Page 13 of Night Songs

“And you’re all going?”

Phoebe smiled. “Of course. Want to come?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. She needs rest,” Hess cautioned, but I stopped her. I’d had so much rest I felt like a limp carrot.

What Ineededwas music.

Jefferson Street was the Nashville I’d dreamed of. The music could not be contained.

People played and sang in every house and building, and when they ran out of space, they performed on the sidewalks. I’d never seen so much life compressed into one place.

Hess and I walked arm in arm behind Tima and Phoebe, who were regulars. This was a Black part of town; Fisk was just a few blocks away, and Tima’s law office was somewhere in the row packed with businesses and clubs. People beeped at her from the cars backed up along the street and waved from front porches, where they shouted for chitlins and fish sandwiches at a dollar and a quarter.

Martha brought up the rear, distracted by the street players. I watched her get lost in one picker’s technique, the movement of his hands mesmerizing.

We arrived at a brick building with a dark-red awning readingCLUB DEL MOROCCOand a swarm of people out front. Tima led us past the line to a man at the door who kissed her hand and let us through with a nod.

We strutted into the small, low-lit bottom level like a pack of alley cats. The place smelled of cigarillos and wood, and the tables were filled with men in suits and women with immaculate hairdos.

At the bar, Tima and Martha ordered Coca-Colas, Phoebe got something pink and fizzy, and Hess asked for a dirty martini. I’d never ordered a cocktail before, so I asked for a Manhattan like I’d seen in a movie.

The drink was cold and amber, and at first it reminded me of the syrup the holler’s granny witch gave me for my stomach pains, like hickory and mountain mint coated in caramel. But then I tasted the bourbon, and I near gagged. There was that sinister sweetness, like something hiding in tall, sunlit grass. The flavor of my uncle’s hot breath in my ear. I pretended to take small sips and instead held the drink as a prop.

Tima led us over to a table near the middle and disappeared backstage with Martha. A group in the corner beckoned to Phoebe, and she fluttered over in her green mini dress.

Hess and I watched as the club slowly filled with people and a bright, eager energy. I’d been to church dances back home but nothing as glamorous and unrestrained as this place.

The lights dimmed and a hush spread through the crowd.

I held my breath, waiting for the next moment, feeling each second tick by. Sometimes when I focused on each second, a bad feeling crept up on me. My heart raced, and my limbs lost feeling.

Just as I teetered on the edge, there was a beam of light. Tima stood at a microphone with Martha on pedal steel behind her and the rest of the band at the ready. She shimmered like a constellation in her silver pantsuit.

In her smooth, deep voice, she sang to us about a city girl who thought she could protect herself from fools. She was graceful and calm, but with this sense that a greater force stood behind it. You had to keep watching just to see what she would reveal.

Martha slid her fist subtly down the length of her instrument, and a hypnotic, mournful wail came in above the voice. I felt the tree’s bark split a little in my chest. I realized Hess and I were holding hands, and I squeezed her palm. She squeezed back, and I knew she felt it, too.

When the final note of the song dissolved into the smoke-filled room, I was hovering above my seat, Hess’s firm, dry hand the only thing keeping my butt on the wood. Tima had lifted me higher, to that golden place where I forgot where I came from, or what I’d done, or that I was ever gonna die.

I would never be like Tima. But I wondered if I could make people feel that way when I sang, too.

The next act kicked up, and people started dancing anywhere not taken up by tables. Phoebe wiggled over and offered us each a hand. We took them, and she led us to a free space in the corner so we could dance in a little circle like some kind of ritual.

I watched Phoebe and the women around me swiveling their hips with this smooth, natural rhythm. When I tried to mimic it, my moves were stiff and awkward. I looked over at Hess, who grooved in her own way, her elegance knowing not to imitate those around her.

Phoebe came up behind me like the couples we saw grinding into each other, and she took my hips and guided me into the groove. After a few beats, I finally felt it. The room twisted together, and I twisted with it.

Act after act, we moved along the sound waves.

And then it was late. Hair clung to my forehead, and sweat trickled down the back of my borrowed dress. The lights were so low that the people were only silhouettes, and the place had taken on a stumbling, breathy quality. But I wasn’t afraid; there was an invisible string tying us girls together in the midst of the heavy-eyed late-night chaos. We would keep each other safe.

The house band launched into solos, each musician taking their own spotlight to fool around with a few licks. When it was the main guitarist’s turn, he brought the instrument to his face, and a primal sound screeched from it.

“He’s playing with his teeth,” Martha said, and I looked harder at the player to see if I could get a better view. She watched him like he was a prophet, as she repeated, “He’s plucking the strings with histeeth.”

When the club cleared out, Tima took us down the block to an apartment above a beauty salon. People were making out against the walls and lounging in circles on the ground. One man danced by himself to a song nobody else could hear.

I followed Tima out to a small balcony and rested my elbows on the rail. She passed me her cigarette, and I took a polite puff. It didn’t taste like the mellow, honeyed tobacco I knew from home. This had a crook in it, a raised back. Like a skunk when it got scared. I went for another drag, and she took it from me.