Page 82 of Mazywood

Her step hitched when she saw hastily fastened handwritten signs askew on the doors, but the signs only read GENTS and DAMES, not WHITE ONLY. Both bathrooms were already in use, the doors closed.

Away from the crowd, the air felt cooler and Mazelle noticed how tightly her muscles were wound across her back from anxiousness, flirting with pain. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. The DAMES door flew open, and a blue-haired older woman in a mink wrap jumped with fright when she saw Mazelle waiting near the door. “What in the world—” the woman said, her smoke-thickened voice so loud that a few nearby heads turned. Her eyes stabbed at Mazelle. She stood planted in front of the bathroom as if to block her entrance.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Mazelle said with relentless charm, though her eyes stabbed right back. “If you’ll move aside… I won’t make a mess on this nice carpet.”

The woman gave a start, lips parted. She’d probably never been spoken to so frankly by a Negro. Mazelle breezed past the woman after she stepped aside, ignoring her indignation.

Once she closed the bathroom door, Mazelle’s mouth fell open with a silent cry of frustration. The nerve of that woman to think she could block her from the bathroom. Every human being on earth needed to piss, so why appoint herself the bathroom police? And Lorenzo should have been with her to clear the way instead of drinking himself to oblivion.

But at least the bathroom was lovely, all marble and shine. Enough towels for an army. A claw-foot bathtub she wished she had time to soak in. Mazelle carefully lifted her dress, trying not to crease or soil it, and sat on the toilet to release a long, steady stream. The seat was still warm from the woman who’d left, and distaste mingled with Mazelle’s annoyance. She didn’t want to share body heat with that woman any more than she’d wanted to share it with Lorenzo.

After she flushed, Mazelle went to the sink and reached for the faucet—but stopped when she saw her gloved arms. Instead, she gazed at her reflection, and the last of her irritation melted away. She patted a few stray hairs back in place alongside her ears, but the bright lighting made her dress and skin glow even more. If she was going to be a true movie star, she couldn’t let herself get upset by the behavior of one ignorant person. Hell, if she had held on to every slight and grievance, she would have killed someone by now.

The bathroom door inched open. “Hello?” a woman called. “Are you decent?”

“Yes, but I’m not finished—” Mazelle began, but a glimpse of the woman’s cheek in the mirror showed light brown skin: She was a Negro. “Oh! Did somebody smuggle you in too? Better come in before they call the police.”

“Isn’t it the most ridiculous thing?” the woman said, letting herself inside. She turned to lock the door behind her, which Mazelle had not remembered to do. “Sneaking us in here like we’re going behind enemy lines. It’s humiliating. But anything for the war effort, I guess.”

It wasn’t until the woman took her place at the sink beside Mazelle to powder her face that Mazelle saw who she was: Lena Horne. The stunning Georgia Brown from Cabin in the Sky, and the female lead of Stormy Weather—the most famous Negro actress in the world—stood next to her! Horne was the only Negro starlet with a seven-year contract at MGM like the white stars after the NAACP designated her the Negro Face of the Future.

Most Negro actors Mazelle knew had never met Lena Horne, but already couldn’t stand her. But Hattie was forever saying it wasn’t Lena’s fault that the NAACP’s Walter White looked down his nose at the Negro actors already working in Hollywood, not bothering to consult with them before he anointed Lena as their successor when he met with studio heads. Negroes could be just as color-struck as white folks. Before Lorenzo called, Mazelle had been turned down for leads in race films by Negro directors because of her dark skin too.

Lena was wearing a white lace dress with spaghetti straps that clung to her birdlike figure. Did she weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds? And she smelled like a spring flower garden. No one will notice you now, a voice whispered to Mazelle. Dread cinched her stomach after her initial joy at seeing this beautiful woman. More than anyone she knew of, Lena Horne was living the life Mazelle craved, almost a twin sister. Except that Lena’s skin was so pale, lighter than her mother’s. Mazelle looked away when she realized she was staring.

“Do you see lipstick on my teeth?” Lena asked. She posed her teeth for Mazelle.

Damn if they weren’t the most perfect white teeth too. How could teeth look like pearls? Mazelle looked for flaws, found none, and was irritated with herself for looking.

“Nope,” Mazelle said. “Everything’s perfect.”

Lena cocked her head for a more serious study of Mazelle. “I’m so jealous of that gown,” she said. “Those gloves too! My trunk got left behind in New York, so I had to find this in a hurry.” She gestured at her formfitting lace dress as if it were rags. “Anyway, I’m relieved to see you here. It feels so good not to be alone for a change. But, honey, you know that already.”

Her warmth melted Mazelle’s reservations. She had a hundred questions for this woman, but, as with Clark Gable, she couldn’t muster her usual glibness in Lena’s presence. Lorenzo was right: Some people had magnetism, not just good looks. Lena shone like the sun. Mazelle’s sister Dottie had confided that she preferred women to men, and now Mazelle understood what it might feel like to want to wrap herself up inside another woman. Her spirit, anyway.

“Yes,” Mazelle said. “I still don’t believe you’re standing here. Lena Horne!”

“You know what’s funny?” Lena said. “I’m thinking the exact same thing. I don’t want to be a bother, but I have to confess: I followed you in here. You’re Mazelle Washington. I saw you across the room and couldn’t believe my eyes. I grew up watching your Li’l Gumshoes reels. I’m just a hair older than you. I never wanted to sing and dance—the Cotton Club was my mother’s thing for me—but you sure did make me want to do pictures. And now here we are!”

Lena spoke earnestly, their faces so close that Mazelle noticed Lena’s light spray of freckles underneath her makeup. Mazelle’s throat tightened with emotion. She bent forward, and the two young women hugged with a swaying more like family than strangers.

Thunderous applause rippled through the door. Someone was making a speech.

“I’m so sorry about what happened to Scout,” Lena said, and Mazelle stiffened. She forgot that the entire nation had mourned Scout’s disappearance, not just her. She’d been sure everyone else had moved on. “I didn’t even live in California and I was always looking for him.”

“Thank you,” Mazelle said, and then she blurted, “I need to move on from what I’ve been doing.” Although she had named the new mountain lodge she was building “Mazywood” to honor the character responsible for her fortunes, she was embarrassed to say the name in front of Lena. “I’m tired of the same old same old, you know? My producer introduced me to Jack Warner out there, and he invited me for a screen test—”

Lena squealed, cupping Mazelle’s elbows. “That’s fantastic!”

“And I’ve been doing comedy so long… I want to work on being a better dramatic actress too. So I can be a lead one day, like you. Can you recommend any good teachers?”

Lena’s smile faded a bit with confusion. “I can think of good teachers, but let’s get it straight. Shoot, I’m not a lead—not to MGM. Or Fox either.”

“But Stormy Weather…”

“Yes, it’s the best luck a colored gal could get,” Lena said. She lowered her voice. “But the scripts they’re sending me now? It’s nightclub numbers. My manager says they’ll probably trim me out in the Southern markets. That’s how they do it. They get you under contract to say what they’re doing, but no one’s doing much. And it wasn’t a real pairing, was it? Bill Robinson is older than my daddy.”

Mazelle smothered a laugh, and Lena joined her. She had noticed that Lena’s love interest was a man her parents had known since before the turn of the century. “Bojangles” Robinson was a legend, but he wasn’t an appropriate suitor for a girl in her twenties.