“Well, I have to do something.” I lower my voice. “This curse been driving our family’s lives for generations. We do shows, travel, and stay ready to fight. Or die. And we can’t do a damn thing to change that. But finding a way to help our people, to turn our bad luck into their good… that I can do.”
Loot gives me a refill. I stare into my drink. The deep brown swirling with a ribbon of cherry syrup. When I think about the curse, that evil Tether that’s had us in a perpetual war with the Baldwins for generations, it looks like that, brown skin and blood. One competitor put forth every generation for a magical duel to the death. An ancestral bargain made to free our bloodlines from slavery, only to shackle descendants to a never-ending death Gambit.
“Malcolm, you been in your thoughts too long. You depressed or something?”
I shake my head slowly, the weight of her concern sinking in. “Nah. I’m good.”
“Maybe a girlfriend would settle you down.”
I squint at her.
“Everybody needs love.”
I hear what she’s saying, but aw hell, nah. “I need it like a bullet in the head.” I sip from my glass. “You got some deep thoughts, sis. You should put them all in a book. It would look good…” I point my finger to a shelf across from the bar and then lower it. “Right about there,” I say, motioning at the trash can.
She playfully punches me.
“A lot of girls come to my dressing room trying to love on me after shows.” I waggle my brows at her, and she gags. “Why fall in love when you’re destined to have to run your whole life and fight? No one should have to live like we do if given a choice.”
I’m not trying to be hurt or to hurt anyone.
Loot slams a drink in front of Jayla, splashing a puddle beside it. “For you, doll-face.” He winks, then leans on the bar. “You gonna bless these folks with a song tonight, Malcolm?”
I stroke my guitar strap. “I got you on the song, if you bless me with another drink.”
He slides a glass in front of me, and Jayla frowns.
“Y’all being careful?” I ask him. “Heard there was Klan activity nearby.” Or at least there’s about to be.
I always have a hard time knowing what’s coming and not being able to warn people. That makes me a terrible time traveler, according to Big-Mama. “Leave the past in the past. Meddling will always cause ripples beyond what you can see… let alone imagine,” she always says.
“I ain’t heard that.” Loot grits his teeth. “But it doesn’t surprise me. Racist folk couldn’t entertain themselves without a Black body to hang.” He moves to help more folks at the bar.
Jayla elbows me. “Knew it,” she says. She’s onto me. She leans close and whispers in my ear. “That’s why you came. When you played your guitar last night, you had another vision?”
I nod. “In three days,” I whisper, “the Klan figures out that Loot ain’t white, that Black folks be having fun in here. You know how racists do. They’re gonna shoot up this spot.”
“So they all become maggot food?”
“Always an optimist, aren’t you?” I reply. “We can save them. I just got to figure out a way to shut this place down before…” I sigh. Hard. I can’t saybefore they die. But from Jayla’s expression, she knows. “I swear, as much as we travel through time trying to do good, help the poor, and help our people do better, seems like something’s just as busy making it worse. You ever wonder if all this hate is natural or supernatural? Like some cosmic game?”
“Shut up.” She lowers her voice. “Don’t talk about the supernatural. You’ll get a one-way ticket to an asylum.” The way she cuts her eyes at me lets me know I better close my mouth.
Loot approaches and slides another drink my way before I’ve finished the last.
I gulp it fast. “Mmm. Tastes like showtime.”
“Good.” He grins and dries the spill on the bar. “I’ll let the crowd know they’re in for the performance of their lives.”
A hum buzzes through the juke joint when I step out of the shadows and stand in front of the mic. I squint up at the spotlight man on the balcony, hoping he’s gonna lessen the amount of light blinding me. I glance at the audience, and the crowd surges forward with a rush of excitement; men in crisp collared shirts and sleek waistcoats blend into an ocean of women in cotton dresses that vary in shade more vividly than the beautiful brown skin of the women wearing them.
As I sing the first notes, chorus girls burst through the shimmery cream curtain behind the stage, circling me and grinning like they are performing with musical royalty. They gyrate to the sounds and look like exotic birds with their bubblegum-pink bodysuits and ostrich feathers as they do their high kicks.
I’ve got to figure out a way to shut this spot down before the Klan attacks. No one in here should be hurt just because racists aren’t happy with Loot.
But first, I’m gonna enjoy my time with the music. I hit a high note. Mama always said my voice was light and cool as a cloud, but heavy enough to rain joy on an audience. I pluck my guitar and watch the dancing people in front of me. They go wild. Bodies jumping, arms swaying, and fast footwork.
My heart is a bass drum. My fingers don’t just fly over the strings—they are the strings. The music moves in and out of me as easy as air. I need it to survive. I sing with passion, glancing at the dancing beauties circling me and the band playing behind me. I nod to the band, and the music transitions into a jazzier sound that I taught them when we rehearsed the last time I was here. Time to bless the crowd’s ears with a Malcolm Davenport original, something I wrote after my first broken heart.
