Shelter from the Storm

"I was wondering if you knew of any clubs or hotels that need a piano player? I haven't had any luck on my own, and since you're a local business person, you might know something I don't."

Betty snorted. "Well, I ain't been to the local business club meetings, don't have no contacts. You might call the Musician's Union tomorrow."

"I don't belong to the Union, ma'am."

"Oh. Well, can't think of anythin' right now. I'll let ya know."

He went to the water fountain, allowing a rusty stream to clear before taking a long drink. After walking outside to look at the sky a moment, he returned to the piano and variations on classic love songs.

*****

Betty was starting to be embarrassed with herself. A proper Southern girl, she grew up recoiling in horror at the thought of miscegenation that terrorized all the women of her generation. Her experience with men of her own race had been almost completely negative: a cousin raped her at age fifteen, and a couple of boys from high school had actually put a pillowcase over her head while having sex with her. At nineteen she met Terry Coombs, who married her after getting her pregnant with Johnny. Their life together was flawed from the beginning: they were married at five o'clock on a Monday at the courthouse after work, and lived with his parents the two years they stayed together. His family were all hopeless drunks, and didn't notice when she snuck her son and daughter out of the house one morning as they slept off yet another weekend drunk.

She'd worked hard to support herself and her little family over the years, living with her aging mother and working two jobs at a time, managing to scrimp and save a nest egg. In the various places she worked, she'd found men willing to have sex with her, stolen moments in storerooms and bar bathrooms, her bent over at the waist doggy style so they wouldn't have to look at her face. She put up with the humiliation in exchange for sex: it was the only hint of tenderness in her life. Another baby came; no one cared about her having illegitimate babies, and at age thirty, a hysterectomy solved one problem. Her body was always very thin, and as she aged and grew a little pudgy, interest decreased even from the desperate men who never got laid.

The Hotel was a mirage, promising her a lifestyle independent of the arrogant bastards she worked for over the years, but it was more decrepit than advertised, a money pit, and she finally gave in to her fate of maintaining the limping establishment, dully trudging through her fifth decade toward old age. Her son married young as well, an alcoholic like his father's family; her older daughter managed to marry at eighteen despite inheriting her mother's looks, but Betty was always afraid that Susie would find her way back here with children in tow. History had a way of repeating itself in her family. Sherry enlisted in the Army right out of High School and was in Iraq, and Betty avoided the war news avidly, not wanting to know what her baby was going through.

Her life was the same shit every day until this black man appeared. His music brought the world into focus, made life worth living in a way she'd never thought possible. True, he was gaunt, his skin stretched painfully over his body (that she could see), his face reflected unknown pain. Foxnews had shown the pictures of New Orleans to her. Revulsion was slowly melting from the magic of this dark troubador, who gave her life more than shades of dark grey.

*****

Puddin'head's third day in Little Rock was no better than the first two. The bed was lumpy and he didn't sleep well, dreams of New Orleans haunting him regularly. If he had more money, he'd buy a bottle of gin to help him sleep, but his wad of bills was far too small. His wanderings led him to a better stretch of trash cans to pilfer in search of leftovers, outside some of the better restaurants in town, but he noticed the price of gas was creeping up. Worst of all was discovering a yellow ticket on his car: he'd parked in the wrong place. Tracking the Louisiana tags was probably more difficult now that before the hurricane, but if he couldn't gas it up, he'd probably have to sell it in a couple of days in order to live. If he left town soon, he probably wouldn't have to worry about the ticket, but it made staying in town with the car more problematic. Staying in Little Rock seemed like a death sentence, anyway.

He walked past the local Mission to the homeless. Many of them were Betty's former tenants, high on drugs, drunk, hopelessly addled with untreated mental illnesses, or a combination of any of the three. The people inside seemed to be panicked: other refugees from the hurricane's path were there, street people from the Gulf coast, and the place was swamped. Several loud voices with Mississippi accents were shouting: demanding attention, demanding food, demanding incoherently. I could spend a week here and die in the lobby without anyone noticing, Puddin'head thought to himself.

He stopped by the Musician's Union, and asked to see a register of membership. The receptionist was reluctant to show it to him, but when he told her of his plight, she offered it in case he saw a name he recognized. She had been to New Orleans, and heard him at his old club.

No luck there among the names, and his only gain was a smile and a free cup of coffee.

Wandering around town was frustrating: he'd stumbled into a part of town where they didn't have places he could play. He gave up around mid-afternoon, and wandered back to the Hotel Aragon.

*****

As the strange man called Puddin'head entered, Betty was surprised to see him back so soon. Surely a man of his talents would have found something, she thought. But the look on his downturned face and the heaviness of his steps told her that he was unsuccessful once again.

"Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson." He came over to the counter, looking down.

"Yes, ma'am, can I help you?"

"I was wonderin', would you like to have supper with me tonight?"

There was a long pause and he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. "I don't think that would be appropriate, ma'am. This is the South, and we might attract undue attention."

Betty shook her head vigorously. "This isn't 1959, Mr. Wilson. In dis neighborhood, nobody cares. Nobody cares about nothing 'round here," she lamented softly.

There was another long pause. "If you've got some leftovers, I would be obliged, but I would be uncomfortable sharing a meal with you. Too many years, too many people to watch out ; too many years coming and go through too many back doors. I've seen too many friends killed for hanging out with white women hooked on good music."

After another long awkward, silent moment, he spoke again: "May I play your piano tonight, ma'am?"

"Oh, Mr. Wilson, you don't have to ask nomore. Sit down and play anytime you want."

"Please ma'am, call me Puddin'head."

"All right, ah, Puddin'head. Please call me Betty." She smiled sweetly at him, hoping that he would glimpse it despite his downturned eyes.

His face was unmoving and his lips barely parted as he almost whispered: "Betty."

"Do you take requests, Puddin'head?"

Growing more animated, he replied: "Of course. What would you like to hear?"

"Killing Me Softly"

Another long pause. "I don't know. Been a long time since I played that song. Not sure I remember it."

She ground out another cigarette. "If you'll play it for me, you can stay another night, free."

*****

Killing Me Softly was Paula's song. He was fifty one, she was nineteen. She found him in his club in New Orleans: an orphan, she was just released from court supervision a year before. It was a night he played that song, and she fell for the song, the music and him a the same time. A talent as a jazz singer and pianist who sat at his feet to learn from him. Her fingers were inspired and her voice angelic.

They had played together for a year; two pianos when they could find them, she sang when they couldn't find them. The crowds grew and their income did as well. She slept in his bed, and made love to him in ways he had never known before. Her body was long and lean, her hair luxurious, her breasts ample, and her tan body clung to his dark one compulsively through their nights together. Making love to her was a dream; heaven on earth no matter what they did, embracing and kissing for hours, tracing delicate music on each other's skin. Her nipples were soft and rubbery and sensitive; he could nurse them for hours to her delight, making her orgasm again and again. He was afraid of making her pregnant, so he always insisted on ejaculating outside her vagina. Blue eyes beamed up at him as she drank down his nectar and lit his world with fireworks.

Puddin'head knew it couldn't last; she was too good for him. Their lives were too perfect, their joy too complete to last. A couple of agents wanted to sign her up; manipulative men who Puddin'head knew would ruin her life. It was only a matter of time before an offer too good to pass up came by, so he used his contacts to get her a regular gig and a safe place to stay in Kansas City, where she would be managed by trustworthy people he knew and get noticed. Last he'd heard, she had moved on to Philly, where she was making records, singing regularly and raising a suburban family with a college professor.

The last time he played the song was her last night in the old New Orleans club. She spoke at length about the song's origin, that he was her Don McLean, her inspiration, how much she loved and revered him. He started the song before she finished talking, unable to listen, missing her already. It seemed to last forever, they prolonged the set as long as they could, and when they finished, there was no more music that night. There no more women after her in the empty time since.

He paused at Betty Atkinson's request for the song. His throat went dry, his hands shook, all the years of his life landed painfully on his shoulders. She couldn't know what this song would do to him, but he needed another day to figure out what to do. Another night's shelter was gold. He put his fingers on the keys.

*****

Betty smiled as Puddin'head startedKilling Me Softly. She lit another cigarette, and smoked as the melody coursed through her veins. Her eyes closed, fingers danced, her thighs grew moist. She'd taken hormones since her hysterectomy to keep her chemical balance right: when she didn't take them she became hysterical and incoherent easily, and she hated the feeling more than spending the money on the prescriptions. Now she discovered that all the old urges were still there: she was sixteen again, longing to feel a boy between her legs.

Looking at him, she saw that his face was cast in iron, stern, impassive, totally out of sync with the sweet magic he wove with his fingers. Someone must have hurt him with this song, she thought. It looked at though his eyes wanted to weep, although the ages of emptiness had dried them beyond repair. Her eyes started crying for him as the moisture of her underwear built and the tingling between her legs grew.

Her baritone voice, roughened by forty years of tars and nicotine, struggled to find the words:

"Strumming my pain with his fingers

Singing my life with his words. . ."

*****

At last it was over; at last he could finish the song. He must have played it long enough to make her happy. His brow was damp with sweat; thank God he didn't cry. A look at Betty told him what he needed to know: the broad smile on her face despite the tears streaming down her face told him that she would make good her promise. He sighed and sat in silence.

One of the old men shuffled across the lobby and laid a hand on Puddin'head's shoulder. "Do you know theMoonlight Sonata?" queried a high, thin, weak voice.

"Yes, of course."

"You're playing is wonderful, but I'm not that fond of Jazz. I'll give you ten dollars to play some Beethoven for me."

The man reached into his wallet and produced a worn bill. Puddin'head smiled and began the dreamy triplets and profound bass line that ushered in the poignant classical melody.

*****

A new world of emotion flowed through Betty. She didn't know theMoonlight Sonata other than from TV commercials, but the moonlight illuminated her world brightly, and gave her some ideas. The cloud of smoke built in the moonlight, shaping a dream, and a resolution was made.

Taking out a comb, she attacked the tangle on her head. After working out the knots, she resurrected a brush and began brushing her hair dreamily to the music. It took on a luster it hadn't known for years.

*****

Puddin'head got back to his room around one o'clock. Betty had given him a smile and wish goodnight as he left the lobby. The other old man had given him twenty dollars for a Duke Ellington tune; a little cash and a free night's stay buoyed his spirits although he knew it wouldn't sustain him long. He'd have to find a way to gas up his car and leave.

A rattle bothered him as he lay naked on the bed in the dark. His one set of clothes hung damply on the hangers and the chair. Someone was opening his door with a key without knocking. The harsh light picked out his dark form against the clean white sheets in the humid night. He groped for a sheet to cover him, and barely got it over him before the lights went on.

"Puddin'head, I brought you something to eat," Betty Atkinson warbled into the room. She was wearing a thin, pink robe and bunny slippers as she shambled into the room, bearing a tray with a steaming bowl and a plate. "I've heated up some tomato soup for you, and there's a ham sandwich here. You're way too thin, and I've worried about you. You need to eat."

He sat up and she gasped as she saw him. He was rail thin: his ribs were prominent on his torso, his chest hollow, covered with grizzled and grey hair. His arms were rail thin, as were his long legs under the cover. Taking the tray over to him, she set it on the bed, and perched daintily on the edge.

"Why are you doing this?" He said, looking directly into her eyes for the first time.

She blushed and looked away. "Cain't say. Your music meant so much to me, I wantid ta show you my appreciation. You're so different from any Black man I ever met."

Taking the bowl and spoon in his hands, he took some soup, blowing on it to cool it. "Different? How?"

"Well, you talk so good. Not like the other niggers 'round here." She put her hand to her mouth and gasped at her faux pas, hoping he'd let it pass.

"My mother insisted I speak proper English," he began between sips of soup. "She went to college as an English major, always used proper syntax and grammar, and whupped me good when I talked like my friends around the house. She said that good speech and good manners would help me make a better life for myself than my father did."

"Your father?"

"I barely remember him. He left us when I was three."

"Oh."

"My Mother worked hard to support us, and it was tough since she was an educated woman. Doing laundry for ten households was hard on her in more ways than one, but she did it so I could have music lessons and a good education. She also taught me not to resist the white man, not to look white people in the face, to keep my place. Said I was too precious to lose to some ignorant Cracker's anger. Unfortunately, I was stupid when I was a young man, dropped out of college, and started playing clubs."

"Your music is wonderful," she crooned.

"Yes, but I never caught a break. Never."

She looked down and then back up again. Her head looked down at the floor. "I never did neither. They called me a pig when I was growin' up, butt ugly, a one bagger. Even let a couple of boys put a bag over my face so they wouldn't have to look at me while they was fucking me. Got in trouble and had to marry a drunk who beat me and left me with two little children that I had to sneak out of the house one morning. I worked my butt off thirty five years, and what did I get? Three useless children, and a run down hotel I can't ever get rid of."

He drank down his soup from the bowl after it cooled enough. He took a bite from a sandwich tentatively, then wolfed the rest down, his hunger pulling like a magnet. She watched him take every bite, her eyes shining and her face glowing. "So why are you here?" he said when he finished.

"I was hopin'," she said, looking away and twisting her hands nervously, her lip trembling. "I was hopin' you could give me something I ain't had for a long time."

"What?"

A pause, a trembling, a hesitation before speaking. "A good fucking," came a deep, soft, quavering request.

He looked down was silent for a long moment. "You probably think that all black men are well endowed," he murmured. "We've all got big dicks in our pants that get rock hard for white women at a moment's notice. Not here lady."

"You don't understand," she protested softly. "Your music wooed me: I can't resist you. It don't matter what you have or don't have. It don't even matter I'm not a complete woman any more."

He looked at her. "How so?"

"I had a hysterectomy. Some disease that woulda turned into cancer."

"So have a lot of women," he said as he shook his head.

She twised her hands and looked away for a moment before continuing quietly. "I had a lump in my breast taken out. About fifteen years ago. They didn't take it the whole breast, but I have a pit in my tit. I'm ugly and I have an ugly body. Always have been, always will be."

Her vulnerability stirred him; his cock began to rise under the sheet. "That wouldn't matter to me. You're the first woman who wanted to make love to me in twenty years."

A trembling smile creased her face. "Does that mean?"

"My dick isn't very big for a black man. I can only get it up to five inches, maybe six. The colored girls always laughed at me when they saw it. Only one woman ever made love to me more than twice. Always had to beat off when stray stimulation made it hard. Haven't even had to do that very often the past twenty years."

"I don't care. I want you." She flung herself in his arms and kissed him fiercely.

A long moment passed and he moved her aside, setting the tray off the bed on the floor. "Which breast was the lump in?"

Her hand trembled as she opened the left side of her robe. In the harsh light, a depression was apparent under the nipple on the outside of her breast. He reached up with a delicate finger and put it in the indentation, sweeping it gently and probing its depth. It then traveled up to swirl the nipple; she melted again at the touch on the hardening nub that hadn't known a lover for longer than she cared to admit.

The light was switched off beside the bed, leaving the room in the harsh glow of the neon lights outside. The shadows were picked out in harsh detail in red and blue and green. She drew his sheet down, questing after the stiff organ with her fingers, wrapping them around the dark cylinder warmly. He sighed as she started pumping gently, moisture accumulating inside her index finger. Her other hand pulled her robe off completely; it fell to the floor. Bending over, she took the ebony bulb between her thick lips and began licking all over.

The play of her alabaster skin, relieved of its blotches in the dim light, against his nightshade hue thrilled him as never before, as did the sweet work her tongue performed on his manhood. It had been years, even years since he last masturbated: nothing stirred him to arousal like she did. "I'm almost there," he quavered, and she stopped.

"Roll me over and take me, Puddin'head. I want you inside me. Fuck me, fuck me hard." They rolled over and she held her legs up high, resting them on his shoulders. She guided him inside her with her hand: she felt as tight as a virgin and slicker than a hurricane soaked blacktop. They started pulsing slowly, seeking each other's rhythm, her slit eagerly embracing his member. Going slowly, they savored their joining, unwilling for the union to end.