Chapter Thirty-One #3
But she was glad he was in her kitchen, which was free of bugs living or dead and had spotless art deco black-and-white floor tiles.
Marguerite was a disciplined young woman who wore a formal white uniform and chef’s hat, although women chefs were nearly unheard of.
She was pulling a pan of cornbread out of the oven, since Mazelle had told her to serve a mix of fine cuisine and soul food.
Every meal was a mystery, but also a delight.
Last night’s dinner had been Louisiana gumbo with duck.
Back inside, Mazelle almost forgot about the carnage outside.
She took Diahann’s hand to lead her politely out of the kitchen so Sam could carry on his phone call in peace.
Marguerite was so good at being invisible that Sam wouldn’t notice her, but no one could ignore the presence of Diahann Carroll.
“Put on some more music for us,” Mazelle urged her, and she rushed upstairs.
Grady had fashioned himself a small apartment in the attic, since he always stayed at the lodge when she was there.
Mazelle went to his door and slipped a note of instructions under it before she knocked to wake him.
I’ll explain the rest later, she’d written at the end.
Then she went down to the second floor to her children’s room to tell them to come to dinner.
It struck her, gazing at her children’s faces, that most mothers would not be able to juggle delivering macabre instructions to one door and a cheerful smile to her children with promises for dessert if they eat all their vegetables at the next, but she knew she was not ordinary.
The children always ate in the kitchen when the lodge had guests, so Mazelle was alone with Sam and Diahann at the table when Grady came downstairs and nodded to her.
He had a well-trimmed white beard and wore his black driver’s uniform and cap with pride.
Sam and Diahann barely noticed him when he leaned behind Mazelle at the table to receive the large key ring she’d hidden in her pocket.
Then he slipped out of the house without a word.
Mazelle hoped he wouldn’t spy any of Scout’s mess. Or run into Scout. Lord, would she be forced to shut her lodge down?
Then Marguerite brought out the peach tarts drizzled with cinnamon icing, her Southern variation on an apple tart recipe.
After dinner, Mazelle sent Ricky and Sadie back upstairs, while she, Diahann, and Sam retired to the living room.
When Sam poured his second glass of straight scotch from her bar, Mazelle knew she would soon learn the magnitude of what was facing Mr. Wonderful. He couldn’t hold a drink.
Diahann flipped through Mazelle’s record collection on several shelves of her bookshelf with murmurs of appreciation.
In addition to Diahann’s own record, and Lena’s and Sam’s, Mazelle’s collection was stocked with Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, and the stunning new John Coltrane record.
If anyone wanted to read at Mazywood, they needed to bring their books with them. Music ruled the shelves here.
“Who’s in the mood for love songs?” Diahann said. “I’m always in the mood for Nat.”
No one answered, so she put on “When I Fall in Love” while Mazelle studied Sam.
He saw her watching him and walked quickly toward her as if Nat’s silken voice had given him resolve.
He cast a glance toward Diahann, who was still enjoying the record collection, and then raised himself to try to whisper in Mazelle’s ear.
But he was tipsy, so a whisper it was not.
“Marry me, Mazelle,” he said.
Diahann’s head whipped around with shock—she’d heard him, all right!—but then she remembered herself and turned back to the shelves. She seemed to want to flee the room almost as much as she wanted to stay.
“Are you out of your mind?” Mazelle asked. She did a better job of keeping her voice low.
She and Sam had smooched once soon after they’d met following a casual beachside lunch, since he liked to smooch with every girl. But she wasn’t physically attracted to his petite frame or the lost little boy in his eye, and they certainly had never dated.
“You’re the only one who gets me,” he said. “The only one I can be honest with. At least you’ll never have to worry about money.”
“Do I look like I’m worried about money?
” Mazelle said, although the truth was that she wouldn’t have accepted her bland radio gig if she didn’t have so many outstanding bills.
She’d negotiated a piece of her box office in her final contract with Lorenzo, which had kept her living high, but she hadn’t been offered a part in a movie in eight years, since Lazy Mazy.
Mazywood had never turned a profit, and it was harder to maintain each year.
By now, she cherished it more for the company it drew than any financial advantages.
Sam looked crushed. “You’re turning me down?”
“Can I give you a tip, lover?” she said. “Usually, a man proposes to a woman with a ring—and there’s a chance in hell they’re in love. But the whole world knows who you’re in love with, even if you both keep denying it.”
He belted back the rest of his drink.
“I liked you better when you didn’t drink, Sam.”
“I liked me better when I didn’t need to.”
“Tell me what this is all about,” she said.
Defeated, he collapsed into her sofa cushions, which were so plush that they nearly swallowed his frame. “Fucking Harry Cohn,” he said, and buried his face in his hands.
“At… Columbia Pictures?” Diahann asked, no longer pretending she wasn’t listening.
Through her living room window, Mazelle saw a red glow from brake lights refracted through the trees from the truck parked down the road.
Then Grady pulled Meek’s truck away. She hadn’t realized how much tension was locked inside of her until her chest loosened with the fading red light, color seeping away until the sky was black again.
“He’s gonna kill me, Mazelle,” Sam said. “And that ain’t no figure of speech. He says I have to marry a Negro woman right now, or”—he shook his head with disbelief—“I think he’s gonna have me killed. People are saying he’ll put out my other eye before he kills me.”
Mazelle and Diahann fought not to laugh, which only made him look more miserable. It sounded so outlandish! Why would a studio head make such a ridiculous threat?
“This isn’t a joke!” he said. “He went to the mob. And my friends in Chicago say they can’t do anything about it.”
Mazelle had heard that Sam had connections with Sam Giancana and other mobsters in Chicago, who gave him advances on his shows because he spent his money faster than he could earn it.
By the time he earned one payday, he was in debt for the next.
She had never heard of anyone threatening him with violence, although she had entertained the worry.
“Slow down, Sam,” Mazelle said. “Is this about Kim Novak?”
His eyes darted around as if he were afraid someone would overhear Novak’s name. “Everybody has the wrong idea about this thing, okay?” he said, although she doubted that was true. “We’re friends. But Cohn’s furious his biggest star is getting such bad press, everyone saying we’re engaged.”
A white actress who married a Negro could kiss her career in Hollywood goodbye. And if Novak’s career sank, Cohn probably thought his studio would sink with her.
“Well, are you?” Mazelle asked.
Sam ignored the question. “He’s a lunatic,” he said instead. “If I don’t marry a Negro woman in the next two days, I’m afraid for my life. And I can’t hide out here forever.”
Diahann went to the hooks near the front door and pulled on her jacket. “I think I’ll go outside and walk off that dessert…” She had finally decided that this was none of her business. She was also probably worried about catching a stray marriage proposal.
“No,” Mazelle said. This time, she was the one who sounded alarmed. “Grady told me he might have seen a bear out there. Better stay inside.”
Sam gave Mazelle a baleful look. “Bugs and bears?” He would never recommend her lodge now. But that was better than saying she had evidence of a man-eating creature on her grounds.
“Oh,” Diahann said primly. “Then I guess I’ll go to my room and let you two work out… whatever this is.” She gave Mazelle a concerned look and retreated down the hall.
Nat’s love songs were grating now, so Mazelle turned off the phonograph.
One thing about show people—their lives were never boring. She picked up her bottle of 1935 whiskey and poured Sam half a glass. Maybe he did need to drink now.
“Is that why you came here?” she asked. “Was that your plan all along?”
“I got advice to stay out of sight, and this is as far out of sight as you can get.”
Mazelle stared. She didn’t believe him.
“Okay!” Sam said. “Yes! If you just hear me out…”
“Sam, there’s nothing to hear out. I can’t say what’s going on with you and Kim, but you and me really are just friends.”
“We can be more than that.”
“Please. I’m not some wide-eyed young thing who can tail after you on club dates.”
“That’s what’s so perfect!” he said. He rose to his feet and walked toward her, sensing that he might be making headway. “You’ve got your own life, Mazelle. Your own money. You don’t need me to babysit you. You don’t care who I sleep with.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” she said, venom lacing her voice. She remembered Richard’s infidelities and how a couple of his whores had the nerve to call him at their home number before hanging up when they heard her voice.
“I would never do anything to shame you,” Sam said.
“If we get married, no one ever sees me in public with another woman. Our story is, we’re old pals who fell in love.
It would be a sensation in the white press.
And the Negro press? Mazelle, imagine it!
We’d be the King and Queen of Negro Entertainment.
They would never call us sellouts again.
” He said this with his signature grin and a flourish of his hands, as if he were on a stage. Ta-daaaaa.