Come on, Dad. Use that big brain of yours and remember.
“Something to do with a house?”
Another long pause. “Yes, a deed to a house.”
“Maggie sold the house in Baton Rouge in 1990, but Miss Honoree claims she never owned it to sell.”
“Around 1990, but your mother had a 1938 deed that named another owner.”
“Who? Do you remember who owned the house in Baton Rouge?”
“Yes. Yes. I remember. It was a woman named Bessie Palmer.”
CHAPTER 27
HONOREE
Early November 1925
On Saturday night, the Dreamland Cafe reopened. But Honoree missed the whole whangdoodle. She was on the third floor rehearsing the new vaudeville act with Colethea and Hazel. After three hours of hard practice, the dance master ended the rehearsal. As soon as he said they could go, there was a flurry of arms, legs, and lace-trimmed, sleeveless dresses, as Honoree and her friends changed lickety-split and raced into the dance hall for the midnight show.
The cafe was packed, and they made it no farther than the edge of the room. Rising onto her tiptoes, Honoree tilted her head back to see the band in the balcony—and get a peek at Louis Armstrong.
“Have you ever heard anyone play the trumpet the way he does?” Colethea yelled into her ear.
She slid sideways and stepped in front of Colethea. She didn’t want to miss a second of what was happening in the balcony. It was a celebration. The first time in her life she’d heard Louis Armstrong play his trumpet and she was watching him with her own eyes. The musicians in the band would mumble or shout from the rafters about Armstrong’s talent. Most jazz musicians from Miss Hattie’s had to trust what they’d heard about him from other musicians. Some had heard him on a phonograph. He’d had a record out in 1922. But nothing compared to being in the same room, listening to him play.
She couldn’t stop bouncing. The music had every bone in her body jumping and jiggling. It was the same with the customers around her. Feet stomped, hands clapped, fellas and flappers were arm-in-arm, swinging and jerking. The sound of Louis Armstrong’s horn and Lil’s piano were like witchcraft, black magic, and no one could keep still. Maybe that’s why old settlers and church people called jazz the Devil’s music. It just had too much rhythm and too much swing to come from anywhere else.
Honoree tried to push her way onto the dance floor, but she ended up rooted to the same spot until Louis Armstrong blew his last note.
“Amazing,” Hazel said, sounding hoarse. She had stayed next to Honoree until the set ended, shouting and bellowing like most patrons.
“I wonder what they’re doing after the show.” Hazel stared wistfully at the balcony.
“Celebrating, of course.”
“Do you think we can get an invitation? I’d love to be at that party. Think of the men who will be there. Rich. Handsome.” Hazel laughed. “If not handsome, talented.”
Honoree had a similar thought. “We haven’t had our debut performance yet. They don’t know us. But once they do, we’ll get invited.”
She had kept her encounter with Lil Hardin to herself—so she wasn’t exactly telling a fib.
“Maybe we’ll get a chance to hang out with them socially,” Colethea said.
“Maybe one day.”
It was all Honoree could say since she and Lil were on their way to becoming fast friends if Honoree had anything to say about it. And it was time she was right about something.
* * *
The next Sunday evening, Honoree scurried through the kitchenette, searching for her gloves.
“It’s a party for Louis Armstrong’s friend Cab Calloway. He’s a singer who got hired in the touring revuePlantation Days—” She raised the pair of lambskin gauntlet gloves in triumph. “I found them!”
Bessie sat at the kitchen table, mending one of King Johnny’s shirts. It was her new gig, laundering and mending shirts for the boys in the Creole Jazz Band. It allowed her to chip in more cash for rent, and Honoree didn’t argue. A baby was on the way, after all.
“Damn,” Honoree cursed. “Where did I put it?”
