24. Chapter 21 | Elle
Elle slid another beer onto the table. The man didn't look up.
The CORE meeting had been going on for twenty minutes. She had circled the room six times with her tray. Twenty-five people packed into Papa Louie's bar, chairs in tight rows, everyone leaning forward to catch Oretha's words.
Elle wove between bodies, collected empties, and set down fresh drinks.
Nobody followed her with their gaze.
In Hollywood, she couldn't walk into a room without conversations stopping. Here, she could stand next to someone, and they wouldn't even see her.
She wiped down an empty table, collecting wadded napkins, and stacked chairs quietly against the wall.
Invisible labor. Safe. Anonymous.
Is invisible the same as free? Or just a different kind of cage?
Oretha was talking about Washington. "The March on Washington is August twenty-eighth—that's the national moment.
We're sending five people to represent New Orleans.
" She paused. "But our march in September, right at City Hall—that's the one that matters most. My sister Doris Jean has been organizing in the Ninth Ward.
Mama's getting folks at Dooky Chase to pledge.
The local march is for us. Everyday people in our city demanding our city change. "
Small everyday things are for us, Elle thought, reaching past someone's shoulder to refill a water glass.
Professor Thibodeaux stood, brushing invisible lint from his expensive three-piece suit. The room quieted.
"We need to think strategically," he said. Voice cultured, authoritative. "Especially September, when local cameras will be watching. White moderates need to see respectable Negroes."
He gestured at himself. The perfect suit. The polished shoes.
"Clean-cut. Well-dressed. Professional. Ladies in conservative dresses. Hats and gloves. Men in suits and ties." He surveyed the room. "We need to show them we deserve equality by looking like we already belong."
His gaze moved across the people gathered. Assessing.
It paused on the young woman in a faded work dress, hair wrapped in a cleaning scarf. She'd come straight from her job.
On the man in coveralls, grease still under his fingernails.
On Dom leaning against the bar in her charcoal men's suit and thin tie and suspenders. Taking up space as if she had every right to.
His mouth thinned.
The door opened.
A young girl walked in. Elle noted her dark brown skin, hair in two Afro puffs tied with bandanas. Army surplus bag over her shoulder. Canvas sneakers worn through at the toes.
She didn't apologize for being late. Just walked to an empty chair and sat down. Pulled out a notebook.
"Oretha," she said, not looking up. "You were talking about the Washington buses. How much per person?"
She cut Thibodeaux off mid-sentence. Completely ignored him.
As if he wasn't worth her attention.
Thibodeaux's face stiffened.
Oretha was clearly fighting a smile. "Thirty dollars per person for the bus and two nights' lodging."
Elle stood there with her tray, watching the girl write in her notebook. That certainty. That complete lack of concern about what Thibodeaux thought of her presentation.
That's what I used to be. Before I learned to perform. Before I learned which version of myself was acceptable.
The meeting wrapped up forty minutes later. Dom had offered to organize security—train people in basic protection, de-escalation, how to shield marchers from the police.
"Protection by us, for us," Dom had said.
James Baldwin's words. Dom's doing it. Building what he talked about.
Elle felt proud and aching at once. Dom stepping into something bigger while Elle just served drinks and stayed invisible.
People filed out. The girl packed her bag slowly. CJ hovered near her table, trying to look casual. Failing completely.
She glanced up at him. "You reading Wright?"
CJ's eyes widened. "Uh, yeah. Native Son. Miss Elle's been teaching me."
"You read Black Boy yet?"
"No, not yet—"
She pulled a worn paperback from her bag. "Black Boy's better. More relevant." She held it out. "You want to get coffee sometime? Talk about it?"
CJ took the book like it was made of glass. "Coffee?" His voice cracked. "Like—together?"
"Yeah. Unless you don't want to—"
"No! I mean—yes. I mean—I want to." His ears were bright red.
Her smile was small. "Wednesday? After your lesson?"
"Wednesday's great."
"Cool. I'm Ruth, by the way. I'm sixteen."
"I'm CJ." Pause. "I'm almost sixteen."
Dom leaned close to Elle's ear. Whispered: "Yeah. In eight months."
Elle pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
"See you Wednesday, CJ," Ruth said. She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out.
CJ stood there, book in hand, staring at the door.
Dom appeared at his shoulder. "Coffee, huh?"
"She asked me for coffee," CJ said to the empty doorway.
"I noticed."
CJ finally looked at Dom. Dazed. "Like a date?"
"Sounds like it."
CJ's smile could have powered the whole block. Then it faded. "What if I can't keep up when we talk about the book? What if she thinks I'm—"
"She knows you're learning," Dom said. "That's why she gave you the book."
"Yeah." CJ's smile came back. "Yeah, okay."
He headed upstairs. "Gonna practice reading."
Elle moved behind Dom. Her hands found the knots of tension in his shoulders, like ropes, and she pressed her thumbs into the tight muscles.
Dom's head dropped forward with a quiet sound of relief.
This isn't enough, Elle thought. I want to fight for them. I want to matter.
The door opened.
Elle looked up.
A white man walked in. Middle-aged, expensive suit, shoes too polished for this neighborhood.
Every instinct screamed: Danger.
Dom turned, his body stilling under Elle's hands.
The man walked to the bar with deliberate steps and set a manila envelope on the counter.
"Robby Michaud. I own this building," he stated, opening the envelope and pulling out a single sheet. "Rent notice."
His voice was casual and professional, as if discussing the weather.
Dom picked it up and started reading.
Color drained from her face. She set it on the bar in front of Elle without a word, her thumb pressed hard enough into the paper's edge to crease it.
Elle took it.
Current monthly rent: $75.00
New monthly rent: $145.00
Effective September 1, 1963.
Nearly doubled.
"No," Elle said, voice steady, the gracious professional dealing with an unreasonable client. "There must be some mistake. That's quite an increase."
"No mistake," Michaud replied, leaning against the bar, getting comfortable. "Market rate adjustment. Neighborhood's changing." His gaze flicked to Dom's suit, then to Elle's hand still resting on Dom's shoulder. "Some properties require additional... insurance considerations."
"Why now?"
Elle's tone hinted at potential violence.
Michaud shrugged. "September first is when the new rate takes effect. Plenty of time to make arrangements." He buttoned his jacket. "Don't like it, you're free to find other accommodations. Though I imagine that might be... difficult. Given your situation."
Contempt, not his voice, was in his eyes.
He walked to the door and paused with his hand on the frame.
"Lewis Jordan says hello, by the way. We work the docks together. Good man. Hard worker." He glanced back at Dom. "Knows his place."
The door closed, and the bell chimed.
Silence.
CJ set down the chair he'd been holding carefully, quietly.
"This is my fault," he said, voice very small.
A single tear rolled down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
"CJ—" Dom started.
"I'm gonna go upstairs now," CJ said, polite and distant. "Excuse me."
He walked to the stairs, not running, just walking, each step deliberate.
His door closed upstairs with a soft click.
Somehow that was worse than slamming.
Elle stared after him. What was it like, living with Lewis? What did that man do to make this boy think he's a burden? That people would be better off without him?
Dom pulled the ledger out, stared at it, and set it down without opening it.
"We can't make it," she said.
Elle's stomach dropped. "How short?"
"Rent goes from seventy-five to a hundred forty-five.
That's seventy more a month," Dom's laugh was bitter.
"We're bringing in maybe four hundred on a good month.
When I don't get injured. When the bar's not slow.
After everything else—food, utilities, keeping everyone fed—we got maybe a hundred twenty-five cushion.
" She looked at Papa Louie. "One bad week and we're short. "
Papa Louie looked at his hands, swollen at every knuckle, fingers that didn't open all the way anymore.
"Bar's been slower," he said quietly. "Can't play piano like I used to. Hands give out." His voice was tired and old. "People come for the music."
The weight of it settled over them.
One hundred twenty-five dollars between them and the street. One injury. One slow month.
They were balanced on a knife's edge.
Elle's chest felt tight. In Hollywood, she'd thrown money at problems. Now seventy dollars might as well be seven thousand.
And she couldn't fix this.
They sat in silence, no solution visible.
Finally, Papa Louie spoke.
"We'll throw a rent party."
Dom and Elle looked at him.
"A what?" Elle asked.
"Depression times, nobody had money." Papa Louie's voice grew stronger, more certain. "Rent came due, you couldn't pay, landlord put you out. So folks threw parties. Charged a nickel a dance, a dime at the door. Whatever people could give."
He looked at his hands, remembering.
"You'd make food with what you had. Play music all night. I played piano at dozens of those parties back then. Made thirty-two dollars one night—more than a month's rent."
He looked up at them. "That's what we'll do. I'll play. We'll get other musicians. Charge at the door. Community takes care of its own."
Elle struggled to understand. "You're going to ask people for money?"
In Hollywood, admitting you couldn't pay rent meant failure, career death. You succeeded alone or you failed alone.
"Not asking," Papa Louie said gently. "Letting them help. That's different."
He looked at Elle then, hesitant.