The Man Behind The Curtain

I couldn’t help but think about what my brother when I sat in my room. I couldn’t help thinking what he would think of me when he found out what I had done. Finally, I had been buried in that deep hole I was trying to dig myself out of all these years. When I got busted for horse at the club, I knew for sure my brother would read about me in the papers, or find out from one of my old “buddies.” Now I’m stuck in this room outside the city in a drug facility.
It has been a while since I have heard from my brother; too long. I hadn’t heard from him until sometime after his daughter had died. I was happy to hear from him. I had wanted to write him several times myself. I could never gather the courage to do so, though, with all my own issues I had going on. This wasn’t exactly the way I hoped to hear from him, though. His letter sounded pretty sad, he seemed real broken up about us losing touch and all. Here’s what he said:

Dear Sonny,
I know it’s been a while since we’ve had any contact, but I have some sad news. My daughter, little Gracie, died, and I thought you should know. She always did like you when you were around. When she passed, all I thought about was the time Mama had sat me down to. I remember she had told me to take care of you, and make sure you would be ok if anything happened to her. It wasn’t until little Gracie passed that I had the memories all come flooding back inside me.
I would like to know how things are with you, and hope you’re holding up alright. Would sure be nice to see you again, Sonny. I don’t know how often you get to New York or not, but we are still here. Isabel would love to see you sometime, and the boys, too.
Your Brother

After I wrote him back telling him about trying to dig myself out of the hole I was in, we kept in contact until I met him in New York. It was nice seeing him again, and we took a cab to his place. He had told me how the kids had missed me, but I wasn’t so sure they would even remember me. I was surprised when he asked me, “You still want to go to India?”
“You still remember that. Hell, no. This place is Indian enough for me.” I said. I can tell he was trying to make me comfortable in the cab ride that seemed like it took forever. I could tell he was probably wondering how I’ve been, what I’ve been up to and what “hole” I was in. He was thinking it, but he didn’t bring it up. We didn’t say too much, really; we were both a bit uneasy since it had been so long since we’ve seen each other.
Before that, I don’t think I saw my brother since after mama’s funeral. I remember being alone with him in the kitchen afterwards. He had just gotten back from overseas. I felt as if he was asking questions out of necessity: maybe mama’s death reminded him of his promise.
He asked me, “What you want to do?”
“I’m going to be a musician,” I said.
This started a big argument between us, in which I felt he was downgrading what I wanted to do. He didn’t understand where I was coming from, and all I had been through. He didn’t see the pain that was inside of me and yearned to be free. I mean, how can I even take someone seriously if he hasn’t heard of Charlie Parker? During our conversation, I was bitter, and felt as if I was still viewed as a kid in his eyes. This made me mad, so I figured I’d show him I’m not the little brother he knew. I took out a cigarette and asked him, “You mind?” He was surprised I was smoking already, but the truth is, I didn’t care if he minded or not. I lit up my cigarette and began to take a few drags of it. I was a bit nervous at first to smoke in front of him, but that soon passed. Then we started to fight about living at Isabel’s while he was gone. He really didn’t get it; he didn’t get how bad I needed to leave Harlem.
While I was at Isabel’s, I played their piano pretty much all the time. I’m sure they were a bit annoyed with hearing it all the time, but it was something I had to do. It was my therapy; it was the way I could communicate with others. I stopped going to school so I could concentrate more on my music. I had been going to Greenwich Village and spending time with other musicians. The school had been sending home letters, but I made sure no one got them. Finally, one slipped past me, once Isabel’s mother found out and confronted me. I think she knew what I was doing, and was scared. I had gone without playing over the next few days, and finally moved on from Isabel’s.
I remember finally hearing from my brother once little Gracie died. I was sad to hear the news, but happy to hear from him again. I had so many problems of my own with horse, I was too ashamed to write him even when I wanted to. A lot was going on in between then and when I was living with my brother. I was always out playing in clubs, and spending time with guys who were hip to the scene I was into. It was my way to get out all the emotions I had inside, but not everyone understands it. You don’t want to be hooked on these things, but you don’t have a choice when you‘re where I was.
The one day that stands out clear in my mind was the day I was walking home, and I saw a revival meeting outside a barbecue joint. As I walked by I couldn’t help but appreciate them pouring out what they had inside them. I tossed some change into the plate, and continued home. I remember having a beer with my brother, asking with certain desperation, “You want to come someplace with me tonight?” I’m sure he could hear how much I needed him to come.
“Sure. Where?” he asked. “You mean you’re going to play, tonight?”
“That’s right,” I said.
As the conversation progressed, I finally started sharing how I felt with him. I tried to explain how people do heroin to get by sometimes. Some people take it to feel ok with all that’s going on around them. He tried, but he just didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how I felt inside, and what it took to just survive the daily grind. Growing up in Harlem, it’s easy to fall into the trap and go down that path. I tried to fight it by using music as my outlet, my way of coping. My brother looked at me with sadness, anger, and worry. I tried to reassure him that’d I’d be alright and he shouldn’t worry.
I wanted to introduce my brother to my world, see what I’ve been doing all these years. When we entered the club, I greeted some of the band, and introduced them to my brother. Creole was our bassist, and we had another gentleman who played trumpet with us. Once I started to play, I felt a little nervous, since it was the first time my brother had really heard me play. Not to mention I hadn’t been near the piano in over a year. After the first set, the band gathered around me, and I began to play. I played my song, not any certain song, but it was me. The song representing my life, my pain, my struggle, and I only hoped maybe now my brother would understand. As I got deeper and deeper into the song, I could feel all the anguish dripping down my face in the form of sweat. I played for me, I played for Mama, Daddy, and for my brother. Then it was over. I looked up on the piano and saw a Scotch and milk on top of it. I knew it had been from my brother. I took a sip and looked over at him. I figured that, hearing me, he finally understood where I had been coming from all these years. I gave him a nod and began to play again.