you have to apply, in person, at the county clerk’s office. Fill out the application. They’ll give you the license while you wait. But you can’t marry until the next day.”
“Mrs. Esther Gordy Edwards knows her stuff,” Berry said. “She went to Howard. She’s married to a politician too; you know that, right? And this year she went to the Democratic National Convention, first elected Negro woman delegate ever.” He rattled off her résumé like he was proud but teasing her too, and she rolled her eyes at him the way Esther rolled her eyes at her brothers. It made something loosen in my chest, seeing them. Hearing them. Putting myself in their hands.
“What Berry’s trying to say is we’ve got high standards,” Mrs. Edwards said. “We have to do what we think is best for this company, long term, if we’re going to make it go. But we need money. And we need attention. And you can give us both right now.”
“It’s Christmastime. Everything slows down—and speeds up—at Christmas. We got plenty of shows scheduled, but not as much studio time booked,” Berry began. “So nine, ten days of studio time can be arranged.”
“That’s all we need,” I said, trying not to let my relief show.
“That’s not all I need,” Berry said, his gaze frank. “I want in. I’ll move everything else to make it work. You can record all night for the next two weeks, if you have to. But I want Motown on that label.”
“No, you don’t, Gordy. I’ll pay you top dollar for the time. But you don’t want this,” I said. Esther’s shoulders stiffened beneath my hands, and I squeezed softly, apologizing silently.
“I’ve always known you were the real deal. I would pay you to push Motown records. Hell, I’ve tried to get you to work for me. I know your background.”
“This isn’t just about color. This is crime and politics and sex and everything else that’s wrong with the world,” I said.
“You think I don’t know what’s wrong with the world, Lament?” Berry huffed. “I want Motown on that label.”
“I hired an independent guy, a vinyl cutter, to press some singles for me. His shop was burned to the ground.”
“We don’t press the copies here.” Gordy waved, as if that was no problem. He was purposely missing my point. “I just signed a contract with Southern Plastics in Tennessee. They’re gonna press all Motown records. Nobody’s gonna be burning Southern down. And if they do, the whole world will know about it, and it won’t be pretty. You can burn down the little guys and nobody looks twice.”
“They could burn down your studio,” I said.
“No one’s gonna burn us down,” Mrs. Edwards shot back. “But I think you better tell us the whole story. From the beginning.”
I did, with Esther adding commentary here and there. I didn’t elaborate or talk about my uncle or my family, beyond Pop’s friendship with Bo Johnson. Their eyes got big when we mentioned Rudolf Alexander, but when it was all said and done, they were more intrigued than intimidated.
“So why the hell are you doin’ this, Lament?” Berry asked me, marveling, and Esther stiffened again. She was scarily quiet, letting me do most of the talking, but the conversation had become painfully personal.
“You ever loved somebody, Berry?” I said, frank.
“Yeah. I love a lot of people.”
“I don’t.” I shook my head. “I don’t.”
He studied me, waiting for me to continue.
“I loved my pop. Now he’s gone. And I love Esther Mine. That’s it. I don’t give a shit about anyone else.”
“Kind of a cold son of a gun, aren’t you?” Berry said, but he smiled as he said it. The smile faded with his next words. “I’m sorry about your pop, Lament.”
I could only nod, and Berry’s sister saved me from further response.
“You don’t have to sing to be together. You could keep your heads down. Have a life together off the stage,” she inserted gently.
“I’ve thought about that. But I can’t do it. I can’t stop playing, and Esther can’t be quiet, not anymore. Once you know something you can’t ever unknow it.”
“So this Alexander . . . you think he’s the one that scared Atlantic from working with you?” Berry asked.
“Not him directly, but yeah, someone in his employ.”
“So now Esther’s name is all over the radio, which wouldn’t be a bad thing, since nobody has to know who she is. But then she sings a song telling the story of her father and Maude Alexander