Chapter 49

On February 20, 1940, 17 East 133rd Street exploded in jubilant celebration—a bon voyage party that started at eight o’clock Saturday night and stretched to Sunday noon. Catered food, champagne, balloons, and party streamers.

It seemed all of Harlem had come out to wish Harlan farewell.

At midnight, Emma’s surprise arrived wearing a brown Stevedore low over his face. Before anyone could see who he was, she grabbed his hand and whisked him through the unsuspecting revelers, up the stairs, and into her bedroom.

“Wait here,” she whispered. “Sam will come and get you when it’s time.”

“And?” he said, smiling coyly.

Emma cocked her head. “And what?”

“And?” he repeated, rubbing his belly, his face lit brightly with his million-volt smile.

“Oh yes,” Emma laughed, “and when Sam comes up, he’ll have a plate of red beans and rice.”

* * *

At half past the witching hour, Emma found Harlan propped up against the parlor wall staring down the blouse of a slant-eyed girl with greasy curls. As she hooked her arm around Harlan’s waist, she shot the girl a look so sharp it nearly sliced her in two.

“He’s here,” Emma whispered, dragging Harlan across the floor.

Harlan scanned the crowd. “Where?”

“In my bedroom.”

“Did you hide him in the closet like you do my Christmas and birthday gifts?”

Emma popped him playfully upside the head. “Boy, go and find Lizard.”

Harlan pushed his way through the throng of well-wishers. Each step brought him face-to-face with someone who wanted to shake his hand, slap his back, or convey some critical piece of information Harlan would need on his trip across the Atlantic.

By the time he found Lizard in the cellar, puffing on a cigarette, it was nearly one o’clock.

“What you doing down here?”

“Aww, it’s a lot of people up there. I just needed some air.”

Harlan glanced around the cellar. Fanning his arms, he said, “You need air, so you came down here?”

Lizard shrugged his shoulders.

“My mama and daddy threw this party for us, you better come on and enjoy it.”

Lizard dropped the cigarette into the dirt and mashed it with the toe of his shoe, following Harlan up the wooden staircase into the soggy smoke-and-perfume-choked heat of the house.

“Mama wants you to play,” Harlan called over his shoulder as they made their way toward the group of musicians Emma had hired for the party.

“My horn is up in your room,” Lizard shouted back.

“Nah it ain’t, Mama brought it down.”

Emma, smiling like a cat with a mouse, stood at the front of the parlor clutching Lizard’s strawberry-colored trumpet case to her chest.

“Anything special you want to hear, Mrs. Elliott?” Lizard asked, carefully removing his horn.

“Whatever you play is fine by me.”

Lizard started with “Potato Head Blues,” a Louis Armstrong classic. He expertly mimicked Satchmo’s rapid notes—nailing the D chord, toggling the G, flying into a quarter E note, hitting it so hard it took his breath away. He stopped. He didn’t really feel like playing. His mind was on other things and his heart was elsewhere.

Lizard nodded apologetically to the crowd, swabbed his brow, and gulped air. Just as he pressed his mouth back to the lip of the trumpet—three horn blasts, perfectly pitched E notes, rattled his left eardrum.

Lizard turned toward the sound, his fingers still dancing over the valve pistons, all Es, all Es—building, building—and at the moment when he was supposed to drop back to D and bear down in a sort of dazzling placidity, his gray-green eyes clashed with Louis Armstrong’s brown ones and Lizard lost his breath a second time.

Buoyed by cheers and applause, Louis swaggered into the parlor, retrieved the note Lizard had dropped, and went on to remind everyone why he was the king.

They performed three songs together, Louis nodding approvingly, patting Lizard on the back like a proud father.

Later, in the backyard, beneath an ever-brightening sky, seemingly oblivious to the February morning bite, Lizard found Louis Armstrong perched on a rusty lawn chair holding court. His black-and-gray-checkered dress shirt was unbuttoned to the navel, revealing a white cotton undershirt. Dangling from the gold chain around his neck was a hexagram the size of a half-dollar fashioned from the same precious metal.

When Louis waved Lizard over, the cluster of men parted. Lizard grabbed a milk crate and edged into the space they’d made for him. He sat quietly, reveling in their stories of music, women, and the ups and downs of life, until one by one the men began to drift away, eventually leaving Lizard and Louis alone.

“Call me Pops,” Louis said when Lizard started yet another question with, “Mr. Armstrong . . .”

“This?” Louis pointed to the hexagram resting on his chest. He cupped it in his hand and stroked it lovingly with his thumb, explaining to Lizard that the pendant was a Jewish symbol known as the Star of David.

“You’re Jewish?” Lizard asked, stunned.

Louis snickered. “No, no, I’m not.”

“Then why do you wear it?”

Louis folded his arms. “Well, when I was growing up in New Orleans, there was this family called the Karnofskys who had a junk business. I needed a job to help support my family, and they gave me one. I was seven years old.”

Lizard’s head bobbed. “Seven?”

Louis held up seven fingers. “Anyway, them Karnofskys were different from most of the other white folk I’d come across.”

“Different how?”

Louis leaned forward and rubbed his knees. “Well, ya see, son, they ain’t never—not once—called me a nigger, ape, tar baby, or any of them other horrible names they call us black folk.” He waved his hands at Lizard. “’Course, you so light, you probably haven’t suffered that type of humiliation. They were a different kind of white folk; so different that they treated me like family. They fed me. Not at the back door neither. I ate right at the table with them! In fact, when things got too hot at my house, they took me in.”

Lizard’s eyes shone with astonishment.

“I thought white folk stuck together, so I was confused when I saw the treatment the family got from people who were white like them.”

Lizard leaned in. “What d’you mean? How’d they treat ’em?”

Louis shrugged. “Like niggers.”

“Why was that?”

“Because they were Jewish,” Louis said pointedly.

Lizard cast his eyes down to his shoes and frowned.

“That family was real good to me. When I left New Orleans for Chicago, Mrs. Karnofsky gave me this pendant.” He tapped the hexagram with his index finger. “And I’ve kept it with me ever since.”

Suddenly aware of the cold, Louis stood and raked his hands up and down his arms. “Son, I don’t hate anyone. That’s not to say that I don’t have it in me. I believe we all got it in us—but whenever I feel it trying to climb out, I look at this here pendant and am reminded that love is more powerful than hate will ever be.” He slowly buttoned his shirt. “I think I smell bacon. What about you? You ready for some breakfast?”

“Yes sir, Mr.—”

“Pops,” Louis said gently. “Call me Pops.”

“Yes sir, Pops.”

Lizard followed his icon to the door. Louis reached for the handle, turned his head, and asked, “So, why they call you Lizard?”

Lizard grinned. “Because Satchmo was already taken.”