“Yes, it is.”
“Do you have any records?”
Katherine seems hesitant. “I would really like to listen to some of your music, Iris.”
“We’ve heard about portable phonographs, but I’ve never come across one.” She sets the device down on a nearby stool. “What type is it?”
Katherine looks distressed. “It’s the RCA Victor Special Model K.”
“Do you have any records?”
“I have a few,” she grumbles, not pleased by what is happening.
Mr. Hartfield doesn’t pick up on Katherine’s signals and helps Iris open the portable phonograph.
“Let’s put on some music so they can listen,” Othella says with a glance at Iris and the others. “Where are the records?” She digs around in a sleeve-like slit in the lid and removes a few records.
“I’ll crank it up.” Mr. Hartfield glances at his wife, who nods in agreement.
“It’s battery operated,” Katherine says solemnly.
Between Iris and Othella, they take possession of the records and the phonograph. The next hour, we listen and dance to Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, Benny Goodman, and Billie Holiday. For a few minutes, it’s like we are at one of the nightclubs on Harbour Street or the lounge at the Myrtle Bank Hotel.
Sitting next to me, Katherine has a weary expression on her face. “And I repeat, I was hoping for African native music and some dance rituals. Instead, it’s a Saturday night on State Street in Chicago.”
“I bet you’ve never been to the Savoy Ballroom,” Othella chimes in, snapping her fingers and shifting her torso in her seat to Louis Armstrong.
Katherine shrugs. “I’ve been to the Savoy many times.”
Tully raises a record and waves it in the air. “Look what I found.” He puts it on.
Cab Calloway’s distinctive voice bounces through the night as “Minnie the Moocher” plays. When the call-and-response chorus begins, everyone sings, “Hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-ho,” including me. Othella dances the Lindy Hop, gracefully moving into the two-step with hips swaying and body spinning.She tries to coerce Robbie Barnes into joining her, but he declines shyly. Then Katherine takes Vivian Jean’s hand and leads her into an open spot near the whirling Othella. In moments, the entire Dunham party, including Tully, is dancing and attempting to teach Iris and Lieutenant Clerk how to shimmy their hips. The only two abstaining from the festivities are Colonel Rowe and me. He doesn’t look pleased with what he’s witnessing. Though, how could I tell? His expression is the same as when we arrived.
With all the revelry, I seize the moment to slip away. I’m sure my mother has heard the music and the commotion and wonders what is happening in Simon Rowe’s yard. Or she has guessed I have arrived and is patiently waiting for me to come home.
CHAPTER 27
OTHELLA
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Day One
Familiar music fills the air. New friends dance the Lindy Hop and shimmy to Cab Calloway’s searing vocals. The chorus shouts back and forth at the top of our lungs, “Hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-ho.”
“Minnie the Moocher.” It never crossed my mind that I would be dancing and singing to Cab Calloway on my first night in a Jamaican jungle.
It’s almost perfect. I just need a gin and tonic to wash the taste of those hot peppers outta my mouth and an Italian beef to fill my empty stomach. I only had two swallows of stew. The first spoonful, I was hungry and swallowed it quickly, but the second was a mistake. My impatient nature got the best of me. If I had just waited another second for the spices to hit the back of my throat, that second swallow would never have happened.
Tully keeps the turntable spinning and plays at least six records, most of which he has played twice. He announces the last dance, and we kick up our heels until he closes the lid of the portable phonograph. Afterward, I collapse onto astool, sweaty and ready for bed, wherever we’re supposed to rest our tired bodies.
“My legs feel like melted butter,” I say to Robbie with a laugh. He joins me at the end of the long table, away from Iris and her family, who are still chatting with Katherine and Vivian Jean about American music and dance. “My backside hurts, too.”
“You’ve been dancing for an hour. I’m not surprised you’re sore.”
“It’s not only the dancing. I blame my aching ass on those mules.” Robbie’s cheeks turn red like a juicy ripe tomato, and he ain’t all that light-skinned. My language must have shocked him.
“Do you need—do you need,” he begins, but becomes lost in his thoughts.
“Just tired, but wasn’t that fun? Do you think every night in Accompong will be this much fun?”
