Freedom's Just Another Word Read online

  “A Nash Metropolitan!” I exclaimed. “Like we’d ever be able to get parts for one of those dinosaurs. They haven’t rolled off the assembly line in years!”

  “We have parts, we have parts—”

  “Like hell you do,” I said. I looked over at Marsha, who was scowling at me for swearing. “Sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t.

  “Okay, what about a ’55 Packard Clipper,” he tried, heading to the other side of the dealership.

  We followed behind him like ants, but I knew before we got there that a fifteen-year-old car would never do. After that, the four of us crisscrossed the lot ten times, and saw a specimen of every automobile ever produced, but not one was fit to drive the nuns to the grocery store, let alone Albuquerque.

  The next place we hit was every bit as bad. A large, gray man with little pools of spit in the corners of his mouth took us inside to tell us about the various and sundry terrific buys he had, and even offered a twenty-percent discount, since it was for the church. I had a hunch that he’d already added on twenty-five, thinking that everything the three of us knew about cars, when tallied up, could be written on the head of a pin.

  His office was as stuffy as Miss Poultice’s parlor, with oil cans and magazines and bills of sale scattered haphazardly from one concrete wall to the other. He pushed three stools close to his desk, then threw himself into a swivel chair and leaned way back.

  All of a sudden, his eye caught something on the wall behind us, and he jumped up out of his seat. It was a Playboy calendar, and he tore it down so quickly that part of Miss June’s left breast was still hanging on the nail, dangling back and forth like a sign in a sex shop window. He wasn’t fast enough, though; we all got a good look at the red-headed beauty. Every part of her.

  Sister Beatrice wrinkled her forehead in a puzzled kind of way. Marsha stood up, crashed her stool against the desk, and marched outside. The salesman scratched nervously like a little mouse.

  “Okay,” I said impatiently. “Have you got any late-model cars? Something in excellent shape that’ll get these ladies to New Mexico without a hitch?”

  He took Sister Beatrice and me back outside to see a 1961 Ford Falcon. We walked past the nuns’ car, and its windows had all been rolled down. Inside was Marsha, staring straight ahead, ignoring us like a bored and sulky pre-teen.

  I protested that the car was nine years old, but the man—figuring I didn’t know the first thing about automobile mechanics—gave me the business.

  “Yeah, but low mileage,” he said, as he tried to force open the passenger door. “This doll hasn’t left Saskatoon.” He gave the door another pull. “She’s been sitting in the owner’s garage for six of those nine years. At four hundred and fifty bucks, we’re just giving it away. Just giving it away.”

  I threw open the hood and told him the doll was going to need plugs, a radiator hose, a water pump, ignition wires, and a starter switch, and more than likely brake shoes, brake drums, and brake linings—I couldn’t tell without getting underneath her. He reduced his eyes to squinting pinpricks and accused me of being sent by another dealership to spy on him and his cars.

  “What?” he hollered. “You think I’m stupid? I knew all along that you were some kind of weird girl-expert in cars. And those nuns are foils. Sure they are. Well, you can go right back to whoever sent you here and you can tell them to—”

  “Look, Mister,” I said. “I’m just trying to find a decent car for a reasonable price. Period. I have nothing up my sleeve.”

  He thought for a minute or two, then his expression changed, and he became hysterical with mirth. He laughed and laughed and laughed. I looked at Sister Beatrice and she shrugged. Then the salesman began to search frantically for a television camera.

  “I get it. I get it now! Ha, ha, ha. Nuns. A girl mechanic!” He laughed again. “I’m on that television show!” His eyes searched the lot wildly. “Where’s Allen Funt? C’mon, where is he?” He took off running from car to car, and was still trying to find the host of Candid Camera when we pulled off the lot.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  If it hadn’t been the color of a ripe banana—golden-yellow with the occasional spot of brown—the six-year-old Pontiac station wagon would have been the perfect choice. It had only one previous owner (verified), and when I inspected the engine, everything was sound. Anyway, we were out of options; the dealership where we found it was the last one on our list. And the color, it turned out, gave me some bargaining power.

  “Six hundred dollars?” I gasped. “Oh, give me a break. This thing’s so bright it could tan your skin.”

  He looked at my arm, then raised his eyebrows, forcing me to explain.

  “I said your skin.” (Which was white all right, but not even close to Marsha’s just-got-out-of-jail-after-thirty-years white.)

  The salesman was a nice sort of guy, although he had a tendency to punctuate every sentence with a nudge or a wink. I didn’t want to cheat him, but the car was for the church, and therefore for God, so I figured I’d better get the best price I could.

  “C’mon, little lady,” he said, elbowing my side, “you’re a smart cookie. You know this is a good buy.”

  “Um, I’m not sure,” I said. “What do you think, Sister Beatrice? Should we try out a few other places first?”

  She got into the driver’s seat and bounced up and down, like she was trying out a bed or a sofa in the furniture section of a department store. Then she put her hands on the wheel and pretended to be driving, much like a kid would on his father’s knee.

  “Oh, it’s wonderful,” she beamed, until I made a face to warn her not to appear over-eager. “Well,” she hedged, “I mean it’s…well, it’s…” She thought for a second. “Do you have one in Caribbean blue?”

  “Nice try, nice try,” said the salesman with a wink. “No, I’m afraid we’re all out of Caribbean blue today.” Then he elbowed me again. “How about a test drive, eh? Take her around the block.” He laughed. “It’s not like I have to worry about you stealing it. Ha, ha.”

  Sister Beatrice shoved over so I could take the wheel. Marsha sat in the backseat, rested her elbow on the door handle, and stared out the window. “What a perfectly hideous color,” she said fractiously.

  “It’s a lovely sunshine yellow,” said Sister Beatrice, which only made Marsha more dour than she already was.

  “As long as it allows us to do the Lord’s work, we will have to accept—”

  “Look, we’ve been to every used-car dealer in Saskatoon. You can get it painted later.” I rolled down the glass beside me. “Try to think of it as a yellow submarine.” I looked at Marsha in the rearview mirror; her nose was still running, and her eyebrows were stitched together. I didn’t know what was bugging her, and figured that since it was doubtful I could change her disposition, the only thing left to do was bug her some more. I started to sing:

  In the town where I was born,

  Lived a ma—

  “What a beautiful voice you have, Louisiana,” said Sister Beatrice. “Doesn’t she have a wonderful voice, Marsha?”

  “I hate the Beatles,” was her reply.

  “Nobody hates the Beatles.” I pulled the car out of the lot and onto the main drag. The main drag, however, turned out to be Marsha, and after a few miles of her vacillating between hating everything on the one hand, and accepting everything as the will of God on the other, I decided to turn around. The nuns bought the car—I managed to get the salesman to knock a hundred bucks off—and Sister Beatrice drove it back to the convent. But not before thanking me profusely for my help.

  “No sweat,” I said. “I was looking around for myself, too. Didn’t find my dream convertible, though.”

  “If there’s ever anything we can do for you—”

  “Just put in a good word for me. You know, with the Big Guy.” Sister Beatrice smiled as she drove off in the station wagon, l
eaving me with Marsha and the old sedan in first gear. At least when she dropped me back at the garage, I could wave a hearty good-bye, knowing that I’d never have to spend another afternoon with Marsha, the petulant postulant, again.

  That’s what I thought, anyway.

  

  Wednesday, the first day of July. Dominion Day. The garage was officially closed, although Clarence kept himself occupied by doing some bodywork on a ’37 Buick that one of our regular customers was restoring to its original condition. Gorgeous car, but Clarence never used to like bodywork. Too fiddly. Too slow. That was before he lost Thelma. When she was in his life—when he had a life—Clarence loved his days off. Loved to take her for a picnic lunch, or go for a long walk in the park, or make ice-cream sodas and listen to music all day. Now he hated holidays. Didn’t even acknowledge them. Just worked through them like he would any other day.

  Clubs were allowed to stay open, so I decided to try my luck once again. I took the bus over to Saskatoon Blues and stood outside the front window for a while, taking deep breaths and rehearsing in my mind how I’d ask the manager if I could sing for him. After a few minutes, I pulled on the heavy oak door, but it was locked. I should have known a place like that wouldn’t open until the evening. So I peered in through the leaded glass to see if I could get someone’s attention; that’s when I noticed three people inside, not far from a huge mirrored bar.

  A woman stood with a clipboard, writing down whatever it was that two men in suits were talking about. She was an attractive blonde in a sundress and high heels, and the men looked wealthy. I guessed they must own the place; one of them, anyway. Maybe the other one was the manager. I thought it best to wait until they had finished their discussion; it seemed important, and I didn’t want to make a pest of myself.

  I stood sideways behind one of the pillars by the door; they couldn’t see me, but I was able to watch them. While I waited for them to wrap up their discussion, I scanned the club. It was beautiful. I’d looked in the window before, but never really taken the time to check it out thoroughly. Every surface was reflective—either glass, or metal, or highly polished wood—and light bounced in all directions. I couldn’t see all of the stage from where I was, but I noticed that it was slightly elevated and featured a magnificent grand piano. The bar where the three of them were talking ran the entire length of the building, and was so much nicer than the one at The Beehive. Thelma had promised that she’d bring me here, once I was eighteen; I knew that walking through those doors without her was going to kill me.

  You’ve got to, Easy.

  I surveyed the opposite side of the room, where the tables were being set with linen cloths by a guy in a fancy waiter’s outfit. The blonde woman said something to him and he nodded, then the two men in suits left. I lifted my hand to knock, but when the waiter moved to the next table, I was starstruck by the photographs on the wall behind him—a lineup of all the singers who had appeared at the club. Many of them were black; all of them were fantastic.

  That was when I spotted a picture of Billie Holiday. In the photograph, she was standing next to the man who had just left the room. He was younger-looking then, but it was definitely him.

  Billie Holiday played here. Must have been fifteen years ago.

  I stared at the photograph for a long time. A long time. Then it hit me.

  If they’ve had people like her sing here, I don’t have a hope in hell. Not a hope in hell.

  The blonde headed toward the front door, and when she opened it, I decided to give it my best shot.

  “Hi,” I said. “My name is Louisiana Merritt and I was wondering if I could audition some time. When you have a few minutes.” I stopped. “I’m a singer.”

  She smiled, but it was one of those Gosh. I’m so sorry, but…kind of smiles. “We aren’t really looking for anyone at the moment,” she said, then she looked at her clipboard and set off down the street. I hesitated for a moment, thinking I might try talking to one of the men in suits, but the woman turned and glanced at me.

  Anyway, I didn’t have a hope in hell.

  I got back on the bus and made my way to The Beehive. I hoped that the owner, George Penn, would be in a helpful mood, but wouldn’t have bet on it. He wasn’t an accommodating sort of guy. Still, I knew that if he’d ever let me sing once, his customers would want me back. Didn’t even have to be a weekend. Monday would be fine. Tuesday would be fine. Anything to get me started. Anything so I could leave busking at the liquor store to somebody else.

  A blast of stale smoky air hit me when I pushed open the door. The floor was sticky from beer, and a woman with an industrial-sized mop and pail was making her way around the tables, slowly and resentfully swishing underneath them with murky water, then dumping the ashtrays into an old ketchup can. Her droopy, sad-looking cardigan hung to her knees, apparently pulled down by the weight of its own misery.

  “What is it?” she said, thrusting her mop into the water with a splash.

  “I was wondering—I would like to speak to the owner, is he here?”

  She gave me a stony stare.

  “Can I speak to him?” I asked.

  “Forget it,” she said. “You’ll have to chloroform me first. You’re not gettin’ my job.” She figured that since I was black, I was a shoo-in for floor cleaning and toilet scrubbing.

  When I didn’t reply, she came at me with the mop.

  “I’m not here for a job!” I exclaimed, and she lowered her arm.

  “What are ya here for then?”

  “Well, I do want a job—”

  She came at me again.

  “Hold it, lady!” I moved to the other side of a dirty table. “A singing job. Singing.”

  “Oh,” she said. Then she pointed at the door to the back room. It had a small circle of glass in the middle; a peephole of sorts, although it was coated with a thick layer of grime, so I doubted anyone could see through it.

  I knocked softly on the door.

  “I’m busy,” came a voice from inside. I recognized it as belonging to George Penn. “Get lost,” he said.

  “It’s Louisiana Merritt. Can I see you for a minute?”

  “I’m busy.” Then he added, “If this is about Clarence’s bill, I told him I’ll pay it next week. It’s too high anyway.”

  “Mr. Penn, I’d like to have a chance to audition for you. If you’ll take a minute to hear me sing, I think you’ll realize that I—”

  “I told you before, you’re not good enough.”

  “You’ve never heard me sing!” I hollered through the crack in the door. “How do you know I’m not good enough?”

  “I just do.”

  “Look, if this is because of Wendy Wood and what happened with Clarence—C’mon, that was nearly twenty years ago. Nobody cares now.”

  He said nothing.

  “You’re afraid that your customers will drink their beer somewhere else? I doubt it.” I thought for a minute. “It’s 1970, for God’s sake. People are open-minded now, right?” I pushed harder. “If you don’t want me to audition here, how about coming by the liquor store sometime. I sing on Friday and Saturday nights. It’s just around the block. You can probably hear me from here if you stand outside—”

  “Beat it, kid.” He turned up his radio.

  I figured if I stood there long enough, he’d click it off eventually, thinking that I’d left. So I sat down on the wet floor (still sticky, despite having been swiped with the mop) and leaned my back against the door.

  After a few minutes, George turned the radio off, as I guessed he would. I was about to start begging again when I heard a second voice from inside the office. It was a female voice; probably one of the waitresses.

  “…and she thinks she’s gonna sing here. I don’t want no goddamn bastard half-breed grease monkey…”

  Half-breed grease monkey?

  I
didn’t think George Penn was a racist. I figured he was just like everyone else in town and didn’t want to stir up the whole Wendy Wood thing again. But I was wrong. He was a plain old bigot. And that was why he wouldn’t let me sing.

  Never give up, Easy, said Thelma in my mind. No matter what they call you, no matter how hard it gets, never give up.

  “I’ll be back,” I told George Penn, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me.

  I walked past the bar on my way out. There must have been fifty or sixty different bottles of booze lined up behind the bartender, who was getting things ready for the night. He was a young guy, not much older than myself; he had the radio tuned in to a rock station while he cut up lemons and limes. He dried glasses with a cloth, then hung them upside down in a rack over his head. He nodded at me, and I nodded back.

  One day, I told myself, he’s going to be serving drinks to a full house while listening to this half-breed grease monkey sing the blues.

  CHAPTER SIX

  By Thursday morning, I felt like a skyrocket about to explode. Waiting for the Festival Express had meant a week of confused dreams involving trains that never arrived, standing at the wrong track in the wrong city, and not being able to find my shoes; so when the day finally came, my hands were all fluttery and unmanageable. And trying to keep my mind on engine repairs was impossible, especially with Larry constantly humming the theme song to Gilligan’s Island under his breath.

  I figured that I had a fifty-percent chance of spotting Janis Joplin; since she wasn’t the kind of person to accept an aisle seat, I knew she’d be at a window. But in order for me to see her, she would have to be riding on the right side of the train. If she was, I’d recognize her instantly. I’d know Janis from the pink and green feathers in her tousled hair.

  I had my accordion and frottoir ready to go, perched on the top of a tool cabinet near the front entrance of the garage. Ordinarily I wouldn’t sing outside the liquor store on a Thursday, since people were stingy on weekdays. On weekends they were generous. Once I made fourteen dollars in less than two hours. But since there was no way of knowing exactly when the train was going to swoosh past, I could be waiting all day, so I decided to sing for the afternoon crowd anyway.