I pop a five-milligram melatonin, lean back in my seat, and close my eyes.
As soon as I step off this tin bucket in Chicago, I’m heading to the Bronzeville Senior Living Facility.
CHAPTER 7
HONOREE
Friday, October 23, 1925
Virginia and Edna Mae rambled into Miss Hattie’s dressing room, yapping like hens in a coop, sharing tales of railroad boys, and dollar bills stuffed into their brassieres, and hooch guzzled by the pint.
No one paid attention to Honoree, which suited her just fine. She wiped her eyes and breathed in deep, settling her fractured nerves, but then Bessie galloped across the room.
“Are you okay? What happened?” she asked, panting with concern. “You almost fell off the stage in the middle of your routine.”
Sure, she’d stumbled. A falling-off-the-Statue-of-Liberty-size stumble, but it was Ezekiel who had caused her to lose her footing. He was to blame for her mistakes. He was the problem—not her. “I didn’t fall. I barely tripped.” Honoree snapped the hook of her bodice so hard she ripped the seam. “Damn it.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” The worry in Bessie’s damp eyes bothered Honoree as much as the girl’s persistent questions.
“Who are you to say anything to me about dancing?”
Bessie’s eyes welled with tears.
“Don’t you dare start crying. I don’t have time for you and your tears.”
“I’m sorry, Honoree. I didn’t mean to insult you. I was just worried.”
“I’m supposed to excuse your clumsy words and your awkward attempts at being friendly. I’m not in the mood for your kind of friendly.” Honoree reached under the makeup counter and rooted around, searching for what she couldn’t rightly say. Her thoughts were upstairs at the bar, thinking about Ezekiel, the man she hadn’t seen in three years.
Bessie stood nearby, sulking. Honoree glared, wishing she’d hightail it back on over to her crate. But before she blasted into the child, Honoree remembered she could use some help. “If you’re so worried about me, how about you do me a favor.”
Bessie’s expression changed from bleak to eager to please. “Sure, what do you need? I’ll help any way I can.”
“Take a seat.” Honoree nodded at the crate next to her. “A man I haven’t seen in a long while came into the cafe tonight. He should be upstairs. Likely at the bar. I want you to find him and tell him to wait for me.” She touched Bessie’s knee. “Let him know I’ll be upstairs as soon as I change.”
“Yes, ma’am. I can do that.” Bessie rose and spun toward the door but quickly spun back. “How will I know him? There are a hundred men upstairs.”
Honoree tapped a Marlboro from her pack. “He’s wearing a brown wool topcoat and holding a fedora. He’ll be the only man in Miss Hattie’s, other than Archie, wearing a fedora. Men who come to Miss Hattie’s don’t own hats, or if they do, they’re one of those newsboy caps.”
Bessie nodded.
“He has black hair, wavy but not processed, and he’s very tall.”
“What’s his name?”
Honoree paused. The question stumped her for a moment. It had been some time since she’d spoken his name aloud. “Ezekiel. Ezekiel Bailey.”
Bessie bounced on her heels. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him, and I’ll hurry.” She darted toward the door but whirled around, again, tugging at the waistband of her pantaloons. “Can I go upstairs, dressed like this?”
“Of course you can. None of the other girls are down here changing.”
“I’m down here.” Trudy stood at the top of the stairs, holding a cigarette between her fingers and blinking smoke from her lazy eye. “I’m changing my clothes. Maybe you should, too.”
Bessie looked at Honoree. Her round brown eyes had filled with panic.
“Go on now,” Honoree said. “Don’t pay her no mind.”
Bessie angled by Trudy, muttering anexcuse mebefore fleeing into the hall.
