Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
TWO YEARS LATER
MAZELLE COULD FEEL THE MAYAN Theater vibrating with power.
The stunning lighting centerpiece above her in the massive auditorium looked both ancient and otherworldly, mimicking a circular clay Mayan calendar with strange symbols etched across the ceiling; a giant offering to the gods.
Shadows lurked between the ridges like portals to antiquity.
She couldn’t stop gaping up at it. The theater was a marvel, from its architecture to its packed house of Negroes and whites.
The day’s heat had been so oppressive during the long lines outside that she could smell sweaty skin beneath all the finery.
The premiere of Duke Ellington’s Jump for Joy had drawn more than fifteen hundred people to witness the occasion.
Thanks to Miss Hattie’s dinner parties, Mazelle had met one of the younger band members in January—handsome Richard Harris, who played alto sax for Ellington’s orchestra—and he had surprised her with an invitation to the new review’s premiere.
And with a seat in the front row! The faces in the auditorium were an exhilarating blur of people she knew personally and some she only knew from their faces.
Mickey Rooney was three seats away from her in the front row, and around her sat Eddie “Rochester” Anderson, Louise Beavers, and Citizen Kane creator Orson Welles!
Before the curtain rose, the event had challenged the segregation practices in Los Angeles with a broad audience of stars and regular folks sitting elbow to elbow with a hum of excitement.
She recognized the balding scalp of Mantan Moreland in the seat directly behind hers.
He was in a tailored suit beside his wife, Hazel.
Mazelle gave him a polite smile and nod over her shoulder, careful not to look like she was flirting.
, Hazel’s eyes were watching her closely.
Apparently, Mrs. Moreland thought her husband had been too complimentary of Mazelle’s comic performance in Harlem High Jinx, since she had nudged him away from his huddle with Mazelle at Miss Hattie’s last party.
She seemed insecure despite her lovely showgirl’s face.
“This sure will be something, won’t it?” Mazelle said to them over the din, careful to include his wife in her address. Mrs. Moreland only gave her a polite smile.
“Sure will.” But Mr. Moreland looked distracted, fussing with his suit handkerchief.
“You promised you’d try to have a good time,” Hazel Moreland scolded him. “You fret too much. Calm down before you send your blood pressure up.”
“Roosevelt’s the one better calm down,” he muttered. “And easy for you to say: Nobody’s gonna draft you.”
“Trust me—no one’s gonna draft you either.”
Mazelle had tried to forget about President Roosevelt’s July 4 radio address only days before about how the United States couldn’t remain free surrounded by dictatorship—and how Americans would have to give their lives to fight Hitler too.
Defense factories were already booming in Los Angeles, although Negroes were only allowed to be janitors so far.
And Brother had already registered for the selective service in Florida; he had it in his head that serving in the war might give Negroes advances back at home, which Daddy had told him probably wasn’t true.
Most Negro men she knew didn’t give a hoot about fighting in a white man’s war in Europe, but they were mad as hell they couldn’t find good jobs in their own country.
Mazelle wasn’t the only one in the audience hoping to escape the unhappy mood and worries growing outside.
She’d had nothing but worry before the war too.
Her family struggled to keep the house Aunt Ruby had helped them buy, never far from foreclosure after her father couldn’t work anymore despite taking in occasional boarders in Aunt Ruby’s old room near the kitchen.
Her sisters were performing on the road, but they rarely had money left to send home.
Life had been shabby for the Washington family since Li’l Gumshoes.
But nothing in Mazelle’s life felt shabby tonight.
The mural on the curtain was an impressionistic painting of black bodies in celebratory dance; lengthy brown arms and legs without a stitch of clothing, rendered with artfully blurred body parts. The mural was almost scandalous, but to Mazelle it looked exactly like freedom.
Only feet from where she sat, the orchestra filed into the pit, and the audience applauded with anticipation.
Duke Ellington led his band with poise in a black tuxedo and bow tie, his hair shiny under the lights.
Mazelle sat up straight to look for Richard in the sax section of five, and she saw him pointing her out to a bandmate: “That’s my girl!
She’s in movies,” she heard him brag, and his bandmate grinned with approval.
Mazelle’s face flashed hot in a new and startling way.
No one had called her “my girl” before. Was it even true?
They had socialized a couple of times, but always in a group.
He had promised to take her to the after-party with the band at the Dunbar Hotel, and Mazelle only hoped he wouldn’t be too forward, as Hattie and Mother had warned was often the way with touring musicians with girls in every city.
Mazelle’s heart sped with intrigue as she cataloged Richard’s handsome features: a strong chin and thick eyelashes visible from several yards away.
His build resembled the boxer Jack Johnson’s more than a musician’s, with long, sturdy arms. He was twenty-nine, seven years older than her, but he was more than young enough to be a marriage prospect.
Be careful what you wish.
Fear of a curse still hounded Mazelle whenever she dared to hope for anything precious, and she surely did hope she might have a chance with Richard Harris, who made her laugh with bawdy humor and played his saxophone like an angel.
Boys her own age hadn’t lived enough yet for her taste.
Mazelle hoped she hadn’t lost her right to wishes; that she hadn’t already stolen more than her share.
Or that she hadn’t warped her luck somehow.
(You know how.) The empty piano bench behind Ellington made her remember Aunt Ruby’s hairbrush.
Mazelle stiffened, acid curdling her stomach.
No. Not tonight. She willed the poisonous memories away.
The band members quickly took their places, from the bassist with his oversized instrument to the row of gleaming horns.
Musicians tuned their instruments in an orderly way, muting the sound.
When Ellington raised his hand for quiet, his control of his band reminded Mazelle of the way Mr. Fleming had commanded his cast on the set of Gone with the Wind.
The houselights went down, and the audience hushed.
Stage lights glared on, illuminating Ellington as he faced the audience in a spotlight.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us on our premiere for this ‘Sun-Tanned Revue-sical,’ ” Ellington said.
“I can guarantee you’ve never seen the likes of it before, but hopefully it’s only the first of many programs to showcase the true talents of our race—not the stereotypes maligning our people today. ”
The audience exploded with applause. Mazelle clapped so hard that her palms stung.
Hattie had performed beyond her dreams and become the first Negro to receive an Academy Award, for Gone with the Wind, signing a long-term contract with David O.
Selznick—but she hadn’t been offered any roles except maids.
In fact, her roles had gotten worse, not better.
Hattie had told her that Selznick wouldn’t let her take other roles like Mammy, although she’d modeled Mammy’s character on the sassy maid act that had built her career long before Gone with the Wind—a fearless version of herself rebelling in a way she never could when she was a maid.
Besides, what other roles would Hattie get?
These studios want to tie you up, and then they won’t do nothin’ with you, Hattie said.
Like you’re a painting they hung up on their wall.
The band was an unbroken wall of sound so much bigger than fifteen men.
Every inch of their music was exquisitely rehearsed, the individual performances in a seamless tapestry.
Mazelle got goose bumps when she heard Richard’s saxophone squeal like a human cry that reminded her of his first kiss.
Behind her, the audience hooted its appreciation.
The first song was “Sun-Tanned Tenth of the Nation,” and Jump for Joy charged ahead.
Since the revue was skits without a fuller plotline, it reminded Mazelle of the Chitlin’ Circuit shows with her family, except with scenery and costumes worthy of Broadway.
The lights went dark between the sketches, each one starting fresh.
In truth, Mazelle spent the first ten minutes stewing with envy.
The singers sounded better than she did—but not by much.
She could have sung in the chorus. The dancers were better dancers than she was, some of them much better—but others not by much.
And here she was in the first row, close enough to hop up beside them.
Why hadn’t she left Hollywood to go to New York and Broadway?
If she had, she might have been on this glorious stage tonight too.
Her envy especially flared when she heard gorgeous Herb Jeffries crooning his love for a “Brown-Skin Gal” to a young, fair actress named Dorothy Dandridge from the band pit—but then Mazelle noticed Richard staring at her with a glowing face while he played his saxophone.
His eyes helped her racing heart banish any bad feelings.
Envy was a sin, after all, and she was full up on sin.