Seventeen-year-old Ted Wakefield burst through the side door into the first-floor apartment of the white frame house in the Lincoln Park section of town. He found his aunt sitting at the kitchen table with her stockinged feet up on a chair; she’d kicked off her high heels and tossed aside her brimless summer hat.
Ted dropped the bag holding his schoolbooks and tennis racket on the table and straddled a chair facing her. “Another long day at the office, huh, Aunt Sarah?”
For a number of years, his aunt had worked as a clerk-typist for the Chicago district attorney. The DA was busier than ever since the onset of Prohibition. “The usual,” Sarah said, unpinning the thick coil of dark blonde hair from the nape of her neck and shaking it loose. “I was just thinking how happy I am that the days of corsets are past!” She patted the loosely belted waist of her cotton dress. “If you ask me, the new fashions have done as much to improve women’s status as getting the vote did a few years ago.”
Ted laughed. “Here.” He handed her some envelopes. “I ran into the postman on my way in.”
Sarah flipped through the mail. “Nothing but bills,” she observed with a sigh.
A pang of guilt stabbed Ted’s heart. His aunt never complained, but he knew it wasn’t easy for her to make ends meet. In the aftermath of the Great War, the country was prospering and she had a secure job; the two of them lived comfortably. But despite her frugality, Ted knew she was never able to put much aside in the bank account she’d started so he could go to college. She’s done so much for me, Ted thought. Not that she ever drew attention to the sacrifices she’d made. But he knew the whole story: his parents, James and Edwina Wakefield, had been killed in a train crash in California shortly after his birth, and his young aunt, only in her late teens and herself recently orphaned by the death of her own father, had decided to raise her beloved older brother’s child as her own.
Someday I’ll pay her back, Ted thought. I’ll have money and I’ll give her everything she’s ever wanted. He couldn’t keep the news to himself a moment longer. “Guess what, Aunt Sarah? I’ve gotten another job!”
“Another job? What about the paper route?”
“I’m keeping the route,” he replied, “but that’s just nickel-and-dime stuff—it’ll never pay for college. I found something else that starts next week, right after I graduate. I’m going to be a waiter at a jazz club, the Black Cat Café. They say the tips are swell!”
“I bet they are.” Sarah frowned slightly. “I don’t know, Teddy. Perhaps you shouldn’t work at a place like that. My boss was telling me just today that he might have some overtime work for me. With a few extra dollars a week—”
“I won’t allow you to work overtime just to make things easier for me,” Ted declared. “You work long hours as it is.”
“But Ted, those jazz clubs...”
Ted knew what she was thinking. She’d never been to one, but obviously she’d heard they were only a step up from the speakeasies spawned by Prohibition. “Everything at the Black Cat is on the up-and-up,” he assured her. “And all the best musicians play there. Think of the swell folks I’ll meet!”
Sarah smiled despite herself. “Swell folks? Gangsters and bootleggers are more like it.”
Ted took her hand in his. “I promise you I won’t get in any trouble.” To his surprise, tears sprang suddenly to his aunt’s eyes. “But if it upsets you that much, Aunt Sarah, I won’t take the job.”
She shook her head, wiping away the tears with a rueful laugh. “Oh, it’s not that, Teddy. I was just thinking how much you resemble your gr—I mean your father, James. Now that you’re grown, you’re his very image.” She’d told him before that he was built like his father, tall and broad-shouldered, and that he’d inherited his father’s mischievous brown eyes and unruly dark hair. “And that’s what I have to keep in mind,” Sarah continued. “You’re grown up now. I respect your decisions, and what’s more, I trust your good sense. I just hope you don’t turn into a complete lounge lizard and forget all about your college plans!”
His aunt’s tone was teasing, but he knew she was set on his becoming the first Wakefield to earn a college degree and goon to a prestigious career, maybe even as a lawyer like her boss. “That won’t happen,” Ted vowed.
“Get on with you, then,” she commanded, her eyes twinkling. “Open those books before I change my mind!”
It was a hot summer Saturday night at the Black Cat Café. Balancing a tray of soft drinks and near-beer in each hand, Ted deftly wove his way among the closely packed tables. The air of the club was cloudy with cigarette smoke and pulsing with the cool, smooth sounds of a jazz quartet. Ted delivered the drinks and pocketed the generous tip casually handed to him by a man in a cream-colored suit and diamond cuff links. Heading back to the bar, Ted scanned the crowd. In their clinging silk gowns, feather boas, sequined turbans, and glittering beads, the women were as bright as tropical birds. The whole scene was like a moving picture, but with sound and color. Ted absolutely loved it. And he was actually getting paid to hang out here!
He delivered another round of soft drinks, turning a blind eye as the patrons spiked the drinks with liquor from their hipflasks. His aunt wouldn’t approve, but Ted knew there probably wasn’t a nightclub in Chicago where this sort of activity didn’t go on, and the clientele at the Black Cat was classier and more discreet than most.
Suddenly, a reverent hush fell over the audience. Ted stood quietly, too, the empty tray held behind his back, his eyes half closed. Emmet “Slim” Stark, one of the greatest jazz saxophonists of the age, was playing a solo.
The deep, plaintive notes of the saxophone resounded through the small room. As the solo concluded with a long, drawn-out wail, the crowd roared with appreciation. Ted clapped and whistled. In just a few weeks, he had learned a lot about jazz—enough to know he was hearing the very best at that moment.
A few minutes later, the musicians put down their instruments and stepped off the small stage for a break. Ted rushed over to their table with a tray loaded with glasses. “Compliments of the house,” he said, smiling at Slim Stark. Resting the tray on the table, he put out his hand. “That was a great set, sir.”
Stark’s coffee-colored face, gleaming from exertion, cracked into a smile. “Thanks for the compliment and the refreshments,” he said, his voice as deep and melodious as that of the sax. He struck a match on the tabletop and lit a cigarette. “I hope you’re a music critic as well as a waiter.”
The other band members chuckled; Ted laughed as well. “No, I’m just an ordinary fan.” Ted started to pull up a chair. He talked to the musicians who played at the Black Cat every chance he got, and he was dying to ask a virtuoso like Stark a few questions about his technique. But just then, a customer at an adjacent table raised his hand and snapped his fingers for service. Ted couldn’t neglect his job.
By the time he returned to Stark’s table, the band was back onstage and the table was empty except for a young woman whom Ted hadn’t noticed previously. She had glossy black hair smoothed back into a knot adorned with feathers; her red sequined dress was slit at the side, exposing slim, crossed ankles and gold-buckled high heels.
“Can I get you something?” Ted offered.
“I’m not sure,” the girl said. “Why don’t you sit down while I think about it?”
Ted took a chair. “How do you like the music?”
She smiled. “It’s swell. My dad’s the bee’s knees, don’t you think?”
“Your dad?”
She nodded toward the stage, then held out one slender hand. “Tina Stark. Pleased to meet you.”
Ted pumped her hand. “Ted Wakefield. Pleased to meet you!”
Tina’s eyes crinkled in a laugh. “I thought you would be. Stick around and I’ll make sure you get a chance to talk to him all you want after the show. Care to dance?”
His head spinning, Ted took Tina’s hand and led her to an open space on the floor. They did the Charleston, Ted spinning Tina, then dipping her low. Tina kicked up her foot, laughing breathlessly. “You can really cut a rug, Ted Wakefield!”
“That’s why they hired me,” he joked.
Now they danced side by side, crossing and uncrossing their hands over their knees. “I’ll have to make sure my dad books at the Black Cat more often,” Tina said. “The waiters at the other clubs aren’t nearly as much fun!”
As usual, Ted worked late that night, but the hours flew by like minutes. Whenever he was caught up on his drink orders, he talked to Tina. He told her about high school, where he’d been an editor and reporter for the student newspaper, and of his plans to attend college. In turn, he discovered that Tina was training to be a jazz singer. “Music is in my bones,” she said. “I eat it, sleep it, breathe it. When I finish school next year, I want to travel and perform with my father.”
“Gosh, are you lucky. I’d give anything to be inside the jazz scene the way you are.”
“But you are inside it! You work at the spiffiest club in town. And you know how to talk to people.”
Ted supposed Tina had a point. One thing was for sure: he’d been bitten by the music bug. “Ever since I first came to the Black Cat, jazz fills my head constantly, even when I’m not on the job,” he confessed. “Maybe that’s because jazz isn’t just music—it’s a way of life. It’s free and daring and forward-reaching. It’s the soul of the twentieth century.”
Tina sat forward, her elbows on the table and her eyes sparkling with admiration. “You talk like a poet. Have you ever thought about writing about all this?”
“I’m no F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Ted said modestly. “I just wrote for my high-school paper. I’m not a real reporter.”
“You could be a real reporter if you submitted something to a real newspaper,” Tina reasoned. “How about the Chicago Post?”
Ted laughed at the thought. “Like I told your father, I’m a fan, not a music critic.”
“You wouldn’t actually have to critique the music. That type of article is for the people in the business. You could write for the rest of the world. Write about the music the way you talk about it.” Tina gave Ted’s hand a friendly, encouraging squeeze. “Don’t sell yourself short. You could be great.”
As Ted gazed into Tina’s earnest eyes he felt his soul fill with sudden inspiration. She was right. He shouldn’t sell himself short. He had never considered himself anything more than a mediocre journalist during his days on the school paper, but maybe that was because he hadn’t found his true subject. “I’ll try it!” he exclaimed.
Ted phoned Tina even before sharing the news with his aunt. “Hello, Ted!” she said, sounding pleased but not surprised to hear his voice.
The two had become good friends. They saw each other every night; when Ted was working at the Black Cat, Tina often spent the evening there, and when he was free, he sometimes accompanied her to other clubs to hear her father play. Wherever they went together, they were escorted to the best table in the house. Tina seemed to take pleasure in introducing Ted to the many famous musicians she knew through her father. She told Ted that in his company, she felt as if she were experiencing the jazz scene, so familiar to her, for the first time.
“What’s up?” she asked him now.
“Can you meet me in front of the Art Institute in half an hour?”
“I was just about to start dinner—”
“Forget about cooking,” Ted declared. “I have something to show you, and after I do, I’m going to take you out for the best dinner in town!”
“Something to show me? What is it?”
Ted grinned. He had her guessing now! “Show up at the museum in half an hour and you’ll find out,” he teased. “See you then.”
It was dusk when Tina stepped out of the cab in front of the massive Art Institute. Ted was waiting for her by one of the lion statues that flanked the broad cement steps. He had his hands in the pockets of his pinstriped trousers; some papers were tucked under his arm.
“OK, I’m here,” Tina greeted him. “What do you have to show me?”
With a flourish, Ted handed her a typeset sheet. He held his breath as she scanned it quickly. “ ‘Backstage at the Black Cat,’ ” Tina read aloud. “ ‘By Ted Wakefield, guest columnist.’ ” She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Ted Wakefield, guest columnist? Is this what I think it is?”
He nodded, grinning. “My first newspaper article! And this is only the beginning. The editor at the Post liked this piece so much he’s considering signing me to write a weekly jazz column!”
“A weekly column,” Tina breathed. “Ted, that’s wonderful!”
It was a dream come true, Ted had to agree. He was going to be a published writer! “To top it all off, I’ll be getting paid, and paid well,” he told Tina. “I won’t need to wait tables and deliver papers anymore.”
“Then you’ll definitely make it to college,” said Tina. “Nothing stands in your way now!”
