“I did—but that was after my brother was killed and we had to leave the farm in the middle of the night.”
“What did he do to get killed?”
“I don’t rightly recall what he did, but they hung him for it, or as my father said, he got lynched. I was a kid when it happened. He was quite a bit older than me. Sixteen, almost a man when he died.”
“Your parents went from farming and burying a child to performing on the circuit?”
“Oh, no. They died a few weeks after we left Jacksonville, caught the Spanish flu. Most of the people we met in the circuit died of the Spanish flu,” Bessie said, sounding accustomed to bad times.
A newsboy walked toward them, making a ruckus, shouting something. Honoree wasn’t paying attention to his noise or the honking car horns, or the people walking by. Bessie’s story had touched her heart. Not only because of the tragedy of her tale, but how casually she’d told it, without a tear shed, or any other emotions.
“Honoree, did you hear that?”
“I heard you, Bessie. I’m sorry your life has been hard, but—”
“Hush!” Bessie raised a quick finger. “Not me, but the paperboy. Did you understand what he said?”
The paperboy was shouting, “Dreamland Cafe to reopen Saturday night!”
Bessie squealed. “Open Saturday! Does it mean you can go back to work?”
“Yes. I think so. Yes. They must’ve found Houdini’s killer. Thank the Lord!” Honoree had to stop herself from breaking into a jig.
She ran to the newsboy, who stepped back, his eyes big and mouth wide open. She’d scared him.
“Wanna newspaper, ma’am?” he asked, shaking.
She handed him a nickel and took a copy.
TheWhipwas another Chicago weekly newspaper for Negroes. The front-page article described the Dreamland Cafe as the grandest of the grand. Hand-painted shades hung from the domed ceiling with red, white, and blue incandescent electric lights, and a new Brussels carpet. It was the most beautiful dance hall in the world.
The article went on to talk about Mr. Buttons and the rumors about him and the murder of George “Houdini” Mills. The newspaper emphasized they were only rumors and that Mr. Buttons was an upstanding man of the Race.
Bessie leaned over her shoulder. “Can’t believe you’re going back to work. I’m so happy for you.”
Honoree tucked the paper under her arm. “You wait here,” she said. “I finally get to make this phone call.”
Honoree hurried back inside the grocery store and handed Mr. Turner a coin.
“I’m gonna make a fortune off you, Ms. Dalcour.”
“No. I don’t think so. This will be the next-to-last call I make for a while.”
“Who do I need to dial up first?”
“The Dreamland Cafe.”
Honoree took the receiver from Mr. Turner’s hand and recognized Zelda’s voice immediately.
“Is it true?” She listened intently, smiling from ear to ear. “Yes . . . yes. I’ll be there. See you then . . . thank you . . . thank you!”
Honoree passed the receiver to Mr. Turner. “One more call, to Miss Hattie’s Garden Cafe.”
“I got your Miss Dolly on the line.” Mr. Turner handed her the phone.
“Hello.” Honoree waited for a reply, but there was only silence. “This is Honoree. I won’t be coming back to Miss Hattie’s—I got a new job.”
Miss Dolly finally spouted a few nasty words about Honoree’s constitution, followed by a warning about Archie’s uncontrollable temper once he heard the news.
