It was a typical Black Belt audience, laughing uproariously, stamping its feet to the music, kidding the actors, and joining in the performance, too. Rows of shiny black faces, gay white teeth, bobbing heads. Everybody having a grand time with the vaudeville, swift and amusing. A young tap-dancer rhymed his feet across the stage, grinning from ear to ear, stepping to the tantalizing music, ending with a series of intricate and amazing contortions that brought down the house. Then a sister act came on, with a stock of sentimental ballads offered in a wholly jazzy manner. They sang even a very melancholy mammy song with their hips moving gaily at every beat.
O, what would I do
Without dear you,
Sweet mammy?
they moaned reverently, with their thighs shaking.
“Aw, step it, sweet gals!” the men and boys in the audience called approvingly. “We’ll be yo’ mammy and yo’ pappy, too! Do it, pretty mamas!”
A pair of blackfaced comedians tumbled on the stage as the girls went off, and began the usual line of old jokes and razor comedy.
“Gee, I wish Aunt Harriett’s act would come on,” Sandy said as he and Annjee laughed nervously at the comedians.
Finally the two blacked-up fellows broke into a song called “Walking the Dog,” flopping their long-toed shoes, twirling their middles like eggbeaters, and made their exit to a roar of laughter and applause. Then the canvas street-scene rose, disclosing a gorgeous background of blue velvet, with a piano and a floor-lamp in the centre of the stage.
“This is Harriett’s part now,” Sandy whispered excitedly as a tall, yellow, slick-headed young man came in and immediately began playing the piano. “And, mama, that’s Billy Sanderlee!”
“Sure is!” said Annjee.
Suddenly the footlights were lowered and the spotlight flared, steadied itself at the right of the stage, and waited. Then, stepping out from among the blue curtains, Harriett entered in a dress of glowing orange, flame-like against the ebony of her skin, barbaric, yet beautiful as a jungle princess. She swayed towards the footlights, while Billy teased the keys of the piano into a hesitating delicate jazz. Then she began to croon a new song—a popular version of an old Negro melody, refashioned with words from Broadway.
“Gee, Aunt Harrie’s prettier than ever!” Sandy exclaimed to his mother.
“Same old Harriett,” said Annjee. “But kinder hoarse.”
“Sings good, though,” Sandy cried when Harriett began to snap her fingers, putting a slow, rocking pep into the chorus, rolling her bright eyes to the tune of the melody as the piano rippled and cried under Billy Sanderlee’s swift fingers.
“She’s the same Harrie,” murmured Annjee.
When she appeared again, in an apron of blue calico, with a bandana handkerchief knotted about her head, she walked very slowly. The man at the piano had begun to play blues—the old familiar folk-blues—and the audience settled into a receptive silence broken only by a “Lawdy! … Good Lawdy! Lawd!” from some Southern lips at the back of the house, as Harriett sang:
Red sun, red sun, why don’t you rise today?
Red sun, O sun! Why don’t you rise today?
Ma heart is breakin’—ma baby’s gone away.
A few rows ahead of Annjee a woman cried out: “True, Lawd!” and swayed her body.
Little birds, little birds, ain’t you gonna sing this morn?
Says, little chirpin’ birds, ain’t you gonna sing this morn?
I cannot sleep—ma lovin’ man is gone.
“Whee‑ee‑e! … Hab mercy! … Moan it, gal!” exclamations and shouts broke loose in the understanding audience.
“Just like when papa used to play for her,” said Sandy. But Annjee was crying, remembering Jimboy, and fumbling in her bag for a handkerchief. On the stage the singer went on—as though singing to herself—her voice sinking to a bitter moan as the listeners rocked and swayed.
It’s a mighty blue mornin’ when yo’ daddy leaves yo’ bed.
I says a blue, blue mornin’ when yo’ daddy leaves yo’ bed—
’Cause if you lose yo’ man, you’d just as well be dead!
Her final number was a dance-song which she sang in a sparkling dress of white sequins, ending the act with a mad collection of steps and a swift sudden whirl across the whole stage as the orchestra joined Billy’s piano in a triumphant arch of jazz.
The audience yelled and clapped and whistled for more, stamping their feet and turning to one another with shouted comments of enjoyment.
“Gee! She’s great,” said Sandy. When another act finally had the stage after Harriett’s encores, he was anxious to get back to the dressing-room to see her.
“Maybe they won’t let us in,” Annjee objected timidly.
“Let’s try,” Sandy insisted, pulling his mother up. “We don’t want to hear this fat woman with the flag singing ‘Over There.’ You’ll start crying, anyhow. Come on, mama.”
When they got backstage, they found Harriett standing in the dressing-room door laughing with one of the blackface comedians, a summer fur over her shoulders, ready for the street. Billy Sanderlee and the tap-dancing boy were drinking gin from a bottle that Billy held, and Harriett was holding her glass, when she saw Sandy coming.
Her furs slipped to the floor. “My Lord!” she cried, enveloping them in kisses. “What are you doing in Chicago, Annjee? My, I’m mighty glad to see you, Sandy! … I’m certainly surprised—and so happy I could cry. … Did you catch our act tonight? Can’t Billy play the piano, though? … Great heavens! Sandy, you’re twice as tall as me! When did you leave home? How’s that long-faced sister o’ mine, Tempy?”
After repeated huggings the newcomers were introduced to everybody around. Sandy noticed a certain harshness in his aunt’s voice. “Smoking so much,” she explained later. “Drinking, too, I guess. But a blues-singer’s supposed to sing deep and hoarse, so it’s all right.”
Beyond the
