Lady Sings the Blues

Lady Sings the Blues



          “Baby, what’s wrong? You seem out of it.” Jeremiah watched Isabel, his brows furrowed in concern.

         “Do I? Sorry, just tired.” Her response was simple and nonchalant. Jeremiah leaned in close and rested his chin in the crook of her shoulder.

         “I love you.” It was said like a question, almost. Jeremiah questioned Isabel’s feelings a lot, even though it made him sound needy.

         “I know,” she said.          

          “Do you love me?”

          She hesitated for a moment.

         “Yes.”

         Jeremiah sighed. She wasn’t giving. He wanted to start a fight. He could feel it stirring inside of him, the insecurity, the anger, the confusion. She used to tell him she loved him, before her mother died. He opened his mouth to protest and make her say it this time, but a glance at her face stopped him. She did look tired. And sad. Her green eyes were downcast and weight with heavy, purple bags. There was a slight pink tinge to the lids. She’d been crying. Jeremiah wished she would talk to him. At one point, he’d suggested that she see a shrink. Maybe she was depressed. She glared angrily at him in response, got up and stalked off. 

         Laying a hand on her shoulder, he asked her what was wrong again, not really anticipating a response. He half expected her to shrug away his hand, but she didn’t. She just sat there, hunched over and quiet. She opened her mouth as if to say something but stopped. She wrung her hands a little and started again. He couldn’t help but wonder what she had really wanted to say.

          “Did you know that I sing,” she said.

          He shook his head. She smiled sadly.

          “I guess I never told you. I loved singing. I was good at it, too. I always wanted to be a jazz singer. I suppose you didn’t know I like jazz, either.” Isabel tugged at the ends of her hair as she spoke. “I wanted to go to school to study voice, originally. Mom was furious when I told her. Said I was condemning myself to life in a cardboard box, dirt poor and hooked on dope.” This was news to Jeremiah. It didn’t sound like she was talking about herself. He thought she hated music. She never listened to it.

         “It’s kinda true isn’t it? Jazz artists were all junkies, like that, um, Billy Holiday, or whatever his name is,” he said. He never really liked jazz much himself. Or anything else, for that matter. Jeremiah preferred silence. It was simple and less distracting.

          Isabel laughed softly, shaking her head. “Sure.”

          She moved her auburn strands away from her face and he noticed how dingy her hair was. It hung limp and flat with a slight, reflective sheen from what looked like days of not washing it. She was still staring at her palms, like she was going to find something there.

          “You never finished. What happened?”

          “Huh?” She looked at him, confused for a moment.

          “Your mom was furious about music classes, you said. So, what happened?”

          Her eyes were back at her hands, but her jaw tensed as she let out a short, loud breath through her nostrils.           She was irritated now.

          “What do you think,” she said. “I ended up here. Forgot about the music thing and majored in accounting, just like she wanted. I hate numbers.” The light above flickered, casting temporary shadows on the white-washed walls.           Isabel looked up. “We need a new bulb.” She straightened her skirt and stood. The conversation was over.

          Jeremiah watched her back as she walked to the armoire and pulled out a white, cotton night gown. She removed her clothes slowly, but without care. Whether or not Isabel was conscious of his eyes following her, she slipped her shirt over her head and unzipped her skirt, letting it fall around her ankles in a heap. Not bothering to step out of the skirt at her feet, she unhooked her bra, tossing it next to her shirt. The light sputtered, and for a moment, Jeremiah swore he saw through her skin. It was so pale, it was almost translucent, except for the little dark brown moles scattered across her skin like stars. He remembered nights where she’d lie on her stomach after they’d made love. She would fall asleep as he traced invisible lines with his finger from freckle to freckle, creating endless patterns.

          That was in the beginning, when he’d fallen in love with Isabel.

          She had this smile that made Jeremiah feel like he was saving her from something, like he held some kind of hope she hadn’t found anywhere else. He liked it, feeling like a hero.  That’s probably why he was so apt to love her then. As he gazed at her, Jeremiah tried to remember the point in their relationship when she stopped smiling at him like that. He couldn’t think of any time in particular, except for when her mother died. Isabel just started fading. She only let him touch her in the dark, now, and she would only let him make love to her on her side, from behind. She never said a word, and when he finished, she stayed on her side with her back turned to him.





          Jeremiah went to work the next morning with Isabel’s mother intruding on his thoughts. She had passed away three months before. After Isabel came back from the funeral, once she’d gotten into the comfort and safety of her home, she came undone. She hated the relief she felt. When she saw her mother’s body, absolutely dead in her plush, cream casket, Isabel could finally let go and breathe. That’s what she told Jeremiah through blackened mascara tears. She begged him not to judge her. He promised her he didn’t.

          But he did. He couldn’t help it.

          Jeremiah didn’t know much about Isabel’s relationship with her mother. He understood that the old woman was controlling and manipulative from the very few times he had heard her and Isabel over the phone. What mother isn’t? But it was hard for Jeremiah to comprehend Isabel’s feelings of relief towards something like her own mother’s death. He would be devastated if his mom died. He loved his mom very much.

          When Jeremiah returned home from work to their small apartment, it reeked of cigarettes. He didn’t even stop to kick off his shoes at the doorway.

         “What the hell…” He walked down the hallway towards the bedroom. Tendrils of vicious gray smoke seeped out from underneath the door, followed by muffled sounds of loud, haunting music. He pushed it open.

          Isabel was sitting Indian style on the floor of their small room with a freshly lit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She gracefully sucked and inhaled, taking it from between her lips and giving the filter a quick flick, sending little bits of ash floating into a small black ashtray beside her. The ashtray was filled with cigarette butts.

          Isabel didn’t seem to notice him. He looked around the room. Musty, brown cardboard boxes were piled on top of the bed. Scattered all over the carpet were old record covers and shiny black vinyls. Frank Sinatra. Ella Fitzgerald. Bing Crosby. Shirley Bassey. Almost grazing Isabel’s knee was the corner of a square, silver record player with a pair of cheap, ripped speakers attached. She swayed to the music and mouthed the words in between puffs. The song came to end. A light scratching emanated from the speakers and the record stopped spinning. It was a Billie Holiday record.

          “Isabel. What is going on?”

          She didn’t even turn at the sound of his voice. She lit another cigarette.

          “Do you ever feel like you’re bigger than all this, bigger than this stupid town with its shallow, robotic people who do the same thing generation after generation?” She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was staring off into nothing, lost in her own head. “Why does everything have to be about practicality? It’s such a fucking waste of a life, to just settle into this routine everyone’s set up for you.”

          Jeremiah stood in the doorway, unsure how to react. She was talking like one of those girls. The ones you avoided after the age of twenty five and would never bring home to the family. She was not like those girls. Isabel didn’t swear.

          She still had her back to him.

          “Please put out the cigarette and tell me what’s going on.” Jeremiah got on his knees and inched towards Isabel on the floor. He sat down behind her.

          “I saw the boxes when I went to get the mail. I knew they were coming. I’ve been waiting for them since my brother finished sorting through Mom’s will. I didn’t know she’d saved them. My brother found the boxes in some old storage unit she rented.” She chewed on her thumbnail as she spoke. “I went to that used electronics store on the corner of 9th and Palmer and bought the record player and the speakers. I wanted to hear my records. They’re old friends.” Isabel paused for a moment and picked up one of the dusty record covers. The edges were tattered and brown, where frequent handling had worn away the color. The image on the front was a light skinned black woman with dark, severe eyebrows and a large, white magnolia pinned in her hair. Her expression was hard, yet gave the illusion of softness. Jeremiah thought she looked sad.

          “I was seven when Daddy played this for me. It’s so old, it’s only got one track on each side. We were at a new & used record store one day and he was complaining about the music played on the radio stations. Said my generation was going to have bad taste because of it. Then he finds this old Billie Holiday record in the one dollar crate and goes berserk, telling me how lucky we are to have found it. The clerk tells us that Side B has a big scratch. Daddy only wanted Side A, though. “Strange Fruit.’” Isabel hummed an unfamiliar tune and smiled. “Daddy made me sit down and close my eyes while we listened to it.  It starts out with this one, lone trumpet playing a slow, somber tune. Then, after a measure or two, Billie’s voice slips out of the speakers low and raspy, and falls over your skin like silk. It’s bewitching.”

          The light cut out for an instant, and the room went black. Jeremiah counted the seconds in his head until it came back to life.

          1…2…3…4…5…6…7..

          7 seconds.

          Jeremiah stared at her. She hadn’t said that much in a while.  Isabel looked happy. Her eyes were a little brighter than usual. In that minute portion of time, Jeremiah thought he would see that old smile again. And old Isabel too. She put on a new record. Another black woman.

          Isabel stood, grabbed Jeremiah’s hand and pulled him up, into her body.

          “Dance with me,” she said, grinning coyly.

          Coy had deserted her face long before her mother died. It was alarming to see now. Jeremiah didn’t think he liked it.

          “You know I don’t dance,” he said.

          She frowned. “C’mon, it’s just us. No one is watching.” She tugged at his left arm in an attempt to make him sway with her.

          “No, really, I don’t want to.”

          “Please? Just this once.” Pulling him close, Isabel pressed her mouth up against his ear and sung in a low, whispery voice, “…wake up, slow down, before you crash and break your heart gullible clown, you fool, you’re heading in the wrong direction, can’t you see the detour ahead…”

          For a second, Jeremiah gave in and allowed her voice to lull and enchant him, but then that second was gone.           He didn’t like the song. Not at all. He jerked his ear away before thinking. “I don’t want to dance.”

          Her arms dropped limply to her sides. The light that had found its way back to her eyes swiftly disappeared.

          “Okay,” she said. She crouched down and delicately lifted the needle off of the record. Jeremiah thought he heard her mutter, “Sorry, Ella,” before slipping the vinyl back into its cover.

          “We should get these off the floor,” he said.

          “You’re right. The room is a mess. Sorry.”

          Jeremiah lifted a box from the pile on the bed and began loading it with records. He tried to ignore her twitches every time he tossed one in the box. Isabel was more slow and careful when she handled them. Like she would a child. Jeremiah thought it was ridiculous. They were just thing, just stupid black pieces of plastic. And still, she loved the junk more than she loved him. He found some packaging tape in a basket and began sealing each full box, sealing away and Isabel that simply wasn’t for him.

          The sound of rustling cardboard boxes ceased. Jeremiah turned around.

          She looked at him in anguish. “You’re sealing them?”

          He forced a smile. “Not forever, babe. Just until we get a bigger place. There is no room for these right now. I promise it’s only temporary.”

          Isabel knew he was lying. In her eyes he could see that she had now placed him beside her mother. At least her mother took away the thing she adored with every best intention. Jeremiah was selfish and he couldn’t convince himself otherwise.

          After all the boxes were packed and stowed away in the deepest corners of the apartment, Isabel and  Jeremiah started to get ready for bed. It was later than Jeremiah realized.

          That’s what music did. It distracted you. It gave people a pathetic excuse to lose themselves and to lose control. Without control, bills didn’t get paid, work didn’t get done, and children got neglected. It stole your attention from things that really needed it. He’d known people in college who’d dropped out and wasted their lives on frivolous things like music. Music didn’t guarantee success or happiness. It just caused headaches. Jeremiah thought about this as he reached to flip off the light switch. Before his fingers met the cold plastic, the light fluttered off.

          1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10…11…12…13…damn light…15..

          15 seconds.

          “I told you we need a new bulb,” Isabel murmured when the light turned back on.

          He shut off the light and climbed into bed. He considered curling himself around her, but thought better of it. They laid next to each other in bed, listening to the stillness that stifled the room. They feel asleep to the sounds of their innermost thoughts.



          The analogue clock’s bright red numbers screamed 4:27 a.m. Isabel was still beside him, but she was awake.

          “Isabel?” A few moments passed.

          “I love you,” he said.

          The statement was greeted with silence.

          “Do you love me?” He waited.

          “No,” she said.

          “I know.”

          Jeremiah woke up at 6:46 and Isabel was already gone. She left with the last few gasps of the overhead light bulb. The boxes of records all went with her, except for one. She left the record player, the bad speakers and the one box with some of her favorite records. There was a little yellow sticky note stuck to the top. “Try giving them a listen now that we’re free,” it said.