Saddest Tale by Lyzette Wanzer

Dad insisted that there were two kinds of jazz: white people’s, and the “real thing.” When he said real he’d draw the E out a good long while until it crested into a warbling falsetto. He’d retrieve an LP from the boxed anthology in the living room’s stereo corner, slap it on the turntable, yank me out of a chair, and engage in a ragtag series of gyrations he referred to as dancing. Wheeling, dipping, sliding, his English Leather aftershave mingled with the lilac scent of my closet’s shelf paper. He bellowed encouragement to each musician:

“All right now, Bessie!”

“Go to town, Louis!”

“Lionel—let it all out, my brother.”

On a first-name basis with everybody. I’d stumble and whirl in an attempt to keep pace with him. When Mr. Benny Goodman or Mr. Glenn Miller came on—Dad was not on such a casual basis with the white musicians—he’d stop cold and practically toss me into my chair. “That’s a white cut; you can’t dance to that. You’re forever trying to figure out the beat. Know why? ‘Cause there ain’t none!”

If Mom was within earshot (and Dad would rarely indulge in these tirades if she was not), she’d pass through the room with one of her nursing journals tucked beneath her arm. She went to school three nights each week, pursuing a higher level nurse certification. “Stop filling her head with that backwards logic,” she would say, fixing Dad with a scowl.

And Dad’s response would be, “Get your head out of those books and just try to dance to it. I dare you.”

I enjoyed the bantering, but couldn’t quite unpack the core of their sparring. Mom had tried to tell me the difference between hot and cool jazz, but her compare-and-contrast account left me thinking of apple pie à la mode, and what I most savored about the treat. Of course the dessert had a fabulous flavor, but nothing matched the sensuous delight of two distinct temperatures on my tongue at once: the piping hot pie and the icy vanilla cream.

“It’s what the Lord loves, isn’t it?” Dad retorted. “The truth? ‘The truth shall set thee free.’ And the truth is you can’t dance to them white cuts. Hell, the Lord ought to love me for saying it.”

“You’re a fine one to be quoting scripture,” Mom said, raising her left eyebrow. Dad didn’t accompany us to Sunday services. He said he had his own special and private religion, one with no associated church. During last summer’s family reunion, I had asked my paternal grandmother what the name of Dad’s religion was.

“Church of the Heathen,” she’d said, her jaws snapping shut in a way that suggested they wouldn’t open again unless she had a piece of ugliness to share.

“Maybe I don’t know too much about the Bible and what’s in it,” Dad countered Mom. “But I do know about music and what’s in it. And in this”—jerking his head toward Mr. Goodman or whomever—”there’s nothing even resembling soul. Even Kitten, at the ripe old age of nine, even she knows that.” He grinned at me toothily.

“As long as you’re part of the problem, you’ll never be part of the solution,” Mom muttered. Dad bobbed and smiled, leaning toward me conspiratorially. “You know what the truth is, Kitten.”

I didn’t, but I giggled, scrunching my shoulders up to stifle the sound when Mom whirled, a square, angry set to her shoulders. She marched out.

One of my favorite cuts was Dippermouth Blues. I liked the music, but was more fascinated with the song’s name. What was a dippermouth?

One day I thought I saw one.

Around this time, my fourth-grade teacher, Miss Drysdale, had a “nervous breakdown.” My whole class had heard other teachers whispering at our morning assemblies for weeks. I watched Miss Drysdale for signs of the cryptic ailment, but she didn’t seem to be broken in any way. She did trip over the flagpole once during the Pledge of Allegiance. There was the time she’d knocked the candy jar off her desk while searching for chalk, sending orange and black jellybeans ricocheting into a corner, and Sally and me into peals of laughter. Mom got wind of the “breakdown” at the Halloween cupcake sale and insisted that I be transferred to “a more stable environment.”

The class switch occurred on an unseasonably warm November morning. I wore a new pair of overalls and a plaid shirt with silver buttons. I felt grateful that I was only changing classes, not schools. I’d still double-dutch with Chenoa, Sally, and Drew at recess. We would no longer be able to pass notes in class about Valéry, the fifth-grader from Haiti who already wore a bra. But the four of us would still perform Intermezzo on our recorders at the Spring Sing.

I had to stop by the front office to see Principal Stiegler, as though I was new to the whole school and not just to one class within it. He smiled when he saw me at his door and waved me into a green overstuffed chair. A musty smell rose from the cushions. Mr. Stiegler proceeded to pose a string of what were, to my mind, ridiculous questions. What was my favorite ice cream? My favorite television show? Favorite doll? I couldn’t see how any of this information related to my new classroom. Maybe, I thought sarcastically, there was one class for kids who liked vanilla ice cream and a separate one for those who preferred chocolate. I felt the reflexive dent in the center of my tongue that routinely occurred when I was about to make a snide remark. I waited for the dent to smooth out before giving up What’s Happening! as the TV show of choice, although that wasn’t really it. The show was simply the first that came to mind. Plus, Mom had pressed and braided my hair so that it looked the way Dee, Raj’s younger, bratty sister, wore hers. The rubber bands were too tight but I didn’t fiddle with them. The Stieg, daunted by my curt, monosyllabic responses, rifled through crinkled sheets from my academic file, skimming (or pretending to) in silence. When he looked up, his glistening smile was as well-composed as an Ellington ballad. Mom would call it a “Title IX smile.”

“So, you’re Lizette Wanzer,” he said.

I didn’t respond. Every sheet inside of my file probably said who I was.

“Lizette, are you aware that you read several years above grade level?” His eyebrows arched on the question.

“Yes,” I stated flatly. Modesty wasn’t in order here. I was joining a new class and needed to present the best possible background.

“And are you aware,” he continued, “how unusual that is for your ethnic background?”

I stared at his crown of slick dark hair. He’d asked the question in the same tone he’d used to inquire about my ice cream preferences. But now I imagined a large prickly burr tumbling out of his wide shining mouth and on to the brick-red tiles between us. I wondered whether a mouth that wide and that wet, that much like a scoop, that much like a dredge, could be called a dippermouth.

I was without a clever way to parry. “Yes,” I answered, trying to be direct. Mom always said the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. Only, Dad would have it that straight lines were boring. Glenn Miller was a straight line, while Charlie Parker was like the Dragon Coaster at Rye Playland in Westchester. Dips and swerves. Since I was the only one who’d rode the Dragon with him, Dad said I would always recognize and understand intricate lines. That was why, he said, the only lines Mom found interesting were the ones on her graph paper.

Mr. Stiegler looked up sharply with a quizzical glare. I tried to match it with my own scowl, sweat coursing down my back. Had he expected me to take his question as a compliment?

I thought about Dad and the two kinds of jazz. Whenever I heard the white jazz, or the type of jazz that was always playing at The Ground Round restaurant, I saw the word jazz printed in fancy calligraphy, penned with an outrageously expensive instrument from my dentist’s Sharper Image catalogue. I conjured scenes of cool drinks in tall glasses with long straight straws, fruit slices on the rim, all beneath a twilight sky. But when I thought of “the real thing,” I saw jazz written in slanted block letters on a chalkboard, appearing to have been scribbled in a hurry, but to those who knew better, written not in haste, but in heat. A gregarious bunch with dark lustrous skins, eclectically attired, kale and salsa and ribs round about, under an unrelenting midday sun.

The Stieg forced a smile that had half of him in it, then said that the secretary’s aide would escort me to my classroom.

§

“Stop fidgeting! I want to be sure I haven’t made the hem too short.”

“It’s the chair that’s fidgeting,” I said. I stood on it in the bathroom in my beige slip as Mom held the dress-in-progress against my back. The chair, a castoff from the kitchen set due to a faulty leg, was fun to rock on. Mom had placed a memo pad beneath the short leg to steady it. Chenoa’s birthday was this afternoon so I wouldn’t be attending church today. Mom, having a week off from her health center job, insisted on making a yellow lace dress from scratch.  “This slip itches,” I said, hiking my shoulders and rolling my head back on my neck. “I like my old ones better.”

“It just takes some getting used to.” She spoke around the two straight pins in her teeth.

I did a backbend, supporting myself on the chair’s high back, and watched Mom from a capsized view. She still wore her satin sleeping bonnet. “Why do I have to wear such a fancy slip?” I asked.

“Would you hold still? Because you’ll be wearing a very fancy dress.”

“And why do I have to wear a very fancy dress? I didn’t have to at Drew’s party, and not at Kenneth’s, either. His is the best party so far. Remember, the boys outnumbered the girls—”

“However did his mother allow that to come to pass?” Mom mumbled.

“—and we all played football. Remember that?”

“I sure do remember.” Mom removed the pins from her teeth and stabbed them, with some venom, into her tomato pin cushion, narrowly missing my electric Snoopy toothbrush. “I remember you came home with a skinned knee and a welt above your eye.” She focused on the dress, but her mouth pulled taut.

“At least I didn’t cry, like Sally. The ball hits her in the face one time—not even that hard—and whoops! she bawls all over us.”

“I do wish, Lizette, that you would refrain from participating in risky activities at other people’s houses.” I felt the irritating tips of her fingers outlining the fabric on my back.

“But it was so much fun—much better than spending two hours playing musical chairs, like we did at Drew’s.”

“Drew’s parents held an appropriate celebration.” Mom took the dress down, arranging it on a padded coat hanger. “Seems like parents don’t raise kids anymore…they just let them come on up any which way, like weeds.” She tapped my waist twice. “Come on, brush your teeth. I laid the dress out on your bed. I want you dressed before I leave for services.”

I hopped down from the chair, landing on one foot, then slid on the spotted linoleum. I began doing the Twist.

“So much energy!” Mom exclaimed. “Hush before you wake up your father.”

“Sister Adrienne says we’re beginning rehearsals for the Christmas play next week. Dad’ll come to church to see that.” I winked at her, the way Dad liked to wink at both of us.

Mom pushed the chair back into its corner beside the bathtub, replacing her shower gels and facial scrub on the seat. “Yes, your father’s a PCE attendee.”

“What’s that?” I frowned. I hated when Mom used phrases I didn’t understand. I hated when she used them, and I hated having to ask what they meant.

“PCE? Palm Sunday, Christmas, and Easter. That’s what Pastor Williams calls folks like Dad.”

I turned the cold spigot on full blast; the force nearly shoved the Dixie cup from my hand. “Can I have a yellow bead on each braid?” I asked.

“We’ll press your hair out,” Mom explained. She removed her bonnet and began primping before the mirror.

“Aw, why?” I said. “I wore braids to Ken’s par—”

“This is a formal party, Lizette. Chenoa’s mother won’t have any football games going on.”

I knew Chenoa from my Saturday ballet class. She was the best dancer, but then she should be; she took classes three times per week. Her mother, Mrs. Dannion, and Mom would visit the Italian bakery around the corner to sip espressos until ballet finished.

Chenoa lived in southern Westchester County, in a three-story house with an intercom system. Her property extended 20 acres and featured a built-in brick barbecue and a kidney-shaped pool that reached thirteen feet at the deep end. I’d been to many cookouts and slumber parties at her house, always under Dad’s grumbling protests. The Dannions were white, and while he never said as much, I sensed that the fact figured prominently in his disapproval. “Sun worshipers,” he called them. The same posse of friends attended Chenoa’s bashes. There were two Latina girls among them, also from ballet class, but everyone else was white.

“A formal party for a nine-year-old,” he’d scoffed when he saw Mom at work on the Singer earlier that week.

“Absolutely nothing wrong with that,” Mom had said, peering at him above the rim of her sewing glasses. “Not too long before they will be young ladies, and this is her first opportunity to learn grace and etiquette.”

“Their graces,” Dad answered. “Not ours. Now, if we lived down south, and Kitten was doing this with an eye to the Black Debutante Ball—”

“She’s doing it with an eye to having a good time with a close group of pals. And I’d like her to learn some deportment.”

“Kitten’s not worried about no deportment. She ain’t worried about that. She knows the stock she’s descended from. Listen—don’t let those damn Dannions rent a room in your head. They ain’t worthy tenants.”

“Language!” Mom boomed. She’d returned her attention to her sewing, pumping the foot pedal in a solid cadence. Chenoa’s mother was a child psychologist, while her father was a zoning lawyer. Dad was proud of his own postal career, but he sneered at the Dannions’ occupations. They owned twin Volkswagen Rabbits. The cars made their neighborhood debut with much fanfare because they were diesel-fueled. My experiences in the Dannion household showcased an easygoing, fun-loving family. Mr. Dannion padded around the house in purple socks, even arriving at the dinner table unshod. Dad had driven me to their house many times. He would never get out of the car, much less enter the house for a proffered lemonade or spiced cider.

I kicked my toothbrush into its low purr.

§

“You look just like Queen Nefertiti, Kitten.” Dad looked over at me, smiling, while a car behind us laid on the horn. “What?” Dad yelled. “Shut up! Don’t make me come out of this car, make me show out in front of my daughter!” He swung his left arm out of his window and backwards, a gesture that was supposed to simulate hurling a grenade at the offending car. “Don’t make me get black out here!”

I sat still on my seat, not wanting to wrinkle my crisp dress or mess up my hair. I had waited twenty minutes for my manicure to dry. I’d wanted to use Mom’s ruby polish, but she’d opted for a clear lacquer instead. Chenoa’s present, a jigsaw puzzle of two pointe shoes, lay wrapped and ribboned on the back seat so I could hold my single rose unencumbered. Neither Dad nor I understood why I had to present a rose to Mrs. Dannion, but that’s what Mom had ordered. I was to give the rose directly to Mrs. Dannion upon arrival.

“You ever brought a flower to any other shindig?” Dad asked, switching lanes without using his blinker.

“You’re supposed to signal. Car lights are not decorations,” I quoted Mom.

“Mrs. Dannon orders Chenoa’s dresses from fancy-ass catalogs. But yours was stitched up for you all personal and special.”

“How do you know Chenoa’s never had a homemade dress?” I reached down to loosen my seatbelt a notch.

“Keep that on, Kitten. We’re getting on the highway. Has she ever mentioned having a home-sewn dress?” He cut his eyes toward me.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Mmmhmm. I’ll bet Mrs. Dannon can’t even thread a needle.”

“You can’t either,” I said, and we both laughed. “And would you stop saying their name like the yogurt?”

Dad shook his head, chuckling, as we headed away from the city. Soon the terrain would change and large houses would come into view, situated in mowed lawns, trees and clipped shrubs
bordering the tidy squares. “I ask you. All this fancy-pants preparation for the Dannons’ goings-on. I ask you: who are they when they’re out?”

“Out?” I dipped my nose into the flower for its velvety petals.

“At the supermarket, at the drug store, at the post office. The gas station, the library, the movies. Who are they when they’re out of their Taj Mahal? Just like any other folks.”

“That’s right,” I said, nodding emphatically and raising my voice. “Just exactly like other people.”

“When they’re out, I said.”

“And even when they’re in,” I retorted.

Dad reached to adjust the rearview mirror, though all he did was shift it about and right back to its original position. “I can see you’ve been spending quality time with Mom.”

“Daddy. Mom said to behave.”

“Think she meant that for you.”

“Was looking at you when she said it.”

Dad smirked and switched the radio on, searching for a traffic report. “I hate driving up here. Always a parking lot on the highway.”

I whirled to stare at him. “Not today. It’s Sunday afternoon.”

“Too much traffic. Idling wastes my gas.” We busted along at 60 in the ultramodern HOV lane.

As we turned down the Dannions’ wide road, we passed a Tudor-style mansion with a For Sale sign spiked in the yard.

“Got tired of all the tight-asses up here,” Dad mumbled.

I couldn’t stifle my laughter. “Dad…you need to stop.” I pressed my right index finger against one of the rose stem’s thorns. “You said you’d behave.”

“I said no such thing. Your prim mother said that. Remember?”

We pulled up in front of Chenoa’s house, wheels scraping the curb. Dad kept the motor running. “I wonder whether they’ll live until 103, like the Georgians in the TV commercial.”

“They are not Dannon. They’re Dannion. They’re not connected to any yogurt.”

“You sure about that? Do they eat yogurt?”

“Why?”

“What brand was it?”

I got out of the car and opened the back door to retrieve the present.

“You don’t know what brand it was? Was it Light n’ Lively?”

“Shhh! Come on, Dad, stop it.”

“Whatever. I’ll watch until you get inside,” he said.

I heard the house’s screen door open, and turned to see Mr. Dannion’s pudgy figure hustling across the grass in canary shirt, tan trousers, and purple socks, bearing a tray of caramel apples.

“Mr. Wanzer! Good to see ya!” Mr. Dannion grinned widely at me, his glasses sliding up his nose a fraction. Breezes lifted his thinning auburn hair. The apples wobbled precariously as he rushed
the car’s passenger side. I sucked my lips in to bite back a smile. I knew that Mr. Dannion’s haste wouldn’t prevent the inevitable.

Dad rolled the car window down to what Mom called the “barely civil margin,” leaving precisely enough space to frame Mr. Dannion’s head and the apple tray—no more, no less. I couldn’t operate the automatic window so deftly. Whenever I tried to hit an exact mark, I was either too quick or too slow with the switch, the window either motoring past or not quite meeting my target.

Dad nodded an acknowledgement, keeping both hands on the steering wheel.

“Got a minute to come in?” Mr. Dannion asked.

“No, no, I’ve got some work to attend to.”

“Oh, a working weekend, is it?”

“You know how it is; work never really stops. Now that Kitten’s out of my way, I’ll actually be able to get something accomplished.” Dad craned his head, looking to share the jab with me, but, unwilling to rescue him, I stepped back out of view.

“How about a candied apple for your trip back to the city?” Mr.Dannion seemed determined that Dad accept some level of hospitality.

“Nah, I’m supposed to be watching my weight. The wife, she’ll kill me if she sees me with one.”

The wife? I withdrew another pace, fighting to maintain a solemn demeanor. I felt giggles percolating in my throat. Dad could lose a few pounds, true, but he wasn’t on any diet.

“Maybe one for her? I can wrap it for you.”

“She’s allergic to caramel,” Dad answered tersely.

My shoulders shook now. I pushed my palm hard against the rose thorns. I rattled Chenoa’s present. Mr. Dannion straightened up from the car window and looked over at me.

“Uh-oh! I believe I know what that might be.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “But I won’t tell!” He stepped away from the car, extending his arm in a chummy gesture he’d never used with me before. “Guess we’ll be getting inside for the festivities, then.” I wasn’t sure whether he was addressing Dad or myself. “I think that’s Nikki’s car coming up the street, Lizette.”

I moved closer to Mr. Dannion’s side. “I’ll call you when I’m ready,” I said to Dad.

Dad regarded us, Mr. Dannion’s arm around my shoulders. For an interminable moment, his face remained stony. I imagined my legs to be like Chenoa’s cardboard puzzle pieces and my heart thudded. A gust of fright swept my body.

“Bye, Dad,” I said, my voice nearly an octave above the norm.

Dad dipped his head to me. His features relaxed, though he didn’t smile. “All right now, Kitten. Have a good time, you hear?” He gunned the motor. “I’ll watch ’til you get inside.”

I smiled but couldn’t exhale until Mr. Dannion and I reached the house. As we climbed the stairs, I heard Dad turn the radio to our favorite jazz station. The stealthy opening strains of Davis’ “So What” skimmed out of the car’s stingily cracked window. I spun about and waved. Dad was only a silhouette inside the car now, but he raised a hand, then pulled away from the curb slowly, much slower than I’d expected, still not using his blinker.

Lyzette Wanzer, MFA, is a San Francisco author, editor, and writing workshop instructor. Her work appears in more than twenty literary journals, and she is a contributor to The Chalk Circle: Intercultural Prizewinning Essays (Wyatt-MacKenzie), The Naked Truth, Essay Daily, and San Francisco University High School Journal. She is a two-time San Francisco Arts Commission, and a three-time Center for Cultural Innovation, grant recipient.