Chapter 33

SEPTEMBER 26, 1937

BESSIE SMITH, QUEEN OF THE BLUES,

HAS CHANTED HER LAST INDIGO LAMENT . . .

 

Beneath the headline of the week-old newspaper was Bessie Smith’s smiling black face. Ethel studied the photo and with a shrug of her shoulders muttered, “So what,” and then folded it in half and laid it across a white dinner plate. “Gwen! Gwen! Your tea is getting cold, gal!” Ethel’s shrill voice echoed through the apartment like an alarm bell.

“I’m coming!” the girl called back. From her bedroom, she soft-shoed her way through the living room and into the kitchen. Just about five feet four inches in height, thick-legged, the color of warm honey, Gwen was an exact replica of her mother at that age: fourteen.

When Gwen made her raucous entrance into the kitchen, Ethel turned on her, wagging the spatula. “Stop all that noise, girl!” she scolded. “Have some respect for the people downstairs.”

“Sorry,” Gwen mumbled.

Ethel smiled in spite of herself. “What me going do with you, heh?” She slipped the spatula into the frying pan and carefully flipped the half dollar–sized Barbadian staple made out of water, flour, sugar, nutmeg, and baking powder. Bakes were usually served with fried fish, but there was no fish that morning, so Gwen would have to make do with bacon.

Ethel lifted the bakes from the pan and placed them on the newspaper to drain. She watched, unbothered, as the oil seeped across Bessie’s face, then set the plate on the table before Gwen.

“Where’s your food, Mum?”

“I already ate. Hurry up or you’ll be late.” Ethel retrieved her teacup from the table and went to stand in the spray of sunlight coming through the window. Even after a decade, she was still amazed at how the air could be cold even when the sky was clear and the sun dazzlingly bright. In Barbados, clear or cloudy, rain or shine—it was always hot. Shuddering, she pulled the panels of her robe closed over her chest.

Ten years?

Ethel shook her head in wonder. The decade had run off like sand through a sieve. Quick. When she’d left Barbados she hadn’t one gray hair—now she had a headful. “I picked up half of them on the trip over,” Ethel chuckled to herself.

Gwen stopped chewing. “Mum?”

“I’m just talking to myself.” The memories of the crossing, those first hard years, were still fresh in Ethel’s mind; she could recall them with ease, as if she’d just stepped off the ship last week.

It was December. It was a Tuesday. The wharf was packed with weeping and cheering people waving handkerchiefs and miniature Barbadian flags. Ethel’s young daughters, Irene and Gwendolyn, hadn’t known that they were supposed to feel sad about leaving Barbados, and so smiled and waved back at the crowd. Ethel thought that was okay because she had enough tears for all three of them.

When the SS Munargo was so far out to sea that Barbados was little more than a shadow on the water, the passengers turned their attention to the setting sun. When the fiery ball disappeared, they focused their sights on the ever-darkening sky, the tremendous ocean rolling beneath it, and forced themselves to imagine how life would be in America.

Two weeks later, the ship floated into New York on a frigid, cloudy morning. The Hudson River was swimming with ice and tugboats. Overhead, seagulls squawked and swooped frantically across the slate sky.

Layered in the scratchy wool blankets provided by the shipping company and every stitch of clothing they owned, the passengers rushed on deck. They gasped at the cold, and the sound floated out of their mouths in frosty white clouds.

When the Statue of Liberty came into view, some passengers broke out into song: “Oh beautiful for spacious skies . . . ” Others dropped to their knees in gratitude, threw their hands up in celebration, grabbed hold of their loved ones and squeezed.

Little Gwen, just four years old at the time, glanced shyly at Lady Liberty, pressed her cheek against Ethel’s thigh, and softly chanted, “America, America, America . . .”