Jazzed Page 4

  He rapped on the door three times and waited for it to open.

  “Charlie, you made it!” Shooter smiled below the mustache, a new addition since his soldiering days.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Shooter.” The two men shook hands and lightly slapped each other on the shoulder.

  Shooter opened the door wider and granted Charlie entry with a flourish of his arm. “My castle, if you will. It’s not much, but my couch is all yours. Bunk here as long as you like.”

  Shooter took Charlie’s bag and tossed it into the corner of the living room between a mahogany desk and an old overstuffed chair. Smoke drifted up in curls from the glass ashtray on the coffee table into the soft lamplight.

  “Have a seat.” Shooter gestured toward the couch as he sat down in the window side chair. “Got your land legs back yet?”

  Charlie nodded. “They returned while I was in Washington. It sure is great to be back in the States. It seems like I was gone forever.”

  “You were, my friend, you were.”

  The room was silent, the air thick with unspoken words hanging between them—two men who defied death when it was all around them.

  “Tomorrow I’ll show you the sights.” Shooter took a puff on the cigarette. “Hey—are you up for a trip to my favorite club, The Avant-Garde, right now?”

  “It’s the main reason I came to New York.” Charlie was relieved to be joshing with his friend. “You just happen to be here.”

  The two friends laughed easily as they walked several blocks through New York’s West Village. Shooter described his recuperation in Ohio after leaving Charlie aboard the USS Beneficent.

  “You didn’t take very long to make it to New York,” said Charlie.

  “I simply followed the music, my boy; I just had to find the beat.”

  Shooter’s Midwestern accent and easy-going manner lurked behind a newly acquired worldliness. He had become a New Yorker.

  Charlie stood before The Avant-Garde and raised his eyebrows. The narrow building stood sandwiched between a tailor’s shop and a five-and-dime store, its green door hidden in shadows beyond neon lights. Shooter grinned and opened the door without saying a word. After a short hallway, Charlie followed Shooter down a stairway; the club was dark, smoke-filled, and humming with electricity.

  “What’s buzzin’, cousin?” A hand clapped Shooter on the shoulder.

  “Just showing my buddy Charlie here a good time.” Shooter glanced from one man to the other. “Mitchell, meet Charlie Holden, the man who saved my life in the South Pacific. Charlie, Mitchell Grants. His family owns this fine establishment.”

  Mitchell flashed a toothy grin and held out his hand. “You’re a lucky man, Charlie. Yardbird is playing tonight.”

  “Yardbird?”

  “Charlie Parker. Some people think he’s the world’s best sax player.” Mitchell glanced at Shooter and back to Charlie. “Did you really save Shooter’s life?”

  “Well, I only ….”

  “He brought me back from the brink of death on a ship stinking with it.”

  Charlie shifted from one foot to the other and looked at the floor. “Shooter, I was only doing my job as a corpsman. I ….”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Mitchell pumped Charlie’s hand again. “Have a round on the house—a thank-you for sending our friend Shooter back to American soil in one piece.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie said, “that’s mighty nice of you.”

  The Avant-Garde wasn’t fancy, but something in the way people moved purposely to their seats filled Charlie with anticipation. The world’s best saxophone player. Charlie knew, after nearly three years in the Pacific, just how large the world really was; and the best in the world was right here in this narrow little building three blocks from Shooter’s apartment.

  He followed his friend to a tiny table just off the corner of the stage.

  Shooter leaned into the table. “Look in the wings to the right of the stage. There he is—that’s Yardbird Parker.”

  The musician was leaning with his back and head against the wall with the horn perched on one knee. A light from beyond the open backstage door created a hazy silhouette.

  Mitchell appeared at the table with two glasses in his hands. “Enjoy the show.”

  The noise level rose as the crowd chattered with anticipation when several band members strolled onstage. Just as Mitchell turned to head back to the club’s entrance, a slow drum cadence reverberated through the room, and suddenly Yardbird was onstage.

  At that moment, Charlie knew there was no other place on earth he’d rather be.

  ****

  “Oh, Boots, it’s you!” Annie woke with a start after a fitful night of sleep to find the cat stretched out on the pillow beside her, a furry gray tail tickling her nose.

  Boots lifted her head and glanced back at Annie with a look that said, “It’s about time you woke up.”

  “Are you hungry, Miss Boots?” Annie stretched as much as she could without disturbing the cat.

  With Annie now wide awake, the feline maneuvered her body so she could rub her face along Annie’s cheek. A meow was followed by intense purring.

  “You’re mellowing in your old age, my girl.” Annie lifted her head on one elbow and reached out the other arm to stroke under the cat’s chin with her index and middle fingers. “Let’s get breakfast.”

  Annie yawned and rolled out of bed just as Boots ran out the bedroom door. She exchanged her red long-sleeved nightshirt—the one John and Joanna had given her last Christmas because the moose on the front reminded them of Maine—for jeans and a sweatshirt.

  By the time Annie entered the kitchen, Boots was already staring at her food bowl in anticipation of breakfast.

  “Hold your horses, Boots, while I put on water to boil for my oatmeal.” Annie measured a cup of water into a small saucepan. She added a dash of salt before putting it on the stove to heat. Then she scooped a serving of oatmeal into a measuring cup and set it on the counter next to the stove.

  Meow! Boots swished her tail back and forth, and glared at Annie.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s coming.” Annie grabbed the cat’s pottery bowl and put it on the counter before taking the remains of a can of savory beef cat food from the refrigerator and a scoop of dry kibble from a large can by the mudroom door. “You are one spoiled cat, Boots,” Annie said, scraping the beef into the food bowl and slightly heating it in the microwave before pouring the kibble on top. “But I sure do love having you around!”

  She placed the bowl on top of the mat that designated the cat’s dining area. Boots attacked her food with dainty abandon as Annie washed her hands and stirred the oats into the boiling water.

  By the time Boots had finished her breakfast, Annie was folding a little butter, brown sugar, and raisins into her own. She sat down at the table and contemplated where to look for the portrait negatives. Where would Gram have put them for safekeeping? Renovations had been done in almost every room of the house. Why hadn’t they turned up already?

  She ran through the series of renovation projects completed inside Grey Gables since she had arrived in Stony Point. The first floor was largely completed. The kitchen cabinets were totally redone with glass fronts, so they couldn’t be hiding there. Ditto the bookshelves in the library. Surely Gram wouldn’t have kept them in the attic, where the temperature fluctuated with the seasons. Perhaps they were lurking on the second floor, where Annie still had a few nooks and crannies left to explore—under the beds, a linen closet here, a wood chest there. The guest room could be a good place to start.

  Boots had taken off for parts unknown in the old creaking house by the time Annie had rinsed out her bowl, retrieved the cordless phone off its cradle, and climbed the stairs to the guest room. Standing in the doorway, she surveyed the room. What would she find under the bed?

  She crossed the room and dropped to her knees between the dresser and bed. Three large rectangular clear plastic containers filled the space under
the box springs. They were labeled in Gram’s neat, slanted handwriting, “Fabric Remnants,” “Yarn,” and “Dress-Up Clothes.”

  Dress-up clothes? Hadn’t all of Gram’s old dress clothes already been taken to the church for needy families? Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Annie pulled the clothing-filled box toward her and removed the lid. Lifting the top garment, a scoop-necked navy blue dress with red piping, she sighed and rubbed the embroidered stars on the square collar. “Gram, you kept this all these years?”

  Annie reached for the phone she had tossed on the bed and pushed the speed-dial number for Alice.

  “Hi, Annie! What are you doing on this fine windy day?”

  “You are never going to guess what I found in the guest room,” Annie said, spreading out the dress on the comforter. “Oh—hi, by the way.”

  “Umm, hidden treasure left by the old sea captain who built the place?”

  “A treasure, yes, but not gold and jewels. I found our stash of dress-up clothes, including—”

  “The blue star-embroidered dress!” Alice finished for her, squealing like a child. “I get to wear it first!”

  Years fell away while the two friends remembered long hours of playing dress-up during seemingly endless rainy days.

  “How we bickered over who would wear that dress!” Annie said, her voice ringing with laughter. “You’d stand there with your flaming hair, hands on your hips, and insist your auburn hair would highlight the red stars.”

  “Yep, and I would feel very convincing until you fired back with your trump card. How could I possibly justify my right to wear the dress your grandmother was wearing the first time she danced with your Grandpa Holden at that USO dance in Stony Point?” Alice snickered. “I guess all is fair in love and dress-up.”

  “I wasn’t so amused when Gram made me let you wear the dress,” Annie countered. “It was so like her to make us take turns. She wanted you to feel special too.”

  “I did, Annie, I did,” Alice said. “But look at the time! As much as I’ve loved tripping down memory lane with you, I must head to Petersgrove for a combination ladies brunch and Divine Décor party. Thirty-five people are attending this one; sounds promising!”

  “May you have a fruitful party, then! Hopefully I’ll be productive as well. I’m looking for the negatives for the portraits of Gram and Grandpa. I want to have them reprinted.”

  “Good luck with your search. Talk to you soon. Bye!”

  “Adios, mi amiga.” Annie switched off the phone and tossed it on the bed.

  Annie folded the treasured dress and put it back in the dress-up container. Satisfied the negatives weren’t under the bed, she replaced the lid and returned the storage bins to their original spot.

  Where to look next? she thought. She had cleaned out the drawers and closets in the room before the last time that LeeAnn, Herb, and the twins had visited. How about the chest of drawers in the living room?

  After stopping by the kitchen to fix a cup of Orange Zinger tea, Annie stood before the chest of drawers in the living room, wondering if the negatives were in there. Placing her teacup on top of the chest, she opened the first drawer to find several decks of cards, bridge scoring pads, an assortment of pencils and pens, and a set of coasters featuring several Stony Point landmarks, including Butler’s Lighthouse, the docks, Maplehurst Inn, and Grey Gables. Betsy and Charlie had been avid bridge players.

  Closing the drawer, Annie took a sip of tea before opening the next one. She found an assortment of candle tapers in varying sizes and colors.

  “Harrumph, I could have used you during the last storm when the lights died on me. But I know where you are for next time,” she mumbled aloud.

  Boots sauntered into the room with a look that seemed to say, “Silly human!”

  “What? You’ve never heard anyone talk to candlesticks before?” She closed the drawer as Boots jumped onto the nearby sofa, kneaded the perfect spot, and curled up for a nap.

  The deep bottom drawer didn’t reveal the negatives either, but Annie squealed in childlike delight when she saw a few of Grandpa’s old jazz records stacked inside. Artie Shaw, clarinet in hand, looked up from the first album cover. Glenn Miller and his trombone graced the second, and on the bottom record cover, Grandpa’s favorite musician, Charlie Parker, cradled his saxophone.

  She took the records over to the huge old stereo, removed the CD player from the top, and opened the lid. Would this old dinosaur work after all these years?

  Annie blew the dust off the first album and gingerly removed the vinyl disc from its sleeve. She slipped it onto the turntable, turned the “on” knob, and carefully placed the needle arm on the record.

  The familiar notes of Glenn Miller’s classic Little Brown Jug filtered into the room amid pops and crackles created by the needle crossing the aged vinyl.

  Annie picked up her teacup and sat on the couch, petting distance from Boots. Hugging one of Betsy’s cross-stitch pillows under one arm, she sipped her tea and thought of two young girls—the redhead clad in starry blue and the blonde in yellow silk with a matching hat—dancing in the center of the room, giggling and creating their own steps. Nearby, Grandpa sat in his easy chair, writing in his journal, as Gram relaxed on the couch, working on a cross-stitch scene. How surprised Annie and Alice had been when Gram and Grandpa joined their dance!

  Snapping out of her reverie, Annie drained her teacup, placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table, and leaned back to enjoy the rest of the record. When the final note played and the needle arm returned to its perch, Annie put the record into its sleeve.

  “I guess it’s back to work for me, Boots.”

  Ignoring the slight rumble of her empty stomach, Annie padded down the hallway to the library and stood in the doorway. Could the photo negatives be tucked away in a file in the huge old oak desk? Probably not. Most of the files had already been searched while gathering information to settle Gram’s estate. The negatives would have been noticed then. Where would Gram put the negatives? She became a little absentminded just before she passed away, and she always had a book in her hand. Annie scanned over the bookshelves lining the room. Had Gram stuck them between the pages of a book? She groaned. Why did Gram and Grandpa have to be such bibliophiles? There must be hundreds of books here.

  Annie spied the old copy of Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book and pulled it from its perch between two other collections of children’s stories. She ran her fingers over the embossed title and smiled. How she had loved sitting on Grandpa’s lap as he read the tales, adopting a different voice for each character! Closing her eyes, she could almost feel his arms around her and smell the sweet aroma of his cherry-laced pipe tobacco.

  “All right, Annie old girl. Put the book away and keep looking!” She returned Kipling to his shelf space and continued to search through the books, seeking a title that jumped out at her, or that seemed out of place. Looking down, she spied a large book about New York City jutting out farther than the other bindings. Leaning closer, she could see something peeking out of the top of the book.

  She pulled the book off the shelf and opened it to find several small black-and-white photos stuck between the pages. In one, a young man in his mid to late twenties with short, dark hair gazed upward in amazement at an endless wall of concrete and glass. “Charlie and the Empire State Building. 1945. L.H.” was written in neat block style on the back.

  What a cool perspective! Annie thought. Whoever took this photo had managed to capture Grandpa’s awe and the building’s massive size at the same time. Annie marveled at how the photographer had re-created such emotion in a black-and-white photo.

  Enthralled with her find, Annie took the book to the window seat, sat down, and reopened it to a different page and another photo. Grandpa, his hair blown by the wind, leaned casually against the railing on the side of a boat as it passed the Statue of Liberty. The caption read, “Charlie eyeing the Lady. Staten Island Ferry. 1945. L.H.”

  Nineteen forty-five, the year
he met Gram. Lady Liberty must have been the last lady he eyed before meeting the love of his life!

  Annie placed the picture on the desk next to the first one and flipped the book’s pages to the next photo marking a spot. Grandpa, handsome in civilian clothes and a dark jacket, was framed by a massive web of cables and twin arches towering overhead. Was that the Manhattan skyline in the background? “Charlie crossing Brooklyn Bridge. 1945. L.H.” was written on the back.

  Annie studied the photo and the corresponding page in the book. Look at all of the people on that bridge! she thought. Strolling the bridge must have been as popular in the forties as it is today.

  Annie held the photo up to the window for more light and realized the sun was fading. She glanced at her watch. Seven fifteen! No wonder her stomach was growling; she had spent all day traipsing down memory lane. She stacked the photos on the desk and carried Scenes of New York City into the kitchen to read while nibbling on a snack.

  Soon Annie was standing in front of the opened refrigerator, wondering what she wanted to eat. Although hungry, nothing in particular looked appetizing.

  Smiling, she remembered spending long hours gardening with Gram. They would lose themselves in plants, dirt, water, and sunshine, stopping only when the sun began to sink below the horizon. By then, they would be ravenous but too exhausted to cook a hot meal.

  “Gram’s special—ahhh—that’s what I want!” Annie said as Boots strolled into the kitchen and began making figure eights around her ankles. She pulled a bag of grapes, a brick of cheese, and the roast beef from the refrigerator. Minutes later, she sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of chilled apple juice and a photo-worthy plate of rolled roast beef slices, squares of cheddar cheese, and a bunch of grapes. A slice of Alice’s dill bread was tucked between the beef and cheese.

  Opening Scenes of New York City to the Empire State Building page, she read about the landmark that had amazed her grandfather so many decades earlier. Completed in 1931, the 102-story, art deco-style building had taken under two years to build. Closing her eyes, Annie tried to imagine what her grandfather, a farm boy accustomed to wide-open spaces and fresh air, had felt while gazing at the towering building.