Neevah
It’s an odd experience,sifting through the detritus of Dessi Blue’s life. Dog-eared books and diaries, faded dresses from bygone eras, letters so old, parchmented like they might crumble in my hands. Her daughter, Katherine, has given us complete access to everything left in the house after Dessi died. She said she hasn’t gotten around to looking through half this stuff because her parents were pack rats and held onto every little thing documenting their colorful lives. She hasn’t made time to pick through their past or to dispose of it.
It’s like stumbling into a pharaoh’s tomb, the walls lined with riches and treasures. It’s mundane and magnificent. Worthless. Priceless. So many things I need to know about the woman I’m to portray. I’m eager, but also feel like a peeping tom, glimpsing another woman’s nakedness through the window of her past.
“Finding what you need?”
Canon stands in the doorway, his wide shoulders filling the frame. His eyes curious in the sharply hewn face. I drag my gaze away from him and to the stack of letters tied with string I’m holding.
“Yeah,” I say. “More than what I need. It’s kind of overwhelming and I’m not sure where to start.”
He walks in, his usual confident stride slower. He’s always guarded, but his expression seems almost wary when he sits beside me on the bed in what Katherine affectionately calls the “back room.” A box of old photos rests on the floor, and he bends to retrieve a few. A tarnished silver frame displays a happy, smiling couple on their wedding day. The style of Dessi’s dress and her rolled upsweep hairdo indicate early twentieth century, maybe late 30s, early 40s. It’s a black and white photo, but it’s clear that she’s fairer than her groom. They make a beautiful study in contrasts, him darker and her smaller, slim and elegant next to his imposing height. Shunning the camera, they stare into each other’s faces, noses nearly touching, love radiating from their expressions.
“Cal Hampton,” Canon says, nodding to the photo. “They got married in London while they were touring Europe. He was a great trumpet player.”
“They look so happy. According to the family Bible, they were married forty-five years until he died of lung cancer in 1985.”
“All that smoking caught up to a lot of them later in life.” He hands me the photo. “They do seem happy, but there was a lot of heartbreak in those years. Mostly from living in a country that wanted them to sing for their supper, but use the service entrance to come and go. That’s why so many of them left for Europe. Who can blame them?”
“I remember watching Halle Berry’s Dorothy Dandridge movie. That scene when Dorothy dips her toe in the pool at the hotel where she’s performing in Vegas.”
“And they drain the pool.” Canon’s full mouth hitches into a cynical bend. “You know how many people had no idea who Dorothy was before that movie?”
He bumps my shoulder, and the rare ease of a gesture like that from him makes me smile.
“We’re gonna do that for Dessi Blue,” he says.
“Thank you again for choosing me, for casting me.”
“We searched six months before casting you, Neevah. I knew as soon as I saw you onstage you were right for this part.”
“And the studio was okay with an unknown carrying a film like this?” It’s occurred to me more than once, but I haven’t asked him or Mallory. I was too afraid they might think about the huge risk they’re taking and change their minds.
“The studio is thrilled.” He bends to grab another box from the floor, and I can’t see his expression, but his voice sounds sure. Then again, when doesn’t Canon sound sure?
“Look at this,” he says.
Dust stirs from the jewelry box when he opens it, and a ballet dancer pops up. An old tune warbles from the box, so faint it’s barely music, and the figurine executes a turn, her pirouette shaky and uneven. Canon picks through a few pieces of jewelry—a black velvet ribbon choker, a cocktail ring shaped like a star and studded with rubies, diamond-flecked hairpins. There is a small tear in the floor of the box. I pull the base up, revealing a hidden compartment.
“Look at you, finding the secrets,” Canon says, lifting the base out completely and extracting a stack of papers, frayed and falling apart. He spreads them on the bed between us. There isn’t much, but you don’t hide things that mean nothing.
I angle my head to study the newspaper clipping of a wedding announcement.
Harlem nightclub owner Hezekiah Moore weds Matilda Hargrove. The ceremony took place at Abyssinian Baptist Church, with reception following at the Hotel Theresa.
Beneath the photo of a stern,stout man and a gorgeous woman of medium brown complexion wearing a waxen smile with her wedding dress are the words I had to. Forgive me. in neat handwriting.
Canon and I exchange a quick look of speculation.
“Matilda was Dessi’s roommate in New York for a few years,” he says. “The scene you did with Mallory showed how they met. Katherine said when Dessi left to tour in Europe, they lost touch completely.”
I flip through a stack of letters, all written in the same neat handwriting from the newspaper clipping. “Looks like she was wrong about them losing touch.”
The edge of a faded maroon paper peeks out from beneath the newspaper clipping so I pull it out to see it fully. It’s a playbill for Macbeth, but obviously an adaptation that, based on the graphic, seems to have African or island influence.
“Says the play was presented by the Negro unit of the Federal Theatre Project.” I flip the playbill over, scanning the details. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Yeah. In the scene you read, that’s the show they were waiting to see. The Federal Theatre Project was a New Deal stimulus program that funded plays and live performances.”