Graffiti covered most buildings, others were boarded up. The few businesses that remained opened were deserted, the owners sitting alone, watching people pass by. Janie walked close to the buildings while Jayden dragged his feet on the far edge of the sidewalk, unmoved by the world. Relentless weeds grew in the cracks of ragged streets. Jayden focused on the smooth emerald of each blade basking in the moonlight. The rain had stopped falling.

/>   Janie finally broke the silence. “Look, I look too damn fine not to do somethin’ tonight. I at least want a drink. You wanna get a drink with me, baby?” Jayden shrugged.

  They found a scarcely populated lounge, indiscriminate save the red neon OPEN sign on the window. They walked straight to the bar.

  “Two rum and Cokes,” Janie said, leaning against the counter. “And make one a double.” Scuffed wood paneling covered the lounge floor. Posters of Charles Mingus, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and Thelonious Monk decorated the walls.

  Jayden watched a man in a sharp black suit flip chairs onto empty tables; watched him grab a broom and start sweeping. On stage, a grand piano shone in soft blue light.

  “Y’all close soon?” he asked the bartender.

  “Closin’ now,” the bartender said back. “Last call.”

  The man in the suit looked at his watch, then dropped the broom. He took slow, exhausted strides to the stage and grabbed the microphone. He jumped when it screeched. Once the noise stopped, he began: “We got time for one more performance. So if anybody out there wanna do a poem or sing a song or play somethin’ up here, then you’re welcome to it.” He jumped from the stage and went back to sweeping.

  “Get up there, Jay!” Janie exclaimed. “You know you wanna!” He hesitated. “Go on,” she persisted.

  Slowly, absentmindedly, he made his way onto the stage. He looked through the blue haze out into the audience. He saw his lady. She smiled. Slowly, he sat.

  “What ya playin’?” a lady in the audience called out. Slight laughter hummed throughout the room.

  Jayden pulled the microphone close. He paused, contemplating. “This is untitled,” he said finally.

  He pressed down. Notes at first, then, to his surprise, they turned into something more. He moved between major and minor chords—modulated between his joys and his pains; his past and an uncertain future. First major and he tasted his mama’s lemonade—remembered makeshift water parks on hot summer days and his first kiss. Then minor and he relived cold winter nights with no heat and no love. He saw the look on his daddy’s face, those glassy eyes, and feelings took over. His fingers moved, pumping life into music. They told his story; his life in song.

  He asked no questions, simply let go and was. He played an unknown melody, forgotten once he touched the keys. Memories he’d never experienced danced through his fingers, scenarios that had never crossed his mind, but two things were constant, his love and his lady, moving together throughout time.

  Then the final chord. He struck it hard and didn’t move. He was afraid to move. The sound resonated throughout the room, blending with the pitter-patter of the rain against the aluminum roof. An eternity before he lifted his hands from the keys. After that, silence. Smoke stood in its place, refusing to rise, and people stared, not breathing. He squinted through the haze and saw his lady. She wiped away tears.

  MARCO’S BROKEN ENGLISH

  BY CONRAD ASHLEY PERSONS

  West End

  Meredith Lewis, housewife, mother of three, sat watching her second hour of television on a cloudless morning in Virginia. Dressed in a pink robe with matching slippers, she wept furiously. One of those advertisements, from Oxfam or Greenpeace or some organization like that, ran and ran and implored her to help the starving denizens of some small nation in Africa whose name Meredith didn’t even dare try to pronounce.

  The situation there seemed tenuous. She couldn’t tell whether the government was a victim of imposed circumstances, whether they were especially corrupt or just poor. The camera panned across another woeful scene, and more buffalo tears welled as Meredith realized how fragile everything was. The most permanent of fixtures was nothing more than a well-built tent, houses shoddily constructed of canvas, threadbare schools with throwaway books, scantily dressed children in scantily fed bodies, and dust everywhere. Everything was so thin she knew that one brave gust of wind could push this tiny civilization into the sea.

  But there was hope. Development could come into existence and be sustained, but it wasn’t going to be easy. It was going to take money. It was also going to take fundamental changes in politics, collective amnesia about colonialism, and faith. But the money was what they needed now. Some busty celebrity came in from camera left and made the final plea. Her chest heaved from grief. The situation was as follows: no food—ribs bravely protruding through skin, thirsty flies who, finding no safe ponds, feast on eyes instead—vague, beige bags of rice flown in from the good guys, seven cents could feed seven children, no clean water here, the heat: unbearable, the wind off the vast sands: bitter, the great rivers: gone dry. Simply put: this was not fair. Meredith Lewis, help us, help us help these children. Cry for the horror of this world, for its depravity, for its interminable thirst for entropy. Help us now.

  She thought to light a cigarette, didn’t, and chewed her lips instead. She shuffled to the bathroom for a fistful of tissues. Like the rest of the house, this room was modestly appointed, with a lavender ribbon pattern running from baseboard to ceiling. A bowl of potpourri rested by the sink, a medley of dried purple flowers. She took a fluffy towel, also purple, and used it to cover her face. And suddenly the sweetness of the room, its scent, its color—each piece a cute counterpart to another—it all seemed unbearable: a morbid lightness amongst so much horror.

  Staring into the mirror, with its gilded frame, she was utterly confused by her appearance. A housewife all cried out in the suburbs. With no mascara, the tears did little to disturb her face. But they made her eyes raw and red and searching. Were her tears for Africa? Or were they for that feeling, deep in her belly, a sad expectancy that any day now she would find lipstick on her husband’s collar, or that he would rush through the door and make straight for the shower, with no explanation save a liar’s grin?

  She had not looked at herself for a very long time. She viewed her face shyly at first, then with immodest intent. Mer-edith had medium-length brown hair, which was burnished by the naked light. Her green eyes were as flat and clean as a newly clipped lawn. Her cheekbones were substantive, but not pronounced, which made her appearance delicate and accommodating. She had once been beautiful.

  She rarely flattered her appearance with the many products she spotted in other women’s cabinets. Meredith’s morning routine consisted of the same old foundation and blush she’d first bought the night before prom. She had always clung to simplicity like some familiar womb. But she could feel things unwinding, felt some loosening that precedes a clamor.

  She’d spent time in Lyon looking at churches when she was a student, and had once even skinny-dipped in Interlaken on a dare. But adventure was a short-lived pursuit; she loved the cozy streets of the West End and the circumstances of home best. She had never wanted to be anything other than a mother, and since she had birthed her boys she thought of nothing else. She sighed, said her name, and turned her head from the mirror.

  To her left was a window. Pear trees were heavy, threatening to bear fruit. Local university boys walked by all dressed in khaki, their hair wet, books shoved tightly in their cases. There was no breeze; not a single branch stirred.

  Stepping into the living room, she realized that half an hour had passed. Could I have spent that much time in dumb contemplation? Or was it like all other days when tasks ate her time like corrosives? The commercial was still running on the television. The number on the bottom had been there so long she feared it would burn its impression into the screen: a 1, an 800, and a reminder of suffering in some part of the world she would never, ever want to visit.

  Meredith gave Harry’s sixteen-digit credit card number with expiration date, was promised future mailings and a picture for her refrigerator of a darling black girl, and in exchange received relief, temporary relief from all this shit.

  The rest of her day spread before her. She had watched her boys go to the bus long ago, and recalled their three heads in single file as they walked: capped, small, anxious. Harry had left this morning quietly.
He tiptoed in the mornings, his thin black socks barely touching the hardwood floors. Lights flickered on and off in quick succession as he made his way from room to room. And the way he left the bed was an elaborate, silent ceremony, sliding off in an awkward balancing act so that he wouldn’t wake Meredith and her desire.

  The house was empty and ready for more of her tears. She decided to leave it. She went to her closet and decided to not wear much. She donned a white sleeveless crochet dress that finished just above her knees. She wore white shoes with modest heels. Around her neck hung a cheap Spiga necklace that had the pin and sprawl appearance of a bolo tie. She got into the station wagon and, as if seeing it for the first time, thought it old-fashioned. She drove north to Monument Avenue without thinking, jerking the stick, switching gears, the mindless radio playing songs she already knew, or thought she did. And soon, without any recollection of her journey, she was at Hash and Mash.

  Hash and Mash occupied a low-slung building walled with windows and topped by beaten-up brown shingles. The day’s specials were painted on the glass, inventive and banal interpretations of the diner’s muse: the potato. Meredith walked in and heard the loud crackle of a sizzling grill, smelled the sharp hint of fried onions. Will, the manager, had droopy eyes, which looked at her, then directed their gaze to his right, where an empty booth sat. He never moved, just walked patrons to their seat with those eyes, which always seemed on the verge of bored tears. A waitress came and took her order, never looking up from her pad.

  Pennants and posters of athletes lined the walls. All the short order cooks wore paper chef hats and grease-stained white polos. The local radio played music but was occasionally interrupted by news bulletins, Harry’s news bulletins. He had been reading the news for seventeen years now, his voice the city’s voice; he had delivered Richmond new presidents, used car sales, and the impending doom of market indicators. It was the voice that sent them to sleep, and got them up at an hour when everyone was dreaming except for maids and truck drivers. Here was Harry, on the radio, only a voice, a faceless bogeyman, as he was at home.