“Honoree tires quickly,” she says. “Things come to her out of order, and she says things she doesn’t mean.”
Lula’s voice is soothing, but my frustration can’t be capped by a beautiful girl’s sensible words or kind eyes.
“I won’t be here tomorrow.”
Honoree’s eyes open.Oh, she was pretending.“You be careful how you talk to an old woman. I still have rights in this world, and one of ’em is respect. So don’t you shout at me. Just do as I say and come back tomorrow.”
I am dumbfounded. That’s the word.Dumbfounded. Slack-jawed. Worn-out. Still, Honoree has taken the last straw, broken it in half, and flung it in my face. Why is this old woman stressing me out? It must be jet lag or Azizi messing with my head.
I need to leave. Finish my thesis and fix my life without Honoree Dalcour’s help. It will be her bad when the reel of film turns out to be a lost Micheaux and I make my mark on history.
Honoree pulls the edges of the sheet to her throat. “I’ll tell you my story tomorrow.” Her voice is a faraway whisper. “I’ll tell you about Micheaux and Louis Armstrong, Miss Hattie’s, and the Dreamland Cafe.”
I shake my head. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Dalcour. Miss Lula.” Without giving either woman a chance to reply, I tip an imaginary hat and exit the room and haul ass out of the Bronzeville Senior Living Facility.
Outdoors, it’s late afternoon and dense, white clouds fill the sky. The breeze from the lake makes a warm day feel cooler. I remove a UC Berkeley sweatshirt from my backpack, but my hands are trembling. Fuck.
The first shuttle to O’Hare I catch at the Palmer House hotel. I take a window seat, and the skyline rolls by, but I can’t stop thinking about Honoree Dalcour.
She is not the first woman to call me a coward. Not the first woman to ask me to tell her the truth. She said some disturbing things that lodged in the pit of my stomach. Yet, in my story brain, the place where my ideas turn into films, there is one thing Honoree told me she didn’t mean to tell. Something happened in Chicago in 1925. Something she doesn’t want me to know. Doesn’t want anyone to know. Which means, she’s the one who’s afraid. She’s the one who’s a coward. Not me.
Not this time.
CHAPTER 4
HONOREE
Friday, October 23, 1925
Honoree hurried up the narrow stairwell ahead of Miss Dolly and the other girls, hoping to be the first to set her sights on Trudy, whenever the girl arrived.
The Friday-night patrons were already zozzled. Neighborhood flappers and floozies packed the joint, laughing and singing, and boozing, smoking, and sweating. Some nights, the stench put a gag in Honoree’s throat so immense, her lungs ached and her eyes watered. Thankfully, the smell wasn’t too bad yet. It was still early.
Wearing a flimsy robe over her scant costume, she pushed by handsy customers until she reached a spot near the bar. Then she rose onto her tiptoes to get a better view.
Miss Hattie’s was shaped like a train car with a wooden bar the length of the cafe. Scattered around the dance floor and across from the stage were a few round tables with chairs. Honoree craned her neck but still couldn’t see much and circled to the other end of the bar.
This was one of those times she wished Archie had purchased some barstools. Not a tall girl, she could’ve used the leg up. But according to Archie, the neighborhood folk didn’t come to a honky-tonk like Miss Hattie’s to sit on their bottoms. They came to drink, dance, leer at the chorus girls, and buy policy dream books.
Policy. Everyone played the numbers in Bronzeville, from the most righteous preacher to the drunkest drunk. For a penny, a nickel, or a dime, a gambler bet three lucky numbers and hoped to match the wheel operator’s winning draw.
Honoree detested the game. Wasting hard-earned dough on chance seemed foolhardy—just like waiting on Trudy.
She canvassed the cafe again, but no sign of Trudy or any sign of Miss Dolly or the other girls. They were still downstairs, likely quibbling over a broken shoe or a ripped pair of bloomers.
Frustrated, Honoree eased into an opening at the bar and signaled Crazy Pete. She might as well have a snort while she waited.
On weekends, there were two barkeeps, Dewey Graves, Archie’s younger brother, a quick-tempered hood who punched things, and Crazy Pete, who wasn’t all that crazy.
He recited poems, sometimes too loudly—poems written by Paul Laurence Dunbar, Langston Hughes, and Claude McKay. He told tall tales about his exploits in the Spanish American War, his work with Booker T. Washington, and a private meeting with President Taft. Other than those stories, calling him crazy seemed unkind. He was a dreamer, and what was wrong with dreaming as long as he didn’t hurt nobody? Ezekiel used to read poetry, too. No one called him addlebrained. He was the smartest boy in Chicago—Black or white. The only thing she could say about Ezekiel—he was gone.
“Hey, Pete.” Honoree raised her voice extra loud to get his attention. The cafe was noisy, but Pete was also partially deaf in one ear. Probably both. “Pete!”
He swung toward her, smiling broadly and revealing two rows of black gums. “How you doing, Miss Honoree?”
“You forgot your false teeth again, Pete.”
“Damn teeth hurt my mouth.” He limped toward her with a bad leg caused by a white man wielding a bat during the riots in the summer of 1919. “You lookin’ mighty pretty.”
