“She better show.” Miss Dolly lifted her skirt and slipped her hip flask beneath her garter. “I ain’t explaining a missing girl to Archie. Not tonight.”
She clapped her hands twice. “Y’all hurry up, get dressed, and get up them stairs. And don’t forget to throw a robe on over your costume. King Johnny and the band are winding down.” A cigarette dangled from her lips. “Come on now. It’s showtime, ladies.”
CHAPTER 3
SAWYER
Friday, June 5, 2015
Lula Kent walks away from me, straight-backed and righteous as hell, pushing her medicine cart of indignation. Quite the cross to bear for a girl her age, but she is not my concern.
I take a deep breath and step into Honoree’s room (excuse me—Miss Honoree’s room) and tread across the linoleum to the foot of one of those sturdy hospital beds, cranked two feet off the ground.
This close, Honoree Dalcour is all angles, thin arms and legs, jutting from beneath stiff white sheets. Propped up with pillows behind her head and under her elbows and knees, she reminds me of one of the broken dolls my sister used to bury in the backyard.
“Ma’am. Excuse me? I don’t mean to disturb you, but—”
Honoree opens her eyes. “Who’s there?” Her voice booms, bold and vigorous.
My chest tightens. I expected a weak whisper.
“Do you understand me? Speak up.”
“Good afternoon, my name is Sawyer Hayes.” I remove my backpack and place it on the floor. “How are you doing today?”
She stares at me as if there’s food in my teeth. Then again, she may not be able to see me with her 110-year-old eyes.
“My name’s Sawyer Hayes,” I repeat. “I’m a film student from California. I’m here to talk to you about Chicago in the 1920s.”
Pushing aside my phobia as best I can, I circle to the side of the bed. “Margaret Hendrickson, or Maggie White, the name you knew her by, had old photographs of you in her attic. On the back of each photo was this address and the name Honoree Dalcour and the year 1925—I assume the year the photo was taken.”
I don’t mention the other items in my grandmother’s long-ago box, including the most important find—a reel of film I sent to a restoration company in LA. From the scribbling on the canister, it could be a lost Micheaux—I am holding my breath because it is almost too much to hope for—but if it happens, my interview with Honoree will be the second most important thing I do this summer.
My documentary about a lost film would be a significant contribution to film history. How wild would it be if my thesis includes an exclusive interview with one of Micheaux’s performers? I might even make my dad jealous.
Honoree clears her throat, not a pleasant sound. “How’d you get in here?”
I nod toward the hallway. “I checked in at the front desk.”
“Don’t mean you can walk into my room, happy as you please.”
“Margaret Hendrickson gave me permission.”
“She’s the same person as Maggie White, huh?” Honoree’s tone is not so much surprise as irritation.
“Sorry, I forgot to mention: Maggie is my grandmother.”
Honoree gasps, a sharp inhale of surprise, or someone walked over her grave. “Well, ain’t that some shit!” She lets loose a coarse, bitter laugh.
I take a step back and put a little distance between us. An old woman can curse, but the laugh creeps me out. I switch gears. “Lula Kent told me you have the memory of an elephant.”
Honoree isn’t looking at me. She’s focusing on the space surrounding me. Maybe she sees ghosts, too, but I’m not ready to swap ghost stories.
“Lula talks too much, but only when she has a reason,” Honoree says. “What did you do to her?”
I raise my hand, palm out. “I swear, I didn’t do anything to Lula.”
“You had to do something.” Her eyes slam shut, and her breathing is shallow and weird. Panic grips me.
