A Dribble of Jazz(Daniel Morris) The night sat purposefully upon the city. Like a blanket thrown shamefully over the head of a convicted felon the skies above had darkened as if to obscure the bacchanal revelry below from the disapproving glare of the gods. On Lafayette Street, where the defiant lights of the speakeasies and late night cafes shone brightest, the rambunctious sounds of merriment permeated the air with almost truculent intent. A dribble of jazz and mirth leaked from the continuously opening and revolving doors of the buildings and collected in the air, filling the street with the crapulous cacophony of pleasure and sin. Lafayette’s half mile of establishments vibrated with an effusive and unholy sass; it was the unapologetic and conspicuous capitol of fun and debauchery in an erstwhile saintly and respectable Midwestern city.

Midway down Lafayette, where the street was almost impertinently intersected by the cobbles and tram lines of St. Marks’, the Victoria Lounge occupied the corner with an air of self knowing exclusivity and sophistication. Its art nouveau exterior sat rather superciliously with its surroundings and sneered outwards with superiority. A small establishment, its doors opened to a select few - only the most discerning and fashionable gained membership and its very name was a byword for status amongst the patrons of the street. ‘Loungers’ gained entrance through the heavy gilded revolving doors and descended the wide elegant stairs into the club below. Although less rumbustious and more serene than other establishments on the street, the same air of joyful insouciance greeted those who were lucky enough to appraise its interior. Here the finest company sat amidst the finest decor, drank the finest imported liquor, and listened to the city’s finest musicians with self satisfaction. It was at the Lounge that Molly Callahan often found herself at the beginning of her evenings.

Molly sat, as always, resplendent in pearls and feathers in a booth with a favourable view of the small stage and the sweep of the stairs at it melded into the dance floor. From here she could luxuriate in drink and cigarette smoke as she drew pleasure from the music and the sight of other patrons making their entrance in various states of elegance and self awareness. She always noted the outfits worn - and the company kept by each on their entrance - with varying degrees of approval. She knew most people who entered, and most people who entered knew her, although all left her in peace. They had learned through the social norm not to approach her with friendly greeting unless she first approached them, for she was Charlie’s girl, and this was Charlie’s place. Molly had first noticed this peculiar social custom concerning her and the patronage of her company shortly after she’d taken up with Charlie. Initially it had confused and upset her before it was explained by Charlie to be a sign of deference and respect towards him, rather than a personal slight towards her. ‘Take it as a compliment doll, everybody knows you’re my girl now’ he’d offered as reassurance to her concern. To hear him describe her as his girl appeased and settled her somewhat and she’d grown to accept and then enjoy her social distance from other folk, as a Queen might enjoy the power of having passive control over all her husband’s subjects.

Tonight, as most nights, Molly awaited Charlie’s arrival. He’d woken her unusually early that morning as he clumsily dressed and, urging her to go back to sleep, told her he’d meet her later that evening at the lounge-

‘I’ll see you this evening around eight’ he’d offered whilst awkwardly applying a cufflink in the darkness of the room.

‘Where you going’?...everything ok?’ She sleepily appealed as she noticed the hurried nature of his actions.

‘I gotta go see somebody. Short notice, sorry doll...I’ll be back later’ he replied half looking back as he disappeared through the door, leaving her anxiously short of information.

It was now 11:30 and Molly sat alone. She did her best to look demure whilst regally offering a reciprocal nod of acknowledgement to those entering the club, trying not to get too tipsy on the drinks that were periodically brought to her table unsolicited and free of charge. A full bottle of champagne and three Manhattans had seen to it that she was fighting a losing battle. She’d been there since a little after eight o’clock and her anxiety about Charlie’s whereabouts had not subsided with the alcohol as she had hoped, but rather conversely seemed to mix with her worry, creating a more intoxicating brew. The room quivered slightly as she turned her head to glance around, and she noticed the actions of the waiters to be somewhat slower than they formerly were. At the far end of the bar she thought she caught sight of somebody sneering at her, but focusing more intently noticed an acquaintance of Charlie’s staring vacantly towards the musicians onstage. She shook her head gently and managed to pull herself back from the edge of the enveloping haze. Inferring the encroachment of intoxication from the lightness of the day’s diet she nonchalantly lit a cigarette and sat back gently into the red velvet booth seat.

The lascivious timbre of a clarinet warbled languidly like a sedate swan and sent voluptuous notes into the smoky atmosphere, floating like bubbles over her head before popping sublimely into the air. She drew gently on her cigarette and fell into the music, letting it envelop her. It was music, she suddenly remembered, that had brought her to the city. Her callow dreams of becoming a singer had seemed to focus and become less opaque in the wake of her father’s death and pushed her with a sort of hopeless determination towards the bright lights. The vast empty expanses of the Kansas countryside only echoed and magnified the sense of isolation and loss she felt in the wake of losing him and she found herself fleeing dizzily towards the lively sound of jazz and laughter. In the year since her arrival she’d barely allowed herself to think of her past and the tragic events that led her to the city; forbidden herself the memories that chased her away and occupied herself ardently with the new life she had tumbled into. Soon after securing a job as a pianist at a theatre school for children on the west side, and a part time slot at a tawdry club called Louis’ on Lafayette she’d met Charlie and was instantly seduced by his enigmatic status and charisma. Letting go of her musical ambitions almost immediately, she had let herself fall headlong into his life with the hopeless conviction typical of female vulnerability in the wake of paternal loss. He was her everything, her protector, her hope, and the focus of her future. He was the omnipotent provider of her new life and its healing distraction from the debilitating turmoil of the past. Yet tonight, for some unknown reason, she found certain memories furtively returning from the far corners of her mind as if lured out by the bait of her anxiety over Charlie’s whereabouts. The more they encroached on her peace, the more she tried to chase them away with drink. The tearful and lonely bus ride east: gone with the first glasses of champagne. The desolate feeling of loss as she stood at her father’s newly occupied graveside: gone after the bottle was drained. Her desperate and grief stricken prayers for his return: gone after the first cocktail. But now, as the room around her seemed to wash and swirl again in an amorphous mass and she tried vainly to focus on the stimulus of her environment, one memory seemed to crystallize and form in her head as if beckoning to her from the past. She saw all too clearly her uncle Tom’s face contorted with anguish as he approached her standing on the steps of the porch; felt the biting chill of the December wind around her ankles; the rustle of leaves blown tempestuously behind his feet as he skulked reluctantly along the garden path; and finally the heavy and inauspicious words that fell uneasily from his mouth and broke her heart:

‘Daddy won’t be coming home Moll...I’m...I’m sorry...Daddy won’t be coming home’

The smash of a glass falling from the table snapped her out of her trance and she flicked the cigarette from her burning fingers as she surfaced back to the reality of her surroundings. A waiter immediately appeared and efficiently cleared away the broken glass from her feet with a brush as another placed a fresh drink in front of her. She put her hands up to him as if in surrender.

‘Please can you just bring me some water’ she asked ‘I don’t think I should drink any more.’

The waiter nodded and disappeared in a hurry. Molly sighed deeply and focused her gaze briefly on her feet in an attempt to push away the effect of the drink and looking up again let her eyes follow the waiter’s disappearance through the tight cluster of tables as he made his way toward the bar. The Lounge was now full of patrons and alive with the ambiance of music and sybaritical chatter; her eyes danced with a quick scan of curiosity over the faces of the throng between her and the bar. Her anxiety settled slightly as several familiar heads bobbed into view from amongst the multitude but was jarred suddenly back into place as her gaze, again landing at the far end of the bar, found a malevolent sneer directed unequivocally towards her. Several moments earlier she’d assumed she had imagined the spectacle, but now she was sure. The acquaintance of Charlie’s fixed on her intently. His lips pursed tightly and his narrow face seemed to sharpen maliciously to a point as he focused in. Molly gasped, turned her head sharply away from his stare and sank back desperately into the seat in her booth. She quivered with shock and bemusement and reluctant to turn back questioned what had just occurred. Had he really been staring at her? What would Charlie’s reaction be when he found out? Should she tell him? She suddenly felt vulnerable and alone; a brief frisson of dolour passed over her like the chill from an open window yet was only quelled by the onset of a burning sweat. She had no idea who the face at the bar was. She had met him previously but couldn’t recall his name. Now she remembered overhearing Charlie talk about a troublemaker he’d had problems with; an oblique remark to another about ‘keeping an eye on him for a while’, but recalled nothing else. Why was she remembering this now? Was this the man he was referring to? She looked at her watch: it was midnight. Where was Charlie? A dull ache announced itself at the front of her head as she fumbled inside a small bag for cigarettes. Lighting a stray found at the bottom with a slight tremble of hands she looked up to see the waiter approaching her table with her water. The heads at the tables through which he walked seemed to glance towards her more frequently than before and she felt the unease of a person suddenly realising themselves to be the object of surreptitious conversation. The waiter halted abruptly half way across the room and looked to his left. Molly’s heart stopped as she realised why and leaned forward to glance in the same direction. The acquaintance walked purposely towards her; behind him at his vacated space at the bar the chord of a telephone swung under the newly shouldered receiver. He stopped at her table and she held her breath.

‘Charlie won’t be coming home Doll’ he said ‘Charlie won’t be coming home’.

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