Midnight Ballads | Anthony Navas

In the middle of his long, screeching solo, Isaiah Chambers heard shouting near the front of the stage and realized, with a mixture of shame and horror, he was in trouble. As the band played a frantic, dissonant version of “Now’s the Time” that lasted 12 minutes, the audience’s heckling grew louder. Isaiah kept his eyes shut and continued to play his saxophone but after just three numbers, the band ended their set. While the rest of the musicians packed up their instruments, he walked out into the cold, dark alley and smashed his tenor sax repeatedly against the brick building of the Lone Star Club. When he was done he tossed it on a heap of trash and stood there stunned and breathless. The horn lay like a skinless animal that had been chewed and spat out.

Danny Badges, the drummer, walked out with a cigarette in his mouth. He looked at the wounded instrument.

“When’s the next gig?”

“You were all over the place so I don’t want to hear it.”

Before Danny could respond Isaiah walked out of the alley and headed down the sidewalk. He was ashamed of what he just did. Three years prior he bought that sax at a pawn shop after he moved to New York City from Atlanta. For months he spent his evenings practicing in the subway or on street corners, hoping to get some cash and impress the folks passing by. His aunt Mary said he should be out there getting a job instead of blowing his horn at the wind. You can’t live like this forever, she said.

It began to rain. Isaiah arrived at the bus stop and heard sirens behind him. He turned and waited for a police car to pull up by him. It wasn’t the first time that happened. But the sirens faded away and he saw the dark outlines of people running across the street. Underneath the yellow haze from a street lamp he stood looking at the gashes on his knuckles and the back of his fingers. He hadn’t noticed them until that moment. Anger has a good way of concealing any pain.

On the wall of an abandoned building he noticed a poster of a woman he recognized immediately. It was a small advertisement for Patty Johnson whom he assumed died a long time ago. Above her small, thin face and large round eyes were the words, “Seamstress of the Blues. New Year’s Eve. Live at Hell’s Gates Tavern. ” That was in the Bronx. Isaiah never liked going to that neighborhood. He recalled when Danny was jumped by a gang of Italians. Get outta here, they shouted. This is our turf. They threw rocks and bottles at him. He made it out of there unharmed, Isaiah thought. What a shame.

Patty looked just like her picture on Midnight Ballads. She hadn’t aged in all these years. The last time he saw that album was on his father’s bedside next to a bottle of gin and a revolver. His father played that record for days, crying and muttering to himself, although Isaiah didn’t know if he was singing along to the music. In the dead heat of August the whole house was in shambles. Strangers, probably neighbors or the maids, came into the bedroom, opening drawers, shoving jewelry and money in their pockets. His father noticed them but he didn’t cared. It was hard to reach him after the funeral.

The bus stopped abruptly by the bench. Isaiah, cold and drenched, walked down the aisle and sat all the way in the back. The poster was still in view from this side of the bus. His mother, an aspiring singer, used to imitate the famous seamstress of the blues. On several occasions Aunt Mary said she sounded so much like Patty. When Midnight Ballads played continuously on the phonograph, it was like his mother still alive and singing in the living room or on the porch. When a heartbreaking song appeared he imagined his mother imitating her from the deeper bowels of Hell. He used to walk down the stairs and through the living room that was slowly growing bigger as movers took away the furniture and the pictures off the walls, listening to that falsetto voice and wondering why his mother was in Hell. As a boy he envisioned Hell as a cold dark shed with elongated, melting icicles stretching down from the ceiling, her voice materializing into long puffs of air from a dark shadow in the corner next to a set of hammers, chisels and a rusty saw.

As he got older, especially after moving to the city, his mother’s face began fading away. He didn’t have any pictures of her. But he remembered Patty’s face on that record sleeve quite vividly. It depicted her standing on stage wearing a red velvet dress with three white orchids curved in her hair.

At 11:30 Isaiah arrived to the apartment. Mary was sitting on the couch by the radio, her head leaning back with her mouth gaping open. The sound of the door slamming shut jolted the 53-year-old woman. Startled and irritable, she looked at Isaiah with contempt.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t know you were sleeping.

“It’s close to midnight, what’d you expect?”

He had lived with his aunt ever since he was thrown out of his apartment on 56^th street. You can stay here so long as you look for work, she told him. I don’t want you to be messing around on the streets. Isaiah agreed but never took her seriously. Aunt Mary wasn’t the type to toss out family in the streets.

While he practiced in the living room Mary went out and dined with friends. She didn’t like hearing all that hard-Bop or experimental music. Isaiah would work up a sweat while playing his horn on those afternoons. Pretty soon he hoped to play just as good as Ornette Coleman or his hero, Prez. Until that night at the Lone Star Club, the one regret Isaiah had that year was missing his funeral. Of all the musicians Isaiah loved, Prez took precedence over everyone else, including Bird. When he read an article about Prez and Patty Johnson playing gigs in New Orleans in the early ‘40s, Isaiah imagined them together on stage, Prez with his head cocked to the right like some parrot transfixed at some mysterious object, his sax thrusting to the audience while the seamstress, dressed in a red velvet dress, swayed and sang with her eyes pressed tightly shut. Lady Day was never as graceful.

Mary got up from her chair and lurched towards the kitchen. Her leg was giving her problems again. She offered him food but Isaiah didn’t want anything to eat. In the past few months she was alarmed by how skinny he became. Isaiah barely ate supper, preferring to drink his whiskey and sit in his room playing those records.

The ‘50s were almost over. Ornette’s record that year had unearthed new sounds and musical ideas. That appealed to Isaiah since he couldn’t play as well as Prez or Sonny Rollins. They had the past to rely on while Isaiah had the future. The prospect of standing on stage and breaking the restrict rules his teachers gave him at school was what real freedom meant.

Mary looked up at him through her thick glasses.

“Where’s your horn?”

“Left it at the club.”

“You better hope no one steals it. I lent you the money for it. I expect to see you playing Carnegie Hall with that sax.”

Isaiah leaned back and slid right into the wooden chair in the kitchen. His knuckles ached and he turned them over on his lap. For some time he sat there listening to Mary moving the dishes and running the faucet.

“Patty Johnson is playing in the Bronx,” he said.

“Who?”

“Patty Johnson. Remember her?”

Mary shook her head. She started scrubbing the dishes.

“Jeremy and your cousin Daisy are having a party on New Year’s Eve. Some of your nephews will be there too. I figured we get there ‘round 4 o’clock. You can talk to Phil about Jazz. He used to play trumpet, you know.”

“Don’t know if I can make it. I might have a show that night.”

“Where?”

“In the Bronx. You wanna come?”

Isaiah knew she wouldn’t go anyway. She attended only one gig about a year ago. After the show was over she told him his saxophone sounded like a cat getting skinned alive in a room full of sadists.

“Cancel it,” she said. “Don’t forget about your family. That’s all we have nowadays.

Isaiah stood up and lit a cigarette.

“I can see them any day. Anyhow they never come to see me.”

“Don’t be rude by skipping out. Isaiah, you got to be close with your family.”

He took the bottle of whiskey, went into his bedroom and slammed the door. Mary shouted at him on the other side. Even with this barrier between them she was getting under his skin. The door flung open and she yelled some more. His hands began throbbing and he tried his best not to punch the walls. Not because of anymore damage he would inflict on his hands but he didn’t want to hear Mary say, there you go again. He clasped his fingers and felt the pain surge through his body.

In the late afternoon the following day Isaiah took the bus to the Lone Star Club and walked to the spot where he left the saxophone. It lay near an overflowing dumpster and a puddle of discolored, thick liquid that Isaiah assumed was vomit. Probably from Danny. He could never hold his liquor, that poor son of a bitch.

As Isaiah climbed downstairs he could hear Mel, the club’s bald, stocky owner, shouting on the phone. It was hot inside. Mel stood on the other side of the bar cursing into the receiver. He slammed the phone and muttered the word bitch before turning his attention to Isaiah. For a moment he looked perplexed.

“Oh, your money. What happened last night?”

“Tough crowd. Some cats aren’t tuned into those new sounds.”

“Well that ain’t going to fly here anymore. Customers walked out in droves. Never seen anything like that. Even the guys in the band ain’t happy. Danny doesn’t want to play with you anymore.”

Mel’s guttural voice echoed through the club. His bald sweaty head shone like a freshly mopped floor. A discolored sweat spot on his white shirt looked as though it was growing bigger the more he talked and spit flew out of his mouth. His breath was foul and his teeth were crooked with craters like buildings in a bombed-out city.

Isaiah liked Mel. He was the only bar owner who hired him on a regular basis. He allowed Isaiah and the band to play whatever they wanted. Even when the audience was uneasy with the music, Mel kept having him back on stage. In this business, Isaiah reasoned, all you need is for people to stay out of your way. Mel didn’t care much for music. The only things he liked were girls and sports. He played the radio in the background, he told Isaiah, just to keep himself company whenever he was alone in the house. It didn’t matter what DJs played, so long as it occupied the air in the room. One night after Isaiah finished a set he walked into the backroom and heard Mel complaining about some couple at the bar. He referred to them as greasy scumbags. Fuck ‘em, I’m glad they hated the show, he shouted at a bartender.

This was all before Mel left his wife for a younger woman, a thin little brunette from Long Island. His girlfriend now took a prominent role in management.

“I’m making some changes,” Mel said. He lit a cigarette and began flicking ashes on the black counter. “From now on I’m hiring bands that play what people like. All that horseshit you play has got to end. So tell you what. Bring in a singer, play some pop tunes. Do some songs by Sinatra. Every now and then people like to hear something nice.”

“I don’t know any singers,” Isaiah said. “I can tone it down with that crazy stuff. It’s a new thing, you know. I get it.”

“My mind is made up, kid.”

“I’ll see who I can find. But it’ll take some time before I can play another gig. I’m strapped for cash. You need anyone in the kitchen?”

Mel shook his head.

“I got nothing. In fact I just let go of some people.”

Isaiah took the money and walked out of the club. He headed down the street with his hands tucked in his coat pockets. He was hungry and as he passed some restaurants he looked to see if there were any signs that said “Help Wanted.”

It was almost 11 o’clock when Isaiah arrived at the Hell’s Gate Tavern, a subterranean bar at the end of a row of brownstone buildings which looked deserted. The place was dark with the faint smell of sulfur just outside the metallic door. The walls inside were bright red and at the edge of the bar was a doll of a skeleton sitting upright wearing a black hat and a cigar sticking out of its teeth. Isaiah was surprised how small the place was. The cigarette smoke hung in the middle of the bar like a heavy fog. All the black round tables were taken. Isaiah stood in the back of the bar, lit a cigarette and waited.

He tried to remember any songs from Midnight Ballads. When he was a teenager, long after his father left Atlanta, Isaiah searched for that record in all the shops he could find. Most storeowners never even heard of Patty Johnson. One of them said he had a few of her records some years back. An old white man purchased all her records in a single night in ’37, the owner said. Told us he fought in General Lee’s army. The south has never been the same since, the old man said, sneering at the owner and his younger daughter who worked in the store. His skin was gray and saggy. Left an impression on me, the storeowner said. A strange old fellow. Never understood why he was collecting all them records. Isaiah left the store and walked down the silent, dark streets of Burkesville, a town located just outside of Atlanta. He passed by the colonial houses and watched the shadows move behind the closed curtains. A blazing fire lit the backyard of one house. He stood staring at the licking flames, imagining a stack of records burning.

The band took the stage without Patty. Isaiah leaned against the wall, his fingers trembling as he held a cigarette to his lips. The lights dimmed briefly before the quartet began playing. They played tunes Isaiah was familiar with: “Well You Needn’t,” “Caravan,” songs that Isaiah himself practiced in his aunt’s apartment. The musicians hurried through their set as though they were on a time schedule. Then, after the fourth or fifth number, a small woman appeared wearing a red velvet dress, the same one that graced the cover of Midnight Ballads. It was as though she had just walked out of the vinyl sleeve. She stood erect before the microphone while the band played “Those Tender Eyes.” She smiled at the audience with her eyes closed, her head nodding to the slow tempo. A few hands clapped near the front. She opened her mouth and sang in a very low voice that was hard to hear at first. Isaiah stood there, frozen. She sounded so unfamiliar to him. Her voice cracked when she attempted to hit any high notes. It was a very throaty voice that, Isaiah reasoned, probably suffered from years of shouting and smoking.

In those moments he tried to remember his mother’s face. Even the memory of her death was murky. It must’ve been her heart that inexplicably gave out. She had fallen from the top of the staircase. When she hit the floor, her body stopped moving, her face obscured by her long curly hair. His little brother Barry was running around in circles, shouting, Daddy, daddy. Isaiah backed away with his heart thumping in his chest. He held his mouth open and tried to scream. Nothing came out, not even a whimper. Then he heard shouting from behind and someone, probably Mary, pushed him out of the way. The next memory that came to him was of his father lying in bed listening to Midnight Ballads. But even the voice from that record was replaced by Patty’s frayed, sad voice on stage.

After six numbers Patty gave a slight bow and walked over the stage amid the scattered applause. Someone whistled nearby. Isaiah looked and saw that it was from the bartender. She walked over to the edge of the bar and lit a cigarette. Her lighter brightened her face momentarily, revealing her red lips and small wrinkles on her powdered checks. She sat there and watched the men at the bar drinking and laughing amongst themselves.

Isaiah sat next to her.

“That was damn good,” he said.

“At least someone here likes a good tune.”

Her eyes scanned him up and down. She smiled and leaned closer. They chatted for a while as the bar grew louder and another band took the stage.

When he said that his favorite album of hers was Midnight Ballads, Patty looked down and snuffed out her cigarette.

“Oh, honey, that’s chicken shit compared with my later stuff. But to tell you the truth, I’ve never had a good producer. They’ve never been able to record any good takes of my voice.”

“It’s been awhile since I heard that record.”

“Maybe one of these nights I’ll play it for you.”

“You should do a lot more gigs.”

“I don’t have a good band behind me,” she said, staring at her fingernails which were blue and chipped. “I came here cause the singer decided to go to Jersey at the last minute. I’m a good friend of the owner so I took the gig. Money ain’t bad. It’s been awhile since I’ve gotten any steady gigs.”

“Well, I’m looking for a singer. We should do something together.”

Patty rested her hand on his knee.

“Yeah, we should. What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m going back to Brooklyn,” Isaiah said, leaning back. He smelled the strong scent of her perfume. They talked for a bit longer before everyone began counting down. Isaiah and Patty’s glasses touched as the band played a very drowsy version of “Auld Lang Syne.” It struck him as sad. It’s like I’m at a funeral, he thought.

“This decade’s been hard on me,” Patty said after she drained her glass. “Hope things get better. So when can we get together and rehearse?”

“That might be a problem for me since my sax broke a couple of days ago. I got to save some money for a new one.”

“That ain’t no problem. I know someone that’ll lean you a horn until you get new one. Come with me tonight.”

She explained that she was going to a party at her friend Manny’s place in Queens. He had an old sax that she claimed once belonged Lester Young. He and Manny were drinking buddies back in the ‘40s. One night Lester left his horn at Manny’s place before he went off to Paris.

“Don’t know if it’s true,” Patty said. “Manny tends make up shit all the time. It don’t make sense that Prez would just leave his horn but you never know.”

They paid their tabs and left the bar. As they walked towards Patty’s old yellow Ford with its taillights busted, she leaned against Isaiah, stumbling and laughing. Her purse dropped from her shoulders and all its contents spilled out onto the pavement. As she bent down to collect her things, Isaiah noticed a small, fat .38 on the ground.

“A lady’s got to be safe in these neck of the woods,” she said as she put her revolver back into her bag. As they left the Bronx, Patty sped and swerved past the blocks of buildings. Isaiah sat rigid in the seat and watched the orange and yellow streetlamps moving past the cracked windshield.

“I’ve been meaning to listen to some of your records,” Isaiah said. “Any chance you got them back at your place?”

“Not at my place but Manny’s got some of my records. We used to live together, you see. I haven’t been back there but I reckon he’s got some of my music stashed somewhere.”

“My ma loved that one record of ballads. My daddy used to play it all the time.”

Patty tossed her cigarette out the window, took a swig from a flask she kept in her purse and turned on the radio. Isaiah turned down the volume and said, “Why don’t you make any more records or go out on the road?”

“This is a tough business. Let’s say I retired a long time ago.”

“So what’ve been up to all these years?”

“Just living, I guess. Got married a couple of times. Things didn’t work out as you can see. And then I went away to prison for a couple of years.”

“What’d you do?”

“Something I shouldn’t have done.”

It took an hour and a half to get to the house which was located in some desolate neighborhood. The streetlights flickered sporadically and near the driveway was a rusty Mustang without tires and windows. Isaiah saw broken glass glistening on the pavement just as Patty took his hand and led him to the front door.

“You and Manny should talk,” she said. “He’s been in the business a long time now.”

From the outside Isaiah heard loud music and laughter. They walked into a cramped, smoked filled living room. Patty, still holding his limp hand, guided him through the crowd of drunken, boisterous men and women. The house was rather dim with the strong stench of cigarettes, mold and perfume. He stood near a record player and watched a row of people sitting on a curved sofa. A woman wearing a beige dress was on the edge of the sofa. She noticed Isaiah and smiled at him.

A man in a brown jacket and a porkpie hat approached them. He held an uncorked wine bottle in his hand.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“Manny, this is Isaiah, we’re getting a band together and he needs a saxophone. You got that one here still?”

“I don’t want no trouble, Patty,” he said. “These are my friends.”

Patty laughed.

“It’s all right now, honey. Where’s that sax at?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere in the closet upstairs. Don’t stay too long.”

“You’re so funny, baby. I’ll get a drink and be on our way.”

Patty led Isaiah upstairs. They walked down a dark hallway towards a closet. She opened it and searched through some boxes of old records.

“Is that your music?” Isaiah said.

“Yeah, last time I saw that sax it was here among all the dust.”

“I want to find that record. Should be here somewhere.”

“Why do you keep goin’ on about that?” she said, leaving him standing there alone. He bent down and opened one of the boxes and took a stacked of old records out. He tossed several aside until he found what he was looking for. The title struck him as somewhat familiar: Patty Johnson Sings Ballads at Midnight. The cover depicted a colored drawing of Patty on stage, her eyes closed and mouth hung open, her skin a light brown color, almost beige with small dimples on her cheeks. She looked like she was having an orgasm. Isaiah quickly turned to the back cover and read through the faded track listings. There were some Gershwin and Cole Porter standards. He couldn’t make out the rest of the songs. He placed the record aside and searched the rest of the boxes. Nothing else interested him.

He went downstairs with the sleeve tucked underneath his arm. Manny met him at the foot of the stairs.

“You Patty’s new boyfriend? Are you here to collect her shit?”

“No, I’m just a friend.” Isaiah backed away a little.

“You better take care of her before she starts a scene.”

Just as he spoke these words Patty started screaming at the other end of the living room. She stood over the woman in the beige dress, shouting in her face and, after a small struggle, Patty slapped her across the face.

“Don’t you hit her,” Manny said, shoving her aside. “You best get out of here right now.”

She stood there glaring at them and then walked out of the house. Everyone stopped talking and looked at Isaiah. A Ray Charles record played in the background while the woman was crying and embracing Manny. Isaiah was about to say something but he left and went into the car.

“I can’t believe he’s with that whore,” she said. “He used to mess around with her when we were together.”

Isaiah heard the woman shouting and soon people were drifting out of the house holding their glasses. Patty pulled out of the driveway and drove out of the neighborhood. For about an hour they drove through urban streets and dark neighborhoods. Patty then pulled over and slammed her fists on the wheel.

“I’m nothing but an old woman,” she said. Fireworks nearby exploded. They sat there alone for a while. Patty kept looking at her rearview mirror.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Isaiah said. “What are we doing sitting here?”

“I can’t live like this anymore.”

She started the car and headed back to Queens. After a while Isaiah asked where they were going.

“We forgot the horn. It was in the closet downstairs. I was about to get it but that bitch started messing with me.”

“No, take me home,” Isaiah said.

“It’ll take a moment, honey. You can just wait in the car.”

They parked near the driveway. The house was silent inside. There were beer bottles and broken glass on the front porch. Patty frantically wiped her eyes.

“This will only take a minute,” she said, smiling.

She went inside and slammed the door. There was the faint noise of fireworks going off down the street. In the distance Isaiah saw colorful explosions brightening the sky. He leaned over to the backseat and grabbed the album. Then he heard two small, muffled explosions in the house. Isaiah held his breath and waited. He was about to get out of the car when Patty appeared in the doorway carrying a small alto sax. She threw it in the backseat, gunned the engine and sped off.

“What happened?” Isaiah said.

“Nothing, honey. It’s all good.”

She turned the radio on and sped on the streets. The voices of the DJs sounded muffled and incomprehensible as though they had tuned in to a foreign radio station. Isaiah kept asking about Manny and the woman but Patty just smiled and smoked her cigarette. Finally they arrived at a row of brownstone buildings in Brooklyn.

“Where are we?” Isaiah said.

“My apartment,” she said. “Come inside with me.”

A police car sped by them. Isaiah watched its red taillights disappear down the street. He looked at Patty who seemed oblivious to it.

“No, I got to get home, he said. He looked down at the album sitting on his lap. His eyes focused on the drawing of Patty on the cover sleeve. In the dim light her gaping mouth looked like a grainy photograph of an impenetrable void.

“Please stay with me,” Patty said in a very frail voice. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“I can’t,” he said. “My aunt is waiting for me at home.”

Patty bowed her head and started crying. Isaiah sat there for a moment, thinking of something comforting to say. But he got out and walked away. He turned and saw the outline of Patty’s head through the back window. He wandered the streets for hours. For the first time in years he felt lost in the city. When the sky brightened a little he managed to catch a bus and made his way back to his aunt’s building.

Mary was in the bathroom when he entered the apartment. He immediately went over to the record player and took the disc out of the sleeve. He heard a noise behind him just as he placed the needle on the record.

“Where have you been?” Mary said. “I waited up for you.”

A crackling noise emerged from the speaker. A faint trumpet began playing which was partially obscured by a loud, sizzling sound.

“Why are you coming here so late? You know how embarrassed I was that you weren’t with me.”

He peered at the spinning vinyl and held his breath. A chorus of saxophones played. Then Patty began singing but her voice was muffled by all the noise.

“Isaiah, talk to me. What are you listening to anyway?”

“It’s Patty Johnson. You remember her, right?”

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

“My dad used to play this all the time. After ma died.”

“No, your father didn’t like Blues records. He played classical music mostly.”

“My ma sang like Patty. That’s what you told me when I was a kid.”

“No, you never heard that from me. And anyway your ma never sang around me. She wanted to but she couldn’t, God rest her soul.”

She went into the kitchen and turned on the radio. The sun was shining through the opened curtains. Isaiah lit a cigarette and followed her.

“Don’t you remember?” he said. “When my dad played this record, you’d say it was like ma was in the room. You said those exact words to me.”

Her eyes turned red and she wiped them with a handkerchief.

“You know I don’t like talking about her.”

“Why can’t we ever talk about it?”

She went into her bedroom and closed the door. He heard the sound of the television in her room. Then after a few moments Isaiah snuffed out the cigarette in an ashtray on the kitchen table and just sat there with his arms folded. By the time he started drifting asleep, he heard a news report about a couple found dead in Queens.

 

Anthony Navas lives in Seattle, United States and works and a service clerk. He has experience in journalism and feel-lance writing