One hot Monday in August Harrietta Williams, billed as “The Princess of the Blues,” opened at the Monogram Theatre on State Street. The screen had carried a slide of her act the week previous, so Sandy knew she would be there, and he and his mother were waiting anxiously for her appearance. They were unable to find out before the performance where she would be living, or if she had arrived in town, but early that Monday evening Sandy hurried home from work, and he and Annjee managed to get seats in the theatre, although it was soon crowded to capacity and people stood in the aisles.

It was a typical Black Belt audience, laughing uproariously, stamping its feet to the music, kidding the actors, and joining in the performance, too. Rows of shiny black faces, gay white teeth, bobbing heads. Everybody having a grand time with the vaudeville, swift and amusing. A young tap-dancer rhymed his feet across the stage, grinning from ear to ear, stepping to the tantalizing music, ending with a series of intricate and amazing contortions that brought down the house. Then a sister act came on, with a stock of sentimental ballads offered in a wholly jazzy manner. They sang even a very melancholy mammy song with their hips moving gaily at every beat.

O, what would I do
Without dear you,
Sweet mammy?

they moaned reverently, with their thighs shaking.

“Aw, step it, sweet gals!” the men and boys in the audience called approvingly. “We’ll be yo’ mammy and yo’ pappy, too! Do it, pretty mamas!”

A pair of blackfaced comedians tumbled on the stage as the girls went off, and began the usual line of old jokes and razor comedy.

“Gee, I wish Aunt Harriett’s act would come on,” Sandy said as he and Annjee laughed nervously at the comedians.

Finally the two blacked-up fellows broke into a song called “Walking the Dog,” flopping their long-toed shoes, twirling their middles like eggbeaters, and made their exit to a roar of laughter and applause. Then the canvas street-scene rose, disclosing a gorgeous background of blue velvet, with a piano and a floor-lamp in the centre of the stage.

“This is Harriett’s part now,” Sandy whispered excitedly as a tall, yellow, slick-headed young man came in and immediately began playing the piano. “And, mama, that’s Billy Sanderlee!”

“Sure is!” said Annjee.

Suddenly the footlights were lowered and the spotlight flared, steadied itself at the right of the stage, and waited. Then, stepping out from among the blue curtains, Harriett entered in a dress of glowing orange, flame-like against the ebony of her skin, barbaric, yet beautiful as a jungle princess. She swayed towards the footlights, while Billy teased the keys of the piano into a hesitating delicate jazz. Then she began to croon a new song⁠—a popular version of an old Negro melody, refashioned with words from Broadway.

“Gee, Aunt Harrie’s prettier than ever!” Sandy exclaimed to his mother.

“Same old Harriett,” said Annjee. “But kinder hoarse.”

“Sings good, though,” Sandy cried when Harriett began to snap her fingers, putting a slow, rocking pep into the chorus, rolling her bright eyes to the tune of the melody as the piano rippled and cried under Billy Sanderlee’s swift fingers.

“She’s the same Harrie,” murmured Annjee.

When she appeared again, in an apron of blue calico, with a bandana handkerchief knotted about her head, she walked very slowly. The man at the piano had begun to play blues⁠—the old familiar folk-blues⁠—and the audience settled into a receptive silence broken only by a “Lawdy!⁠ ⁠… Good Lawdy! Lawd!” from some Southern lips at the back of the house, as Harriett sang:

Red sun, red sun, why don’t you rise today?
Red sun, O sun! Why don’t you rise today?
Ma heart is breakin’⁠—ma baby’s gone away.

A few rows ahead of Annjee a woman cried out: “True, Lawd!” and swayed her body.

Little birds, little birds, ain’t you gonna sing this morn?
Says, little chirpin’ birds, ain’t you gonna sing this morn?
I cannot sleep⁠—ma lovin’ man is gone.

“Whee‑ee‑e!⁠ ⁠… Hab mercy!⁠ ⁠… Moan it, gal!” exclamations and shouts broke loose in the understanding audience.

“Just like when papa used to play for her,” said Sandy. But Annjee was crying, remembering Jimboy, and fumbling in her bag for a handkerchief. On the stage the singer went on⁠—as though singing to herself⁠—her voice sinking to a bitter moan as the listeners rocked and swayed.

It’s a mighty blue mornin’ when yo’ daddy leaves yo’ bed.
I says a blue, blue mornin’ when yo’ daddy leaves yo’ bed⁠—
’Cause if you lose yo’ man, you’d just as well be dead!

Her final number was a dance-song which she sang in a sparkling dress of white sequins, ending the act with a mad collection of steps and a swift sudden whirl across the whole stage as the orchestra joined Billy’s piano in a triumphant arch of jazz.

The audience yelled and clapped and whistled for more, stamping their feet and turning to one another with shouted comments of enjoyment.

“Gee! She’s great,” said Sandy. When another act finally had the stage after Harriett’s encores, he was anxious to get back to the dressing-room to see her.

“Maybe they won’t let us in,” Annjee objected timidly.

“Let’s try,” Sandy insisted, pulling his mother up. “We don’t want to hear this fat woman with the flag singing ‘Over There.’ You’ll start crying, anyhow. Come on, mama.”

When they got backstage, they found Harriett standing in the dressing-room door laughing with one of the blackface comedians, a summer fur over her shoulders, ready for the street. Billy Sanderlee and the tap-dancing boy were drinking gin from a bottle that Billy held, and Harriett was holding her glass, when she saw Sandy coming.

Her furs slipped to the floor. “My Lord!” she cried, enveloping them in kisses. “What are you doing in Chicago, Annjee? My, I’m mighty glad to see you, Sandy!⁠ ⁠… I’m certainly surprised⁠—and so happy I could cry.⁠ ⁠… Did you catch our act tonight? Can’t Billy play the piano, though?⁠ ⁠… Great heavens! Sandy, you’re twice as tall as me! When did you leave home? How’s that long-faced sister o’ mine, Tempy?”

After repeated huggings the newcomers were introduced to everybody around. Sandy noticed a certain harshness in his aunt’s voice. “Smoking so much,” she explained later. “Drinking, too, I guess. But a blues-singer’s supposed to sing deep and hoarse, so it’s all right.”

Beyond the drop curtain Sandy could hear the audience laughing in the theatre, and occasionally somebody shouting at the performers.

“Come on! Let’s go and get a bite to eat,” Harriett suggested when they had finally calmed down enough to decide to move on. “Billy and me are always hungry.⁠ ⁠… Where’s Jimboy, Annjee? In the war, I suppose! It’d be just like that big jigaboo to go and enlist first thing, whether he had to or not. Billy here was due to go, too, but licker kept him out. This white folks’ war for democracy ain’t so hot, nohow!⁠ ⁠… Say, how’d you like to have some chop suey instead of going to a regular restaurant?”

In a Chinese café they found a quiet booth, where the two sisters talked until past midnight⁠—with Sandy and Billy silent for the most part. Harriett told Annjee about Aunt Hager’s death and the funeral that chill rainy day, and how Tempy had behaved so coldly when it was all over.

“I left Stanton the week after,” Harriett said, “and haven’t been back since. Had hard times, too, but we’re kinder lucky now, Billy and me⁠—got some dates booked over the Orpheum circuit soon. Liable to get wind of us at the Palace on Broadway one o’ these days. Can’t tell! Things are breakin’ pretty good for spade acts⁠—since Jews are not like the rest of the white folks. They will give you a break if you’ve got some hot numbers to show ’em, whether you’re colored or not. And Jews control the theatres.”

But the conversation went back to Stanton, when Hager and Jimboy and all of them had lived together, laughing and quarrelling and playing the guitar⁠—while the tea got cold and the chop suey hardened to a sticky mess as the sisters wept. Billy marked busily on the tablecloth meanwhile with a stubby pencil, explaining to Sandy a new and intricate system he had found for betting on the numbers.

“Harrie and me plays every day. Won a hundred forty dollars last week in Cleveland,” he said.

“Gee! I ought to start playing,” Sandy exclaimed. “How much do you put on each number?”

“Well, for a nickel you can win⁠ ⁠…”

“No, you oughtn’t,” checked Harriett, suddenly conscious of Billy’s conversation, turning towards Sandy with a handkerchief to her eyes. “Don’t you fool with those numbers, honey!⁠ ⁠… What are you trying to do, Billy, start the boy off on your track?⁠ ⁠… You’ve got to get your education, Sandy, and amount to something.⁠ ⁠… Guess you’re in high school now, aren’t you, kid?”

“Third year,” said Sandy slowly, dreading a new argument with his mother.

“And determined to keep on going here this fall, in spite o’ my telling him I don’t see how,” put in Annjee. “Jimboy’s over yonder, Lord knows where, and I certainly can’t take care of Sandy and send him to school, too. No need of my trying⁠—since he’s big enough and old enough to hold a job and make his own living. He ought to be wanting to help me, anyway. Instead of that, he’s determined to go back to school.”

“Make his own living!” Harriett exclaimed, looking at Annjee in astonishment. “You mean you want Sandy to stay out of school to help you? What good is his little money to you?”

“Well, he helps with the room rent,” his mother said. “And gets his meals where he works. That’s better’n we’d be doing with him studying and depending on me to keep things up.”

“What do you mean better?” Harriett cried, glaring at her sister excitedly, forgetting they had been weeping together five minutes before. “For crying out loud⁠—better? Why, Aunt Hager’d turn over in her grave if she heard you talking so calmly about Sandy leaving school⁠—the way she wanted to make something out of this kid.⁠ ⁠… How much do you earn a week?” Harriett asked suddenly, looking at her nephew across the table.

“Fourteen dollars.”

“Pshaw! Is that all? I can give you that much myself,” Harriett said. “We’ve got straight bookings until Christmas⁠—then cabaret work’s good around here. Bill and I can always make the dough⁠—and you go to school.”

“I want to, Aunt Harrie,” Sandy said, suddenly content.

“Yea, old man,” put in Billy. “And I’ll shoot you a little change myself⁠—to play the numbers,” he added, winking.

“Well,” Annjee began, “what about⁠ ⁠…”

But Harriett ignored Billy’s interjection as well as her sister’s open mouth. “Running an elevator for fourteen dollars a week and losing your education!” she cried. “Good Lord! Annjee, you ought to be ashamed, wanting him to keep that up. This boy’s gotta get ahead⁠—all of us niggers are too far back in this white man’s country to let any brains go to waste! Don’t you realize that?⁠ ⁠… You and me was foolish all right, breaking mama’s heart, leaving school, but Sandy can’t do like us. He’s gotta be what his grandma Hager wanted him to be⁠—able to help the black race, Annjee! You hear me? Help the whole race!”

“I want to,” Sandy said.

“Then you’ll stay in school!” Harriett affirmed, still looking at Annjee. “You surely wouldn’t want him stuck in an elevator forever⁠—just to help you, would you, sister?”

“I reckon I wouldn’t,” Annjee murmured, shaking her head.

“You know damn well you wouldn’t,” Harriett concluded. And, before they parted, she slipped a ten-dollar bill into her nephew’s hand.

“For your books,” she said.

When Sandy and his mother started home, it was very late, but in a little Southern church in a side street, some old black worshippers were still holding their nightly meeting. High and fervently they were singing:

By an’ by when de mawnin’ comes,
Saints an’ sinners all are gathered home.⁠ ⁠…

As the deep volume of sound rolled through the open door, Annjee and her son stopped to listen.

“It’s like Stanton,” Sandy said, “and the tent in the Hickory Woods.”

“Sure is!” his mother exclaimed. “Them old folks are still singing⁠—even in Chicago!⁠ ⁠… Funny how old folks like to sing that way, ain’t it?”

“It’s beautiful!” Sandy cried⁠—for, vibrant and steady like a stream of living faith, their song filled the whole night:

An we’ll understand it better by an’ by!