the Yankees. It was the top of the ninth inning and the score was tied 4–4. There were two outs. The announcer’s voice rose, then almost screamed the next play, which ended up being the winning run. A young player for the Giants named Casey Stengel hit an inside-the-park home run to left center field. While he was rounding the bases, he lost his left shoe and the announcer mentioned it. Without warning, Biscuit stood up off the floor, cheering wildly and laughing hysterically. Everyone else stopped cheering instantly and stared at Biscuit. He was not yet aware he had laughed out loud. He kept cheering and laughing until he suddenly realized he was the only one making a sound. His laughter ceased and he turned slowly, looking into each of our faces. Some were smiling, some were crying. An old invisible wall in his mind had crumbled away and disappeared. “Madre de Dios,” he said.
“Madre de Dios,” Ciela echoed, then crossed herself three times.
As Opari had predicted, Star cabled from Oslo as soon as she learned about Zuriaa and the events at Lambert Field. She said she was returning home at once. Alone, she set sail for New York, stopping briefly in London to meet with Willie. She arrived in St. Louis on Thanksgiving Day and I went to Union Station alongside Carolina and Caine to welcome her and take her home.
The moment Star stepped from the train, I was stunned by how physically attractive she had become, and she had lost her naivete completely. She always possessed an inner confidence. Now there was a maturity and grace in her movements and expressions that had not been present before. She still looked like Carolina’s twin, with freckles across her nose and cheeks and tiny gold flecks in her blue-gray eyes, but she had surpassed her mother in sheer beauty. She wore a long fur coat and her hair was cut short and “bobbed” in the style of the day. Except for a small amount of lipstick, she wore no makeup, and yet, Star could easily have launched a thousand ships. And there was no doubt about her love for her son. She picked up Caine, who ran to her the instant he saw her, and held him as close and tight as she could, spinning in a circle, kissing him, repeating over and over, “Mama loves you, Mama loves you.”
During the drive to Carolina’s, Star noticed Sailor’s ancient lapis lazuli hanging from a necklace Caine now wore around his neck. “Why is he wearing the blue stone?” Star asked her mother, who deferred to me.
“Sailor said he should have it with him at all times,” I said. “He didn’t tell me why, but after the air show, I think I know why—as a talisman for protection.”
Star nodded and held Caine closer, only letting go when he finally said, “You’re squeezin’ me, Mama.”
On Christmas Eve, Mitchell Ithaca Coates returned to St. Louis, bringing along at least a dozen presents for Caine and a half dozen for everyone else. He had been living in the city for which he was named, Ithaca, New York, through the summer and fall of 1923. He went there to be with his long estranged father, who was dying of lung cancer. He stayed by his father’s side until the end, which came sometime during the night of December 10. After settling affairs in Ithaca, Mitch headed straight for St. Louis and Carolina’s home. He was slightly thinner than the last time I had seen him, but otherwise seemed the same. His easy smile and buoyant spirit were still intact and he was wearing his familiar black tuxedo and black tie. He looked handsome and prosperous, which he was. Carolina said he had made a fortune in the first two years following Prohibition, then got out of the business completely when he learned his father was sick, well before he had made any serious enemies, or been arrested, or lost his money. Now he was the semiretired co-owner of two businesses: the St. Louis Stars, a charter member of the Negro National League, and a nightclub on West Pine called Chauffer’s Club, one of the hottest spots in town for black musicians. Mitch didn’t expect me to be at Carolina’s, but he handed me two presents anyway and said, “Merry Christmas, Z. I missed you, man.”
“Me, too, Mitch,” I said. “Me, too.”
A deep snow fell on New Year’s Day and we celebrated by having a small feast. Ciela made a huge pot of Cuban-style black-eyed peas with onions and peppers and chunks of smoked ham throughout, served with cornbread and great quantities of sweetened iced tea. It had been a long time since I had seen snow and I stood by the window watching the snow fall all day on the big oaks and maples, covering them and silencing the whole neighborhood. Nothing moved except the snowflakes. I watched them falling, drifting, piling up like white time. All I saw were seconds, minutes, hours, years…years and years. At one point, I heard a voice nearly as silent as the snow and turned around. No one was there. Less than a whisper, the voice sounded like Opari, but it was not. It was another. She spoke to me as if we had already been engaged in conversation. She said, “Is it innocence we are compelled to save and keep from harm’s way at all costs? No! It is experience. We must protect it, preserve it, and shepherd it from hill to hill, heart to heart, like fire in a frozen world. Experience alone is our power, the source of our magic, our deep knowledge. We can only learn in increments, degrees, drops, and small pebbles of truth, often random in meaning, backward and forward in time. Eventually, one by one, these pebbles will be collected and a path shall be revealed. Then we must ask the obvious: to where? The answer awaits us at the Remembering. All hands shall be extended, unasked and unannounced, and the Window will open.”
Through the window and to no one and nothing, I asked, “But where? Where is the Remembering?”
The snow was silent. I felt a presence approaching from behind. “Z? Are you all right?” It was Owen Bramley. He had his glasses off and was walking toward me, cleaning them with a handkerchief.
I blinked twice. “What? Oh, yeah, sure,” I said. “I was…thinking out loud.”
“You were speaking to someone, asking questions.”
“Was I? Well, it’s nothing.” I turned and stared again at the white world outside. “There’s no one there.”
Owen made no comment. A few moments passed while we both looked through the glass. “I appreciate your vigilance, Z. We all do. I want you to know there was nothing you could have done differently at the air show. You were there for our protection, for Caine and Carolina, and I want you to know I am trying to do the same for your people. We need your protection from a madman and a madwoman, but soon you and your people will need protection from
“Us?” I asked. “Who is
“The United States of America, the world, mankind…they’re not ready yet, Z. They’re not ready for you. Solomon was right. They will eat you alive for possession of your secrets.”
I let several seconds pass. Outside, a large clump of snow suddenly broke free from the roof and fell, exploding into the snow below. The collision never made a sound.
“We know,” I said, looking back at Owen. “We have always known.”
Music is the most mystical of all elements of consciousness. According to Sailor, the Meq once used singing as their only form of communication. Painters often feel as if they are playing an instrument rather than painting, and when a painting works, it never feels like work, it feels like playing music. Families know this and use it. If a son is in danger, or a daughter missing, it can become a voice, a bridge, and a silent smile between them. Few things can do this. Music is one.
The winter slipped by quickly. With fireplaces blazing at both ends of Carolina’s living room, music became our passion. On the radio, on the phonograph, in concerts and in clubs such as Mitch’s Chauffer’s Club, the “Jazz Age” was healthy and active in St. Louis, and we talked of little else. Many brilliant musicians passed through and touched our lives. At Carolina’s request, Mitch always invited his favorite players to her house for a good home- cooked meal and a few relaxed hours away from the road life. Each of their talents and personalities were unique, but their hearty enjoyment and appreciation for Ciela’s cooking was universal.
One man I remember well was a young black guitar player from Memphis named Furry Lewis. He told wonderful stories, mostly about characters he knew from the streets, and he had a droll, sly sense of humor. Late one night in the kitchen, I became his mark and unwitting straight man. We were eating pulled pork sandwiches with coleslaw and black beans with rice. “You got to come down to Memphis and see me, kid,” he said, then wiped his mouth carefully, slowly, stretching the pause, never meeting my eyes. Finally, I said, “Well, sure, Mr. Lewis, I’d love to. Where do you live?” He looked at me and smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, kid, you can’t miss it. It’s the first little red house painted green.”
In the spring of 1924, we welcomed back baseball and our long, slow walks in Forest Park, then farther to the south along Hawthorne and Longfellow Streets, and all through the cultured, diverse beauty of Shaw’s Garden. Except for an enigmatic postcard from Geaxi, we heard little from Europe or anywhere else. The adage “no news is good news” became our maxim and comfort. Geaxi’s note on the postcard was written in Basque and transitional
