her. It was the same sound that filtered through her singing.
She grabbed Gilda’s arm and drew her away from the bar. “Lemme show you the joint before they eject Emory and plunk me down at the piano.” Gilda followed her through the kitchen to what looked like a comfortable office. Gilda stepped inside and leaned against a narrow desk, watching as Lydia crossed the room sipping from her drink. Her wavy dark hair was loose around her shoulders and the vibrant red polish on her nails gleamed in the dim light. Gilda was fascinated by the way she filled the room.
“So, uh, what do you think? About me, my singing, stuff like that.” She almost sounded like a child; her enthusiasm and curiosity were unconscious and genuine.
“Your voice carries almost all the joy in the world.”
“Um.” She stopped and leaned against a bookcase to think for a moment.
“Benny likes you a lot,” Gilda said, pausing. So many thoughts were swirling in her head, she couldn’t easily choose one. Gilda felt ripples of desire expanding inside. She put her drink down and pressed her hands to the desk.
“How can you tell that?”
“He can’t take his eyes off you. If you’re anywhere in the room his body is turned in your direction as if you were the sun.”
“Ain’t you the poet?”
Gilda felt embarrassed, but there was no sign of it. Her skin remained the rich dark color it had always been.
“Ben’s like my brother.”
Gilda’s skepticism was obvious.
“No, really. He took good care of me when I needed it and I do the same.”
“Have you been friends long?”
“I was traveling with a show. ‘Blue Heaven.’ You ever see it?” Gilda shook her head.
“About a year ago we’re doing the gig and I got sick. Him and Morris got me to the hospital when the troupe moved on. Made sure I had everything. Then give me the job singing at the Evergreen. They are two right guys. Benny’s always helping somebody with something. The colored school, this church or that one. He’s gotta buck for everybody.” The description fit easily with the impression that Gilda had formed since arriving in town.
“So what’s your game?” Lydia made the question sound soft, not an accusation.
Gilda thought a moment. She could easily have diverted the question, but she didn’t want to, at least not right away.
“I’m trying to decide what to do next,” Gilda said, knowing Lydia could never understand how big a question it was.
“Stick around this burg for a while.” Lydia’s voice carried the same invitation to joy that Gilda had heard in her singing.
“I think I will.”
“Good. Benny’s gonna need someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Smart, figuring on the future. That’s his one … kinda flaw, you know. Colored folks in this town need this, they need that.” Lydia’s eyes were unwavering as she watched Gilda listening to her. She spoke and examined Gilda at the same time. “He’s always thinkin’ about it, but he’s got no sense of a plan. You a woman who knows somethin’ about planning for the future. And he don’t know how to handle those mugs that keep edging up on him.” Lydia’s confidence in her words and in Gilda surprised her.
Gilda looked around her at the books and ledgers. It felt like a room bursting with ideas and with life; Benny’s presence was as strong here as it was downstairs in the Evergreen. Gilda wouldn’t let herself listen to Lydia’s thoughts. That was another lesson from Bird she’d embraced: intruding on another’s thoughts simply for personal gain was the height of rudeness. So, the reasons for Lydia’s certainty remained unclear. Lydia watched Gilda watching her, as if she awaited Gilda’s assent. The memory of Lydia’s scent unfurled like an unexpected fog in Gilda’s head and she tried to clear her mind.
“Why does the billboard say ‘Indian Love Call’?” Gilda asked.
“My father was Wampanoag. Back East, you know, the Indians they named Massachusetts for. They were Wampanoag.”
Gilda looked again at Lydia and recognized the bone structure. The blending of African and Indian lines was so common in this country, yet Gilda had forgotten. She’d seen many women who looked like they might be Lydia’s relatives.
“Of course,” she said.
“That was Benny’s idea, not mine. My mother would be fit to be tied.” She sipped from her glass, then set it down on a shelf and moved closer to Gilda. This time the cinnamon and flowers were real, not a memory. “She’s not much for people pretending not to be colored.”
“But you’re