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“And I thank you for saying that,” Ginny said, grasping her now-full tumbler and taking a good swig. “It’s only Father prefers a more delicate type, like our mother. When Father is feeling generous, he refers to me as ‘handsome.’ ”
“Poor mother,” Edwin said, rolling his eyes, then knocking back his tumbler of whiskey as if it had only contained a shot rather than three fingers. He didn’t offer any further context for his comment.
“Yes, poor mother,” she said, her tone so dispirited that Jilo nearly began to feel sympathy for the line of Taylor women in general. Ginny took another drink, her voice rising, sounding more gay. “I keep telling Father that if he wants to savor a delicate beauty, he need look no further than his son Edwin here.” She threw her head back, laughing.
“Hey-oh,” Edwin said, patting his hand on the table, either protesting her comment or urging Guy to refill his glass. Jilo remained un
certain of which. Edwin turned toward her. “The old man would positively blow a gasket if he knew we were here.” He turned and flashed a gleeful look at his sister. “Couldn’t you just see the old boy?”
“What, he doesn’t approve of dancing?” Jilo said, the words powering their way out before she could throw the brake on her tongue. She felt the tip of Guy’s shoe tap roughly against her calf. His lips were puckered, and a line ran down the center of his forehead.
“Well, no, he’s quite fond of dancing . . .” Edwin began, his voice trailing off as he recognized the sarcasm in her voice. “Jilo, you have to understand, my father, he thinks along the old lines.” He leaned back and waved his hand back and forth between Ginny and himself. “We certainly don’t share his opinions.”
“Of course not,” Ginny said, relaxing into her chair.
“You wouldn’t be here,” Guy said, raising his own full glass in salute, “if you did, now would you?” He clinked glasses with Edwin, then knocked back a gulp. Even in the low light, Jilo could see that his eyes had already gone glassy with drink. Without a doubt, Guy and the Taylor boy had sampled a few shots before choosing the bottles they had brought back to the table with them.
“No . . . we . . . would . . . not,” Edwin shouted over the swelling music, each word coming out as if it were its own separate and complete thought. He flashed a drunken smile at Jilo, looking for all the world like an imbecile rather than the scion of Savannah’s wealthiest family. While trying to make small talk, Jilo had once asked the boy about the nature of his family’s business. He’d only mumbled about being involved in a bit of this and a bit of that before deflecting the topic entirely. “I’d so much rather talk about your family’s business,” he’d said. “Imagine, a line of witches, going back how many generations now?” Jilo had told the fool boy till she was blue in the face that there was no real magic to it, but he kept worrying the subject like he believed there might truly be something to it, turning it over again and again like a dog gnawing the meat from a shank bone.
“We have to find a way,” Ginny said, leaning forward, running her right hand over her left shoulder and then down her left arm, “to begin to welcome you all into the white world, just as easily as you have accepted Edwin and me into yours.” She motioned around the club, evidently feeling they’d been welcomed with open arms, oblivious to the uneasy stares and nervous whispers Jilo’d witnessed all evening. “Anyone with half a brain can see that Jim Crow is an abomination. Even if separate but equal were truly equal, it would still be wrong. The racial minorities must be integrated into the white world.”
“To making room in the white world,” Edwin said, raising his glass.
Jilo felt torn by Ginny’s seemingly sincere words and her brother’s obvious enthusiasm. Part of her felt that she should be glad these young, wealthy buckra seemed to want the same damned thing she wanted—a legal and enforceable acknowledgement of the equality of every human being, regardless of their color. Still, something was missing. “Thank you kindly for the sentiment,” Jilo said, “but I do wish you’d realize the world isn’t white. You might be in the majority here, but if you take into account the racial makeup of most of the world, whites are the minority.”
Edwin’s face froze, a look of annoyance rising to his eyes, and Ginny startled. The white woman’s gaze lost its focus for a moment, and she seemed to be partaking in an inner dialogue. Guy’s hand darted out, pulling hers beneath the table and giving it a hard squeeze, with the full intention of hurting her. She tugged it free, feeling a fire explode in her. Oh, hell no. Drunk or not, she thought, he was not going to start that kind of nonsense with her. She was just about to tell him so when Ginny interrupted her thoughts.
“You’re right,” Ginny said, holding her glass up to Jilo, smiling and shaking her head. “You are right. I’ve got to start looking at things through different eyes. I try to reach out. I try to do right in this world. But I sometimes get trapped within my own tiny perspective.” She lowered her glass to the table, and reached out to lay her hand over Jilo’s. “If I can count on friends like you to call me out on it when I do”—a wry smile formed on her lips—“I might grow into a woman of substance rather than a mere confection.” Jilo was so shocked by her choice of words, one that seemed to have been gleaned from her own thoughts, she tried to pull back her hand, but she found herself incapable of doing so. The look in Ginny’s eyes spoke to her of an honest and loving, if clumsy, soul. “I do hope someday you might think of me as a friend.”
Jilo surprised herself by laying her free hand on top of Ginny’s. “I think we might just be friends at that,” she said.
“Ah, it’s time, Guy,” Edwin said.
“Time for what?” Jilo said, a sense of caution overriding any feeling of new warmth. That these two men were in cahoots over anything left her feeling anxious. Both were already pushing back from the table, clearly not intending to answer her.
“To prepare for your surprise,” Guy said, adding, “not that you’ve earned it the way you’ve been speaking to our guests.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Guy,” Ginny said.
“Wait,” Jilo called out as the men stepped away. “What’s the surprise?”
“Aha,” Edwin said, wagging a finger at her. “You just hold on and you’re gonna see.”
“And hear,” Guy added, clasping his arm around Edwin’s shoulders and leading him over to the bandstand.
Jilo turned a worried glance to Ginny, who just smiled and shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.” She turned in her seat to keep an eye on the men.
The lights dimmed, plunging the room into utter darkness for a few moments. The band began to play as the lights came back up, and a bright spotlight shone down on the girl singer who had taken her place by the conductor, setting fire to the royal-blue sequin gown she wore. The men in the room went wild at the sight of the exotic beauty. No. Jilo stood and took a few shaky steps toward the bandstand. The singer turned to face the audience, her warm auburn hair newly coiffed to better frame her lovely face. It can’t be. The band began to play, but the catcalls threatened to drown them out. The conductor stopped the music, signaling for the hecklers to quiet themselves. Once they’d settled down, he turned back to the band. Jilo recognized the tune, “I’ve Got It Bad, and That Ain’t Good.” She felt her heart fall to the pit of her stomach. Standing there, in a low-cut flashy grown-woman evening gown, offering up her own sweet voice to the swine in this room, was Jilo’s own little Binah.
Ginny came and stood beside her, taking her hand. The moment they touched, a shriek of feedback on the mic caused many in the audience to throw their hands over their ears. Jilo pulled free of Ginny’s hold. She pushed her way through the crowd that had gathered around the stage, shrugging off Guy’s grasp as she passed, stopping Edwin’s advance with a single look. Sparks shot throughout the room as the overhead spotlight exploded. Shouts and shocked cries filled the space. The conductor turned. “Just an electrical surge, everyone. Nothing to get excited about.”
Paying no attention to anyone, Jilo mounted the steps to the bandstand and laid her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “No,” she said, sliding her hands down to catch hold of Binah’s, “this is not the life for you.” Binah tried to pull back, her pleading eyes not focused on Jilo, but—Jilo felt her blood go cold as she followed Binah’s gaze—on the Taylor boy. Binah opened her mouth to protest, but Jilo dragged the girl down the steps and out of the club.
When a car pulled up to the house, Jilo was almost relieved to hear something other than the sound of Binah’s weeping and Robinson’s howls, which had begun the second Binah slammed into the house. Jilo had never seen her act that way before. It broke her heart to think her little sister, like Guy, had fallen under the Taylors’ sway.
Jilo had sent Willy and Robinson to her room. There was no way Guy was going to be sleeping in there tonight anyway.
She made her way to the window, tugging the curtain just far enough to the side to peek out.
