Some Sing, Some Cry

  Alelia joined Raoul’s band. She worked on her own songs and began studying the electric guitar—she’d finally realized the power that Tokyo loved. Living their lives in the moment, they were excited and at peace. In a week they had already set up house and decided they should meet each other’s family. Raoul’s mother gave them her blessing. Alelia impressed her as a fighter who was joyful. They laughed a lot. This is a good woman for my son, Raschel thought. Baker, still smarting over his son’s belligerence, was taciturn much of the evening. Raschel told her grim-faced husband to get over himself. “Your son has found his American, whether you like it or not.” Not wanting to further irritate Raoul’s father, Lia said very little about her family.

  Raoul was a mite nervous at meeting Memphis and Lizzie. He was shocked to learn that Lelia’s Aunty Liz was the legendary Mayfield Turner. Her mother Memphis, too, was popular all over France, if more for her aplomb than her singing. But when they arrived at the Place de l’Opéra apartment, the housekeeper gave Alelia a letter. “My Dear Daughter,” Memphis had written in a large lazy jagged scrawl, “We didn’t know how to reach you. Tokyo has been nominated for a Grammy Award and for the first time in decades Aunty Liz and I are headed for the States. Please try to make it. The whole family will be there. All my love, M.” The envelope was stuffed with cash. Alelia was devastated, standing there in the new dress she had bought for the occasion. Raoul consoled her. There was enough money for both of them to fly to New York.

  Raoul wanted Alelia’s last night in Paris to be African, Antillean, and Arab. They went from Moroccan to Mauritian restaurants, they sat in with a Congolese band, and they drank Jamaican Red Stripes. When they were actually emotionally incapable of dancing any more, they left for the airport to jump the first flight they could find. They were in love no matter what.

  While Alelia was having the time of her life in Paris, Abbott had been in Vietnam’s living hell. He constantly dreamed of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, yet he’d become what the army wanted, a good soldier. But he was a good soldier with an ax to grind. He kept seeing black and Latino youth manning the front lines while their white compatriots were in the rear. When he was finally discharged, Abbott went to New York City to play music. He went to Slug’s, the Five Spot, the Vanguard, the Blue Note, and made the loft scene where cutting-edge artists had ensconced themselves. Vampin’ with Lee Morgan, Clifford Brown, Cecil Taylor, Ornette Coleman, Sam Rivers, Mongo Santamaría, Mario Bauza, Orquesta Broadway, and Willie Colon, Abbott tried everything.

  He got a small one-bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side with the tub in the kitchen, but he didn’t care. He had his costume ready for Sun Ra’s Arkestra as well. As fellas made their way to New York from Chicago, St. Louis, and Oakland, Abbott made friends with the new guard—Chico Freeman, Joe and Lester Bowie, Abdul Wadud, Sunny Murray, and Phillip Wilson, the new band of troubadors, challenging the generation before, even as they studied them. The scene was hot. Livin’ was not. Playin’ music all night, he was a cabbie by day, a gypsy.

  He was terribly proud of his sister, Tokyo, though, who had stayed clean and had one number one R&B hit after another. She was the darling of Chicago-based Ebony and Jet. Even Billboard had to acknowledge her dynamic ascent. Abbott finally forgave James, who had become a respectable record executive. All was well, plus Alelia was coming home.

  The greater Mayfield family had taken adjoining suites at the Waldorf Astoria, where Tokyo was staying for the awards ceremony. The staff there felt she was one of their own. Cinnamon was at a loss for words. She’d never really known her daughter in her child’s own element, though she could have. It was probably her fear for her daughter that had distanced them—the wild tales of Tokyo’s life left Cinnamon no shelter for her grief. But now all was well. Tokyo Mayfield Walker was a nominee for the best R&B album of the year and she was sober. Cinnamon’s heart was gleeful and light. Lawrence, too, was moved by the qualities of his daughter’s voice and her studied style. All those years next to the record player with his daughter close by had paid off. Even in her most rambunctious blues, he could hear the Nancy Wilson or Betty Carter albums he cherished. Yet she’s barely touching her talents! Lawrence had nothing but confidence in her.

  Before the record label’s reception for Tokyo, Cinnamon presided over a private pre-Grammy gathering for the family so that all the Mayfields could be together for the first time in many years. Memphis and Lizzie’s appearance alone was reason enough. Cinnamon had never approved of Alelia’s being left with Jesse and Mabel in the South, but she had said nothing, fearful of her cousin’s biting tongue and ambition. When Memphis absconded for Paris and moved in with Lizzie, she had said nothing again. Now with the two of them returning, she didn’t know what to say. After all, Cinnamon had never fulfilled her operatic dreams, while Memphis had lived the jazz life she quested. If it was at the expense of her daughter, it’s none of my affair. Then again, maybe it was for the best. Mama El rescued me, and Jesse and Mabel were there, not just for Lia, but for my Tokyo, too. Losin’ their own child, healin’ someone else.

  When her own daughter Tokyo appeared in a stunning black and beige beaded, form-fitting, backless gown, Cinnamon was speechless. This time she had nothing to say because her child simply looked too gorgeous for words. Why, she has the glamour of Dorothy Dandridge, imagine that! Her rambunctious child had become a woman. Her rebellious teen was now a firecracker femme fatale, exhibiting all of her grandmother Lizzie’s startling sensuality and charisma.

  “Tokyo, you’ve got to win tonight! You look like una bella donna, a true diva. I’m telling you, sweetheart, this is your night!” She grabbed her daughter up in her arms ever so tightly. At the same moment Lawrence swept them both in his arms and kissed Tokyo on the forehead, whispering, “You’ve got it all, baby. You make us proud.”

  Toyko burst from her mother’s arms, loudly beseeching, “Everybody, have some champagne and somebody get me some sparkling water, please.”

  With a clamor at the door, Elma and Raymond walked in with Sissy and her college-bound twins. The last of her generation of Mayfields, Sissy had settled in Minneapolis right after college and married a real Irishman to go with her father’s invented one. While one son had the straight hair and countenance of a young Abraham Lincoln, the other had started to dred his spiky blond locks. “Pray for me, sistuh,” she said, hugging Cinnamon tightly. “Would that college were five dollahs a semester again.” Sissy had never gone into music. “Too much competition in one family already,” but the younger of her fraternal twins played a beautiful piano and was more interested in music than college. Unbeknownst to her, he was very anxious to talk to his famous cousins.

  Out of the corner of her eye Tokyo spied Elma and Raymond walking in, looking almost angelic in appearance, Raymond in a powder-blue tuxedo and Elma in a finely crafted crepe gown of navy and a shock of silver hair. They approached Cinnamon first, which left Tokyo free to greet Alelia and Raoul, who had entered just behind them. The young women were so excited they barely caught their breaths in their conversation, but Tokyo did catch, “And this is Raoul.” Before Tokyo got a chance to assess her cousin’s beau, Lia was on the move, pulling her young man along. “Have you seen my mother?” she asked, her eyes scanning the room.

  “No, Aunt Mabel and Uncle Jesse aren’t here yet.” But that’s not what Lia meant.

  “Oh, my God, that’s right! Your mother is here, your other mother, but no one’s seen her yet,” Tokyo replied, catching up with the couple. Yeah, I’m getting a Grammy, but it would be nice to have a date. “Raoul, it’s so good to meet you,” she said, taking his hand and speaking loudly. “I understand you and Leelee have been doing some interesting things together in your band. I can’t wait to hear about them. And I would love to meet some of your band members.” If any of them look like you. “Get a little intercontinental conversation goin’.”

  Alelia put her arms around both of them and smiled benignly. “He’s French, Tokyo, not hard of hear
ing. Come on, Rah. You have to meet all the mothers. I have three.”

  In the meantime Abbott had wandered in, sucking on a saxophone reed like a Tootsie Roll Pop. When he saw his sister with Alelia and Raoul, he stopped in his tracks and whistled. That Alelia and Raoul were possessed of another aesthetic was obvious. Alelia’s dress was a strapless golden chiffon thing, clinging to her body like fairy dust, and Raoul’s Nehru jacket put all the tuxedos and cummerbunds in the room to shame. They were definitely together. In both senses of the word.

  Abbott was ever so proud of his sister. “I knew you could make it, baby,” he said to Tokyo as she approached him. They hugged while Alelia came over to introduce Raoul. The Frenchman’s English was startlingly fluent.

  Alelia walked over to Cinnamon and Lawrence with Raoul in tow. “Aunt Cinnamon, Uncle Lawrence, this is Raoul. I sing and play with his band now.”

  Never before had Cinnamon seen Memphis in Alelia, but noting Lia’s new, slightly French accent and the cut of her dress, Cinnamon felt herself blushing. This wasn’t Memphis, but this was surely Memphis’s daughter, svelte and sensual in ways she would never be. Cinn had gone all out for her daughter’s celebration and already she felt dowdy, her cultured reserve sinking into awkwardness, her broad shoulders and hips suddenly too wide for the room. Lawrence felt the sudden tension in his wife, and understood once he glimpsed Alelia.

  “Oh, Uncle Lawrence, it’s so good to see you again! This is mon cher, Raoul. I’m sure you all will get along. He’s quite the jazz historian, though that’s not what we play.”

  “Well, I’m delighted, Raoul. We must get together in Chicago. Alelia, you are coming to Chicago?”

  “Uncle Lawrence, we’re going everywhere. Raoul wants to see America, even the South.”

  Just as Lia said that, in walked her adoptive parents, Jesse and Mabel, straight from Alabama, that was the unavoidable conclusion. Mabel’s dress fit a bit too snugly and Jesse’s tuxedo was obviously rented. Alelia ran up to them and smothered them with hugs and kisses. She was so engaged in greeting them she forgot about Raoul for a moment, but not for long. When she realized she’d lost track of him, she quickly turned, thinking he must not be far away, but she was mistaken. James had Raoul in the eye of his video camera, interviewing him about God only knew what. The family had remained suspicious of James ever since Tokyo’s addictions became public. Even after he had started his ascent in the music industry, he had a ways to go before he could redeem himself with the family. That’s one of the reasons he decided to hide behind the camera—that way he could talk to everybody and control the conversation. Only Tokyo had really forgiven him. She rushed over to embrace him and started jabbering into the camera, as if they were children again, fooling around, putting her nose right up to the lens.

  Suddenly the room quieted. James panicked for a second, thinking all eyes were on him again, judging him. Then there was a real “Ahhh,” the kind one hears in Hollywood, accompanying a trance-like turning of heads toward the door. There she stood in all her glamour, Lizzie Mayfield Turner, the myth of the family in living color and in person. She seemed to embody the very essence of Paris in appearance, in a tight black sequined gown with a train and a full ostrich boa, her platinum wig perfectly coifed. And with her, looking nearly as alluring, was Memphis. Alelia’s eyes lit up, glistening. Elma downright started bawling, tears streaming down her heavily powdered face. Her sister and her daughter had come home.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Lizzie announced, playing for James’s camera.

  Elma and Raymond, Jesse and Mabel, Tokyo and Abbott almost ran over each other trying to get their taste of the great Aunty Lizzie. There were plenty of hugs and kisses for everyone. In a crowded moment with her mother, Alelia took the opportunity to introduce Raoul. While niceties were exchanged in French, Memphis couldn’t keep herself from staring at the young man. There was something very familiar about him, something in his eyes and carriage. Then she saw the joy in Alelia’s face and embraced the young couple, inviting the rest of the family to celebrate the coming together of the late-twentieth-century Mayfields.

  As Cinnamon looked on, her self-image tottered. She smarted at these interlopers, and didn’t know which one she found more irritating. I’m giving this party. This is our suite! What are they doing comin’ in here acting like they’re runnin’ things. From behind, Lawrence put his arms around his steaming wife and nestled his chin on her shoulder. “Ever sing a union song?”

  She laughed despite herself. He looked at his wife adoringly, “You got three beautiful kids and you got me! That’s not bad.”

  Although there was little time left before the group had to leave for the official reception, Jesse felt compelled not only to pray for Tokyo to win, but also to invoke the names of Ma Bette, Eudora, and seemingly the rest of the entire Mayfield line who had passed through this life.

  James roamed with the camera to capture every moment: Alelia, Raoul, and Memphis; Lizzie primping over Elma’s hair; Raymond pontificating with his daughter-in-law Mabel on building a new church; Abbott circling Tokyo, trying to ease her to the door.

  Cinn went up to Memphis and took a deep breath before she spoke. “You know I owe you an apology, Memphis. All these years I been mad at you, but I had it all wrong. I should be thanking you, Memphis. For the best thing that ever happened to me. If it hadn’t been for you runnin’ off with Baker, I never would have found my wonderful husband.”

  “Comment?” asked Raoul. “Did I hear someone say Baker? My father is named Baker.”

  “Baker Johnson?” the two women asked simultaneously. Of course, that’s why he looks familiar. Taratata! Lizzie, who had observed the interchange, jumped in, “Hmph, hmph, hmph. Seems some kinda way, Mayfields always gotta have a trumpet playuh in the family.” With a tap to her crystal champagne glass, she called everyone to attention. “I have come from across the waters to deliver a secular benediction. Tokyo Walker will be walkin’ away with this award tonight!”

  Jesse lifted his glass, then sobered for a moment, missing his son Joshua and his grandmother Dora, who had passed three years before. Just yesterday . . . Oh, Nana, I wish you had lived to see this. Feeling their presence with him, Jesse felt a calling to jump in with Psalm 95, “Oh, come let us sing unto the Lord; let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation.”

  Virtually on cue, Abbott voiced an Ayleresque crescendo imitating his saxophone. Cinnamon in spite of herself slipped in, lilting an improvised melody, sounding very much like a spiritual, “And we haven’t forgotten where we all come from . . .”

  With some laughter the clan shouted in unison, “Sweet Tamarind, South Carolina! And Ma Bette Mayfield! To the seventh generation!”

  For a moment, their eyes met, Lizzie and her pal, a mother and daughter. Memories danced between them. So many years lost, so many years ago/ Too many years lost, too many years ago . . . Bent over giggling and laughing, sportin’ capes of velvet and coats of fur, tweed jackets and pea coats, the family left for the party. But just as she was walking to the door Memphis got the last words to James’s camera, “Slavery leaves telling marks lasting generations, still every word out of our mouths is a song.”

  Coda

  “Sound check, one, two, one, two.” Liberty Johnson stepped to the turntables beside her spin partner De Spain, his wild locks tied in a chignon atop his head. Work boots and stilettos. She laughed at the juxtaposition—she in a black turtleneck more suitable for a SWAT team, he in loose raw silk pants and imported square-toed snakeskins with two-inch heels. She felt privileged that he had asked her to join him. Honored. Nearly five months down. He didn’t have to do this. De Spain already had street cred. Five years ago when she started at fifty dollars a gig, he was pullin’ five hundred, and his last set overseas drew ten grand. She was anxious about the blend, her readiness. She had started out subbing for him. This was the first time he had asked her to partner.

  “No favors, Dee.”

  “None offered. You the
one with the pedigree, professor.”

  He still teased her about graduate school. She had originally started deejaying to help pay the tuition, then quickly realized that, more than cataloguing artifacts, she enjoyed curating sounds. But De Spain, being among only a handful of people who knew her lineage, was speaking the truth. She had the pedigree all right. Billed as “Lia and Raoul,” her parents had been on the counterculture circuit for two generations, folk-singing to world music. Her grandfather Baker Johnson was an elder statesmen of be-bop in Europe. Her R&B diva aunt Tokyo, counted down and out more times than anyone could remember, was on yet another comeback tour. And Mayfield Turner, her great-great-aunt, was a show business legend. “At a hundred and four, she was still showin’ her legs! Aunty Liz wasn’t just famous, she was downright infamous!” she joked with De Spain. “Grandma, grandpa, cousins, aunts, uncles, greats and great-greats. Wherever they be, the Mayfields and music go way back. ‘To the seventh generation!’ ” Music was always there, mixing geography and melody.

  She felt a twang in her left breast. Memory of her Aunt Cinn playing the piano game. Charleston, New York, Chicago . . . the place above her heart, now a snarled spiderweb of scars. To the seventh generation, then what?

  She kept telling herself that she was deserving of life, deserving of happiness. “Take it slow,” De Spain had said. She couldn’t move her arms after the surgery, had to teach the muscles to reconnect. “Just feel the crowd,” De Spain coaxed her, coached her. “Same as your grandpop takin’ a solo. Same as your aunt finding her blues in a slow jam. Find your music, Lib, find your groove.”