Love and Other Consolation Prizes(23)

A black man in a blue tuxedo with a bow tie hanging untied around his neck was tinkering with a melody on a grand piano. Ernest watched as he’d stop, dip a pen into a bottle of ink, mark a few notes on a sheet of paper, and then resume playing. He sang a few whispered words of rhyme and song here and there, nodding and counting. The man stopped playing when he noticed them.

“Mayflower!” he said as he gave Maisie a hug. “And this young fellow must be the new houseboy—I mean, the only houseboy. You’ll make a fine coachman someday, son.”

Ironically, just as he was being called son Ernest realized he hadn’t actually been adopted as a son, or a stepbrother, or a member of a real family. They were making a servant out of him—hired help—without causing anyone the trouble of having to hire. He paused, reflecting, excited but nervous, and a tad angry at having been shuffled off once again. But more than anything, he was hopeful.

A job is better than that school any day, Ernest thought. Though he wondered what kinds of chores he’d be doing in such a fancy place. He was terrible at kitchen work.

“Madam Flora’s big idea.” Maisie shook her head. “I wanted another girl, but what do we go and get—a boy.”

“What about me?” the piano player asked. “I ain’t so bad, am I?”

“Yeah, but you go home in the morning,” Maisie reminded him, laughing.

At least she can actually smile, Ernest noted. And she seemed quite popular with a handful of young women in lavish dresses who descended the stairs and kissed Maisie on the cheek or gave her a quick hug, or tousled her hair as they passed by. They all greeted Ernest, waving, or giggling mischievously. They cooed and called him honey and doll. One of them said, “Look at our darling houseboy, he’s just so adorable,” as she hugged him, pressing his cheek into her perfumed bosom. Ernest’s palms began to sweat, and though he smiled politely and said he was happy to be working there, he still felt like a stranger at someone else’s elegant party. A small part of him was reminded of his weeks on the ship, surrounded by girls who eventually accepted him.

“Those are some of the ladies who live here—you’ll get to know them all in time, I’m sure. And I’m Professor Troubadour,” the man said as he shook Ernest’s hand and peeked over the rims of his thick glasses. “But you can just call me True—cause I never, ever, ever tell a lie.”

Ernest paused, wondering what kind of professor the man might be. He’d known only a few colored people, and none were teachers. “Is True your real name?” he asked.

“It is now.”

“Are you a real professor?”

“You see me, don’t you?”

“Will we spend a lot of time together?” Ernest asked.

“I’m a piano player and a singer, but I’m not a fortune-teller, son.” The man laughed as he waved goodbye to the girls. “I’m afraid the future is entirely up to you.”

Ernest furrowed his brow, bewildered by the thought. He’d hardly ever been allowed to choose anything, ever. From what to wear to what to eat, his life had constantly been spent bobbing on the tides of other people’s wishes and expectations. The man’s words were the opposite of what Mrs. Irvine had told him for years. She’d constantly reminded him that he needed to defer to others, his betters, and that his fate was entirely in their hands or, more specifically, hers.

“What if I want to move away someday?” Ernest asked.

The piano player paused. “Now I don’t know why you’d want to, but I suppose if you needed to go somewhere else badly enough, the front door is never locked.”

Ernest wasn’t expecting that. “And…if I don’t like my job?”

“Then you go get another one. But this is a pretty special place, if you ask me.”

The freedom of those words seemed magical as the piano player went back to his song and Ernest followed Maisie up a grand mahogany staircase. He looked around, studying the oil paintings on the walls as she pointed to a room on the second floor.

“That’s Amber’s room. Knock loudly—she sleeps like a bear in winter.”

Without waiting to see if he was able to rouse Amber, she entered another room and closed the door. Ernest heard it lock behind her. As he stood by himself, the hallway felt eerily quiet—a calm that contradicted the lavish décor, as though he were standing in the cavernous lair of some mythical creature. He looked around nervously, cautiously.

As Ernest stared at the heavy wooden door, he wondered, who sleeps in till suppertime? Perhaps Miss Amber was ill, or tended to drink too much. He hesitated but didn’t know where else to go, or what to do with his belongings. He knocked lightly.

It was to no avail.

Then he finally thumped the door with his whole fist, again and again.

The door swept open, and a large woman with short black hair stood in her nightclothes, rubbing her eyes and blinking down at him. She was much older than he’d expected a Miss Amber to be, and taller as well.

Ernest apologized for waking her. “Madam Flora told me to check in with you.”

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.” She stretched and gazed back. “You the houseboy?”

Ernest nodded.

“I can’t believe that Flora went and pulled it off—she took tickets as cash and cornered the market on you. She always did want a son—though God only knows why,” Miss Amber said, shaking her head and popping her knuckles. “Follow me, kid.” The strange woman didn’t bother to don a robe or a changing sacque, she merely sauntered down the corridor in her nightgown and stocking feet. She led him down the hall and around the corner to a tiny room with a single, perfectly made bed, a sink, a chamber pot, a small armoire with a mirror, and a throw rug.