Page 4 of Mazywood

Brother snapped his fingers loudly, and she and Scout both turned to look at him.

“Bark two times,” Brother said.

Scout just stared, looking as dumb as any regular dog.

“What’s the trick?” Dottie asked.

“It’s not a trick!” Mazelle said. “He only listens to me.”

“Show us,” Daddy said. “Do another one.”

For the next two hours, until long past dark, Mazelle did just that.

Two

MAZELLE’S TAP SHOES WERE TOO tight. She hadn’t noticed the pinch during rehearsals, or in the borrowed Model T for the drive from Gracetown to Jacksonville, but when she started walking on the long paths and hallways at Norman Studios, her feet were hurting so much that it was hard to smile and stay excited about the new sights as she tried to keep pace with her family. Scout, beside her, whimpered as if he knew her pain when her shoes click-clicked on the floor.

Her family had retired their showcase of dancing, singing, and jokes, but today they were costumed like the Washington All-American Family Troupe: Daddy and Brother in smart black suits, Doris and Dottie in matching yellow dresses and identical bobs, and Mother as prim as if she were at church. Scout wore a new leash and bright red collar Mother had borrowed from a friend. And one of Daddy’s red bow ties. Mazelle wore a sparkling tutu because her parents thought the dancing was the most dazzling part of her act.

“… brought the house down in Atlanta back in ’twenty-four,” Daddy’s cousin was saying to his white boss. “Folks was lined up around the block. This man here?” He pointed to Daddy. “In his prime, cousin Emory could put Bojangles to shame. Dancing plus acrobatics! Whole family’s a sight to see.”

Mazelle tried to forget her pinched feet by watching the white man’s face, how his lips curled to a smile beneath his mustache. It seemed like a listening-politely smile more than a hiring smile. And when was Daddy’s cousin planning to mention her and Scout? The white man, Mr. Norman, caught Mazelle staring and winked at her.

Most Negroes Mazelle had met in Florida were afraid of white men and would be shocked at the way she boldly looked Mr. Norman in the eye. But Mazelle knew the difference between white men to fear and white men to do business with: She’d watched Mother negotiating contracts with white men her whole life, and while some were nicer than others, she’d learned to spot white men who hated Negroes and white men who loved to do business with Negroes. Mazelle could tell already that Mr. Norman was the latter, since he called Mother ma’am and had shaken Daddy’s hand, and even Brother’s, with strong pumps like they had made his day.

“I remember your act,” Mr. Norman said. “Chicago? A revue at the Vendome. Pleasure to meet y’all. Benny here is an exception, but we don’t see too many colored sophisticates down here.” Mother’s face froze a bit, so Mr. Norman quickly added, “Literacy rates are so low, is all. So few opportunities compared to the North.”

“That’s why I’m teaching now.” Mazelle heard the veiled annoyance in Mother’s voice.

“Why’d you retire from the stage, if you don’t mind me asking?” Mr. Norman said.

Daddy glanced at Mother. “Well… you know.”

“The road is no place for a family,” Mother said.

Mr. Norman nodded. Maybe he didn’t understand the overflowing toilets in Negro train cars or her parents’ worries for their safety in each new town searching for a boardinghouse, but he seemed to know enough. His face grew grim with his own untold stories.

“No argument from me on that count,” Mr. Norman said. His eyes finally fixed on Mazelle. “And what’s your pooch’s name, little lady?”

Mazelle threw her arms open. “Presenting—Little Mazy and Scout the Wonder Dog!”

Scout followed her cue, standing on two legs beside her, his front paws posed wide.

Mr. Norman looked startled, and so did Daddy’s cousin and the two other white men behind them in the hall. Staring. Mother only looked surprised that she had called herself Little Mazy, a name that had popped into Mazelle’s mind. The name Washington didn’t fit her if the Washington All-American Family Troupe had retired. Mazelle had been her grandmother’s name, and Mother never called her daughter anything different.

“Me and Scout have the best act in the whole world,” Mazelle said.

Scout barked his agreement. Daddy’s cousin laughed nervously.

“All righty then,” the producer said. “We’ll just see about that.”

“She’s come up with something truly special,” Mother said. “A fitting continuation of our family legacy. But one better suited for pictures than the stage. So we thought of you.”

Mr. Norman looked distracted, as men often did when Mother was talking, because they didn’t realize that Daddy was more interested in performing than negotiating. He gestured to another white man down the hall with a file folder in his hand. “Say—” he called. “Did Micheaux mention if he’s looking for kids? Or an animal act?”

The man barely broke his stride, shaking his head before he disappeared into a doorway.

“Oscar… Micheaux?” Mother asked. From her voice, he must have been important.