BACH’S CELLO SUITE NO. 1 is the best for when I’m feeling mournful, but I’m not mournful. I’m angry. For that I usually play Schumann’s Fantasiestücke’s third movement, but I dig into my papers and pull out a cello sonata from Chevalier de Saint-Georges, the Negro man who influenced Mozart. The composition is most likely a fake. Most of his original works have been lost, but it still holds a tiny place in my heart. I settle my fingers against the strings and cradle the instrument’s wide body between my thighs. Granny introduced me to the violin, though she called it a fiddle. I upgraded to the cello once I grew a bit older. The cello loves me. The cello never lets me down.
The notes are a bit shy at first. I neglected her yesterday, and now my friend is jealous. The melody is harsh and unyielding, and the push and pull create something fiery that heats my small compartment to boiling. I don’t dare stop. I don’t dare open the door. I let the strings cry in a way I won’t ever let Daddy see me crumble. I let the strings scream, ripping the air into shreds, wild and untamed and oh so unladylike. My music is not staid or proper, pretty or respectable. It is not for the mother looking for a biddable bride for her son at church or for the son looking for a pretty housekeeper to call his wife. It is adventurous and weighty, loud and boisterous, fuming when it wants to be and despondent when it needs to be. It is unapologetically emotional in a way I am never allowed to be without consequence. My music is a girl who behaves like a boy: flat shoes and comfortable slacks, loudmouthed and ready to take on the world. My music is black in a place where black isn’t an insult: it’s shining, proud, and unworried. I let myself transform into wood and sound and vibration. I play for hours, settling into the rhythm and rock of the train tracks until my hollow stomach spurs me out of my room.
I walk into the hall and make my way down the empty car to where Daddy is sitting with one of the three newspapers he reads everyday. Our porter, whose name I can’t remember or maybe he’s never said it, is clearing the dishes from lunch. I can see from the leavings that nothing was laid out for me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Tamar,” the porter says brightly. He’s got straight white teeth and bright eyes framed by wispy lashes that curl up in the corners. He steps back so I can slide past him to sit. It isn’t a tight squeeze. He’s got that lanky frame all the porters have, tall and wiry, except he’s got a little bow to his legs. If my sister was here, she’d have laid herself out on the table as an offering, and if he saw her, he would have definitely obliged. Honey-tongued with a complexion to match, she’s hard to deny.
“Good afternoon, uh…”
“Fayard, Miss.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“No apologies needed. I’m just glad you didn’t call me George,” he says.
“Why would I do that?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“It happens more often than you think. I can’t say why, though,” he replies.
Daddy clears his throat. “It’s an insult, a holdover from slavery, where the slaves were often called by the name of the slave owner. George Pullman started the railroad company, so many misguided people call his employees by his name, even long after his death.”
“Do they call the conductors George too?” I ask.
Daddy barks out a laugh that lets me know what I said was definitely not funny. Fayard’s smile dims a bit but doesn’t fall as he shakes his head. It was a bit of sarcasm, a joke for Fayard’s benefit, but I guess I’m not the comedian I thought I was.
I look over the plates to see if there’s anything left I can filch for myself. There’s no way I’ll be able to make it to dinner without something to nibble on.
“The kitchen isn’t closed yet. I can bring you a menu if you’d like to—”
Daddy intercedes. He’s returned to his newspaper so he doesn’t have to look at me. “That won’t be necessary. We adhere to standard mealtimes in this family. Those who find themselves absent during those times don’t eat.”
“But, sir, it really is no—”
“That will be all, Fayard,” Daddy replies, the finality in his voice clear.
I clench my jaw to keep myself from saying something that could find me back home and under his clutches again. With Mama gone and Patience married off, there’s no one to keep his dislike from boiling over bad enough to burn. Daddy was always mean, even to Mama, but I can feel his grief over her death curdling into something else.
I glance up at Fayard. The disbelief on his face congeals into something less appropriate. It’s kind that he cares, but this isn’t any of his business.
“Daddy’s right,” I say. I’m about to go into an explanation with a lie about how I’m not even hungry when another porter bursts into our car.
“Doctor! We need a doctor! Big Ti—I mean Fayard, excuse me.” He turns to Daddy. “Sir, are you a medical doctor?”
Daddy puffs out his chest. “Yes, I am.”
“We’ve got a lady in the colored car. She’s carrying and she just passed out.”
Daddy hops to. In a blink he’s got his medical bag in hand, and in a flash he’s out the door. And then I’m alone and not alone. I’m alone with a boy.