Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
Mrs. Claxton stopped dead in her tracks on West Walnut Street. Her jaw went slack, and she pointed at two men and a woman standing in front of a building that touted a sign that said Record Shop.
“Ma’am, is everything okay? Let’s rest over there on the bench. You look ill.”
“That’s Cab Calloway,” she squealed. “That one with the trimmed mustache and slicked-back hairdo wearing the fancy cobs. See him next to the short man? Cab’s got the woman on his arm.”
“Who, ma’am? Cobs?”
“Sunglasses, chile. And none other than the famous Hi-De-Ho-Man. The one in the Minnie the Moocher, Betty Boop cartoon. Will wonders never cease. The movie-star singer, and right here on Old Walnut Street in the living flesh!”
Mrs. Claxton latched on to my arm and started pulling me.
“Hurry, Cussy, I’ve been dying to meet him for decades, but Jed would never allow it.
Oh, how I loved ‘The Honeydripper’ and ‘The Jumpin’ Jive.
’ He can scat like nobody’s business. His music sure is somethin’ else.
He’s an author, too, you know? Vesta sent me his book for my birthday.
Cab Calloway’s Hepster’s Dictionary. Language of jive! ”
It was the first time I’d seen a hint of her bygone youth, and I rushed to keep up with her, the two Bibles plastered against my chest as we weaved in and out of foot traffic.
Once, I stopped to gawk at a group of passing women who wore fine clothing.
Many sported dresses with tight bodices, cinched waists, and full skirts of cheerful colors and designs.
“All these ladies look like colorful butterflies flitting about, Mrs. Claxton. Butterflies sippin’ sweet, exotic nectar,” I remarked.
The men were dapper in their business suits and fashionable hats.
Besides in magazines, I had never seen so many folks in expensive clothing.
In front of big buildings, Negroes and whites stopped to chat with each other, talk weather, business, and the order of the day.
I stretched my neck toward one building called the Top Hat Club.
Horns sounded, and automobiles slowed as drivers shouted out greetings to passerby.
Shop bells jingled and lured the cheer of ringing cash registers.
Walnut Street had hypnotized me with its energy, and I stood gaping, enchanted and swept up with the wonderment of it all.
I hooded a hand over my eyes and looked up and down the street, gazing at the handsome buildings that kissed sunny skies as folks bustled under shaded concrete lips and sloped awnings.
Breaths of savory cooking and baking bread drifted out of swinging doors and open windows, swirled around, teasing and inviting. My belly grumbled, and I wiped drool from my mouth, tasting the tempting spices, smoked meats, and cinnamon-sugared treats.
“Hurry, Cussy.” She rushed back and grabbed my arm again.
“Never seen so many wonders on one street, ma’am. Why, this street goes on like the coal rails back home.” I crooked my neck and looked back, absorbing it all.
“Mr. Calloway. Mr. Calloway,” Mrs. Claxton called out, breathless, rushing us toward the handsome man and the woman and the other man who accompanied him. “My, he’s looking sharp as a tack,” she stopped to whisper into my ear while straightening her scarf.
Dressed in an expensive-looking suit, he lifted his sunglasses and dipped his brown fedora. I glimpsed the black satin band and flat side ribbon that was attached.
The woman next to him looked like she’d just stepped out of a movie picture. Her black hair was styled in the latest fashion, and she wore a soft green satin dress that was sleek and fitted to her shapely figure, with a bodice pinched into a puffy silk flower that lifted to her chin.
She fiddled with a clip-on earring, a cluster of matching rhinestones, and waited when Mr. Calloway stopped and smiled broadly while the other man held a briefcase.
“He’s one hep cat. Uh-huh, a real dicty if there ever was,” Mrs. Claxton whispered again into my ear.
Her words were puzzling.
“Mr. Calloway, sir, may I please trouble you for an autograph?” She could barely catch her breath.
“Ma’am?” I had never seen so much fussing, and alarm pricked at my brow. Worried her ticker would stop dead and lose its last tock for a man stripped clear off the magazine pages of movie star royalty.
Mr. Calloway nodded a yes and pulled a gold pen from his breast pocket.
The librarian dropped my arm and dug into her pocketbook. “Let me get something for you to write on, sir. Hold on. I— Now where is my—” Exasperated, she rummaged through it again, then patted her chest as if something would magically appear.
Suddenly, she looked at me and pried one of the Bibles out of my hand.
“Mrs. Claxton! Ma’am, please—” I searched around the sidewalk for paper, anything that could be signed other than Reverend’s Bible. “Let me find something else.”
To everyone’s surprise, she flipped to the title page and shoved it in front of him, the book jumping in her shaky hand.
Mr. Calloway studied her a few seconds, and then the star dazzled her with a blinding smile as he took the Bible and set his pen to paper.
“If you’ll just make it out to Effie Claxton, sir—no, make that Effie Ruth Claxton,” she said, hovering over him and the page, spelling out her name, twice, slow and measured, and then once more to be certain. “E-f-f-i-e…”
When he closed the book and handed it back to her, he motioned to the man next to him, who pulled out a small record from his briefcase. Cab scribbled his name over the red label and gave it to the awestruck librarian.
“‘The Calloway Boogie.’ Law. Thank you, Mr. Calloway!” She clutched the Bible and record to her chest.
When he winked, she looked like she would faint from sheer excitement, and I grabbed her arm.
Tipping his hat, the famous man walked briskly with his friends down Walnut Street and disappeared into a tall building with a large fancy sign that read STRAND THEATRE.
The librarian stared after him, youthful and dreamy-lipped.
When Mrs. Claxton finally opened the Bible, her face lit up.
She tilted the script toward me.
Effie Ruth Claxton,
You Rascal, You.
Mama, I Want to Make Rhythm.
—Cab Calloway
“Look’a here, Cussy. ‘Rascal’ and ‘Rhythm’ are two of his songs. And he’s done gave them to me.” She swooned and did a half twirl, arms flailing to ground herself.
I fidgeted with my other Bible, shifted, and reached for her again, worried what Reverend Claxton might say, fretting again she might be putting a strain on her heart with all this excitement. “Ma’am, please sit—”
“Don’t you go getting fussy Cussy on me,” she admonished.
I dropped her arm, surprised by her feisty spirit.
“Now, not a word to Mr. Claxton. I do love Cab’s music.” She tucked the Bible and record carefully into her large pocketbook, hooked her arm into mine, and rolled out a wobbly, zig-zagging verse from Cab’s song, lifting it above the scorching July streets:
“Mama, I wanna make rhythm
Just wanna go zoozi-zah-zah-zoozi
Ooh-cah-dee-doodle-oodle-aah-doo.
Just wanna go wookee-ah-kay-a-kaya-kaya
Yag-a-yag-a-yag-a-yag you.”
***
A heady aroma of vanilla, cigars, and cologne greeted us inside the Badger Drug Co., which advertised Venida hair nets, Dan’l Boone cigars, guaranteed rubber goods, and expert prescription work.
Lightly humming Cab’s tunes, Mrs. Claxton looked over toiletries, then inspected the rack of nail polish, finally settling on one advertised as RATTLE-MY-RACY-RED-TALKIN-TATTLE. Above, an advertisement showed a lady with her slip hiked up, just enough to reveal the scarlet necessaries she wore.
The librarian held the polish in front of me, a playfulness in her eyes, the scars of the Depression stamped across mine. I hid my raggedy nails behind my skirt.
She picked up a round flower-covered box of Dorothy Perkins Lilac Dusting Powder, opened the lid, and sniffed, then held it up to my nose.
“Smells real pretty, just like the flowers.”
“Mm-mm, sure wish I was wearing this when I met Cab.”
I studied the woman, worrying what would come next, curious at the amount of money spent on such frivolity. Two other women nearby were selecting expensive store goods as well.
“Cussy, pick you out a little something to make you feel pretty. My treat.”
“Much obliged, but I couldn’t. How do these cityfolk afford such? Never seen so many expensive things.” I glanced down at my ugly black prison shoes and thought about Honey wearing my worn riding boots.
“I’m a mountain woman, too, but let me show you something, chile.” The librarian walked me over to the newspaper rack and pulled up a paper, flipping to the last pages. She ran her finger down advertisements for job employment. Turned page after page stuffed full of businesses begging for workers.
I know’d many could find good jobs in cities but never thought about it much. I couldn’t recall ever looking at any city newspaper’s job postings.
“Now, chile, back home in our hills, there is no opportunity for work unless you’re working for King Coal and fattening his pocket with the meager company script he pays you to shop in his businesses, pay rent to live in his coal camps.”
“So many advertisements. I’d read of such, and Louisville is sure enough big, but I never imagined one city needed so much help.”
I took the newspaper and peered down the list. Column after column, jobs appeared for plumbers, electricians, painters, police and firemen, cooks, clerks, factory workers, and more.
“The pay is generous too,” I said, awed, turning back through the pages, hoping to check on the polio outbreak.
But she just grinned and reached for the paper. “Come on, I’m going to buy you a tube of lipstick.”
“Just another minute, ma’am.” I pulled it away.
“I checked, chile. There’s no news of the polio in the paper this morning. Let’s enjoy this sunny day off work and forget our worries.” She folded the paper neatly and dropped it on the stack.