Authors: Donna Hill
S
triding briskly through the light drizzle, along the tree-lined avenues of the West Village, Quinn tried to remember if he’d parked the Jeep on the right side of the street for the following day. He hadn’t really been paying attention, his mind focusing on the evening ahead. But the last thing he needed was another ticket, that would be four in the last three months, all for parking. He thought about turning back, just to check, but glancing at his watch he knew it
would be pointless and just another stalling excuse to keep him away a few minutes longer. He’d just have to take his chances.
Encore.
He casually entered the room, looking around to see if she was already there, which she was—seated in a far corner at an intimate, cozy table. Rae. She looked even lovelier than she had the last time they were together, dressed in a stunning black silk blouse with a red scarf covered with artfully done African designs, tossed around her long neck with a sense of high style. A tall brother, wearing a long straw yellow Arab robe with a shiny bald head and an earring in his left ear, was standing near her, whispering something that seemed to crack her up. She laughed, her head back, all of her bright white teeth on display. It was clear to him that life moved on as usual for her. Rae’s laughter didn’t stop once Quinn stepped up beside the man, who stood up straight and moved to leave before Rae touched his arm.
“Amir Allie, Quinn Parker,” Rae said, making the introductions.
Amir’s eyes momentarily sparked in recognition. A broad smile spread across his face. “
The
Quinn Parker?”
“The one and only,” Rae said proudly, smiling up at a somber-faced Quinn.
“Glad to meet you, brother,” Amir said, smiling, shifting the chew stick in his mouth and taking Quinn’s outstretched hand and pumping it between both of his. “Man, Quinn Parker,” he said with deference. “Brotha, you can play some ivories. I only wish I had your skills.”
“Thanks,” Quinn mumbled, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, knowing by rote the direction the conversation would take. Knowing the next string of questions before they were asked.
“Yeah, man, where you been? Back in the studio working on your next platinum, right?” Amir went on. He patted Quinn on the shoulder as if they were the best of friends. “Read that book of yours, too. Heavy stuff. Brothers don’t usually write like that, but I dug it. You’re one of those rare renaissance men.”
Rae monitored the tight expression on Quinn’s face, the look of one who wanted to
escape in his eyes. The muscles of his jaw worked up and down, and she realized that he was close to snapping.
“Amir always was a talker,” Rae cut in, clasping Quinn’s biceps and feeling the tension. “If we let him he’ll talk us to death. Don’t you have a set to get ready for?” she asked, making her voice light.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he said as if suddenly remembering that fact. “Listen, maybe we can talk after my session. Love to hear your thoughts on my set. Most of these folks in here don’t know the difference between Monk and Liberace.” He laughed at his own joke. “Anyway, thanks for coming.”
“Yeah,” Quinn mumbled, watching the man walk off toward the bar that lined the wall opposite them, then stopping to speak to the brown-skinned woman, the same woman Quinn had seen here before, who kept staring in their direction. Her stare was making Quinn uncomfortable so he switched seats with Rae so he didn’t have to look at her. The place was packed once again but their table seemed to be getting all of her attention. She made him uneasy the
way she looked at him, the sound of her voice, the way she seemed to want to touch him.
“You made it,” Rae said, moving the lit candle on the table so she could see Quinn’s face without its obstruction, and pulling him away from the dark turn of his thoughts. “I didn’t think you were coming. You sounded…anyway…thanks for making the effort.”
“Yeah,” he said absently, motioning to the waiter. “What are you drinking?”
“Red wine, French,” she replied, looking at him with concerned eyes. “Are you okay? You look tired. I’m sorry about Amir. I didn’t think he would go on like that. I know how that kind of stuff bugs you. Is that what it is?”
She was looking at his face, the skin drawn taut to the bone and the dark circles under the eyes. The slight signs of wear took nothing away from his handsome face, only enhanced the ruggedness of his masculine features. It was the face of a man who was living life, struggling with its challenges, and occasionally getting the upper hand. Whatever damage had been done could be erased with a couple of good nights of sleep.
“Yeah. I’m all right,” he said, still trying to get the waiter’s attention. “Forget it. Just tired like you said.”
Finally, the waiter came, apologetic about the delay in service, noting that the café was especially crowded tonight. Two tourist buses brought a load of people from some midtown hotel—Japanese and Korean visitors looking for a safe bite of the Apple, all curiosity and cameras. Their heads swiveled from one sight to the other, trying to take everything in at once.
After the waiter brought Quinn’s drink, a shot of Jack Daniel’s, he disappeared but quickly returned to refresh Rae’s glass, and laid two menus on the table. He stood at the table, waiting for their order, seeming quite peeved when they requested salads rather than meals. Quinn didn’t want anything because his stomach was acting up. Had been since their little talk hours earlier. Rae, on the other hand, was watching her waistline, staying away from anything with too many calories, especially after sunset.
“What’s the deal with you and Amir?” he asked, an edge to his voice, wanting to find something out of place.
Rae frowned at the accusatory tone. “An old friend. Plays piano. He sometimes backs me at auditions, rehearses with me. Nice brother, a little eccentric. But sweet, loyal, and sincere. Studied at Julliard for about three years but didn’t do anything with it until now. He lived in Africa for about ten years, teaching and learning about their native music. You should see his collection of native African instruments, incredible stuff, some of it’s probably priceless.”
She finished talking, drank her wine, and drummed her fingers on the table, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. “Are you still upset with me about last night?”
He sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “You got me to talk but when your turn came, you gave me a short and quick version.”
“What do you want to know? Ask whatever you want.”
“All right,” he said, raking his fingers through his dreads. “What about your husband? What kind of guy was he? Did you love him?” he quizzed, firing the questions at her.
She sat forward, then took a long swallow of the wine. “Sterling was a good black man. He’d
been through his share of women before we met. Lots of them. When he met me, the first thing he told me was that he wasn’t really big on commitment. That shook me because I knew right away that I felt something for him. He said he refused to get serious with anyone because he didn’t want to play the games that went along with maintaining a relationship. Women were playthings for him. He told me that he went back and forth between four different women at the same time he was courting me. But he cut them loose when we started to build something between us. In so many ways, he was probably the most honest man I ever met.”
“But did you love him?” he demanded to know, as if the answer somehow held a magical key to what ailed him. He drank some more of the Jack Daniel’s, wincing at the burn of it in his throat.
“Yes, I loved him very much,” she said. “When we married, we both did a lot of growing up together. I think we learned that love came with a big responsibility. Loving him was easy. He was caring, thoughtful, and kind. Had a big heart, the biggest. You don’t
find those combinations in a man, in anybody, too much anymore.”
“You make it sound like it was so perfect,” he said sarcastically. “Ain’t nothing perfect,” he added, thinking of the battles he and Nikita had waged. “What messed up your postcard?”
She felt the sting of his words, knew he was goading her, and realized how he must have felt when she was coming at him like this, hard and heavy with the questions. Now the shoe was on the other foot and it didn’t feel good at all. He was testing her. Was she able to take it as well as give it?
“Our problems were with his family,” she said, still skirting the whole truth. “His parents, mostly his mother, didn’t think I was good enough for him. And he loved them almost to a fault, would have done anything for them. He was always trying to earn their love. They didn’t treat him like they cared much about him but he loved them unconditionally.”
“What did they do to him?” He glanced over her shoulder and saw the woman staring at him. If she kept this up, he was going over to the manager and complain.
“His mother always drummed into his head that he could have done better…in every area of his life: his job, his home, me. Making him feel worthless and constantly needing to prove himself. I think that’s why he ran around with so many women. Just to boost his ego.” Why he felt the need to control her life, make it seem unimportant, she thought but didn’t say.
“How long were you guys married, you and Sterling?” he asked, waving to the waiter for a refill.
“Eight years,” she said. “Eight good years,” she added, trying to convince herself.
“What about your daughter, Akia?”
She swallowed hard and finished her wine in two gulps. “Akia…was only five years old. My baby.”
In her mind, she recalled Akia as an infant wrapped in a blanket, touching her little pug nose with the tip of her finger, making her smile and gurgle with glee, sitting, just the two of them before the fire. The most blissful feeling in the world. Mother and child. Holding a tiny life you created, a life that depends on you and
loves you without asking for anything in return. Her intoxicating infant smell. Her Akia.
Quinn saw the pain in her eyes, knowing that he’d pushed too far. And the satisfaction that he thought he’d feel at seeing her as miserable as he wasn’t there.
She turned away, keeping the memories to herself.
“Hey, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry about the other night.”
“You shouldn’t apologize unless you really mean it.” She kept her face averted as the room suddenly filled with applause, halting any further conversation.
Amir, now dressed in an all-white, blinding tunic and ballooning harem pants, walked out on stage and sat on a stool before a black lacquered Yamaha piano. The lights went down and a small pin spot illuminated the keyboard. He bowed toward the crowd, smiling like a lottery winner, then told them that he would be playing a melody of six Duke Ellington classics tonight. Solo piano. A truly hard gig. A musician out there alone, with no support, just the instrument and his ideas. Someone in the audience
squealed when he opened with the Billy Strayhorn composition “Chelsea Bridge,” capturing all of the muted colors and haunting harmonies that Duke’s right-hand man meant to be heard. Rae leaned over and whispered to Quinn that it reminded her of a piece the classical composer Ravel would have written. He nodded although he was never a big fan of the man.
As if to top himself, the next tune Amir performed was Ellington’s “Black Beauty,” something he wrote back in 1928. Only Quinn knew that the pianist tossed in notes from Lawrence Brown’s original trombone solo on the number. He was impressed. Next Amir played the Master’s “Warm Valley,” complete with the hornlike voicings of Johnny Hodges, followed by a short but lively rendition of “Caravan,” then a longer version of another Strayhorn tune, “Passion Flower,” which had the crowd screaming and stomping their feet.
“He can really get down,” Quinn said, nodding his head in appreciation. “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”
“What does that mean, Quinn?”
“Nothing,” he answered, pushing back his
chair and standing. “I’m going to the men’s room. Be right back.”
He maneuvered between tables and chairs in the semidarkness, stepping over outstretched legs, slipping through tight spaces until he made it to the rear of the room. Walking down the hall, he noticed the slight woman with the burning eyes again, staring at him, coming his way. Something in him clenched in the pit of his stomach. Who was this woman? What did she want with him? All this staring and mess. What was her problem?
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have done it. But he did. He strutted up to her and asked why was she staring at him. Standing so close to her again gave him that same strange feeling from before. It was odd that he would feel like this about a woman he didn’t know. Whatever it was, he couldn’t seem to shake it. A tightness, like a closed fist, now in the center of his chest.
“I don’t mean to make you nervous but you look just like someone I used to know,” the woman said, glancing at him with veiled eyes. “Just like how he might look now.”
“Who?” Quinn asked, suddenly feeling pity for the woman.
“Don’t matter…” Her words trailed off as if she was about to collapse into tears. “I promise I won’t bother you no more.”
“When is the last time you saw him?”
Her head lowered toward her chest, a heavy gush of air left her. “Not for a long time. A lifetime.”
He turned, stepping aside to let one of the waiters pass with several trays of food, but when he pivoted back around, the woman was gone. Vanished. Gone without a sound like a troubled spirit. Or a ghost. That spooked him for a moment. He glanced up and down the corridor, completely rattled, but there was no sign of the woman.
After his trip to the men’s room, he came back to the table with an odd expression on his face, which Rae noticed and asked if everything was alright. He nodded and motioned to the waiter for another refill of Jack Daniel’s.
“Do you really think you should have another
one if you’re going to drive, Quinn?” she asked, placing her slender hand over his big one.
“Hey, lighten up,” he snapped. “I can handle it.”
Stung, Rae pulled her hand away.
Both of them looked at the stage to hear Amir introduce his last number, “Take the A-Train,” which got the crowd revved up again. He danced around the well-known melody on the keys, dissecting it, teasing it, twisting it into an even grander version of itself. If that was possible. Its passages now carried a bluesy feel, then a majestic shouting gospel mood and finally it morphed back into its original shape. And that brought the crowd to its feet cheering.