Lucy Sanna

Two artistic women connect across time, race, and culture as they seek to fulfill their creative dreams.

When a gold trumpet turns up in Ceci Bancroft's basement, she's forced to deal with a dark legacy of lies and secrets that spans a century. A story of two gifted women struggling to fulfill their creative dreams, Jazz Dancing unfolds against the rich tapestries of 1920s Paris and present-day San Francisco.

Just me and the music in the sound booth, “Summertime” flowing through my headphones, last number on the set. I sit back in the cracked leather chair and sing along with Billie Holliday, slow and bluesy, one of these mornings, as if she’s just trying to get through the night. I know it too, that emotive ache, passed from mother to daughter like the blues.

As Holliday brings her song to a close I turn on my microphone. “That was Lady Day, recorded July 10, 1936. And this is Ceci Bancroft, wishing you a cozy place on a misty San Francisco evening.”

Through the studio window I spot Dave sauntering down the hall as if he has all night. I breathe into the mike. “Soon we’ll be dimming the lights for mellow Dave Radnor, taking you to the wee hours with Jazz for Lovers. Now let’s go out with Valaida Snow, 1937, ‘I Got Rhythm.’ Thanks for spending your afternoon with Women in Jazz. We’ll be back tomorrow, same time, same station. Until then, stay warm, stay dry, stay tuned to KJZZ. And remember: A woman’s place is in the groove.”

Dave came into the studio smelling like rain, slipped out of his leather jacket, smiled my way. I could always count on Dave for a smile.

I faded up on Snow, turned off my mike and removed my headphones.
“Great program, Kiddo.” He called me kiddo even though he was thirty-four, three years my junior. I let him get away with it because, for a white guy, he knew a lot about jazz, African origins and all. And he was six foot five to my five foot seven. Today he was wearing worn jeans and a washed out T-shirt from last year’s Havana Jazz Festival. He settled his lanky frame into a favorite chair, wheeled up to the wooden table, and opened a pizza box that smelled of greasy pepperoni. He held a slice toward me. I made a face.

Over the years Dave and I had bonded in this little space between our back-to-back programs. He was like family, the good brother. I cared about his stuff, he cared about mine. I could trust him.

When Snow’s number ended, I switched to the outsourced news-weather-traffic thing. We had five minutes before he was on air.

“Glad to see you’re playing Valaida,” he said.

I had never heard of her until Dave loaned me the CD of her vintage music, trumpet player with phrasing like Armstrong. “Who is she anyway?” I asked.
“She’s a mystery,” he said. “Not much available on her life, but I’ve always loved her music.”

I picked up the CD jewel box with Snow’s picture on the front. “She looks familiar.”

“Halle Berry maybe? Exotic woman with nutmeg skin. Like you, Ceci.”
Why was our skin always compared to candies and spices—chocolate, cocoa, cinnamon, caramel, nutmeg? “I take after my mom,” I said, “but I don’t know who she takes after. Gramps died before I knew him but I’ve seen pictures, and Granma Sophie with her pale skin, green eyes, and wavy blonde hair.” I’d always wondered where I got my color.

“What does your mom say about it?” Dave slurred through a mouthful of pizza.

“Whenever I asked her she shooed me away, as if there was something to hide. She never told me, and now maybe she never can.” Regret clouded my eyes.

Dave closed the pizza box. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s made friends with the cat.” That was as optimistic as I could get. It had been three weeks since the last stroke. When I visited her yesterday at the rehab facility, I found her staring out toward the ocean. “Good morning, Mama.” I kissed her on the forehead. She glanced my way, a questioning look, then turned back to the window. Tide rolling out, fog rolling in.

Dave saw I didn’t want to talk about it. He was about to put on his headphones when Bruce walked by, our new station manager, young kid up from Houston with blow-dried hair and brand-name clothes. He glanced through the studio window, unsmiling, and walked on.

“Numb-nuts.” Dave said, then checked the mike to make sure it was off. “I don’t like the looks of that punk.”

I pulled on my denim jacket. “I wouldn’t worry about him.” When Bruce had come around a few weeks ago to introduce himself, he didn’t ask me anything about my program, my audience, my views on the jazz scene. Now, as I twirled my purple scarf around my neck, I said, “He doesn’t give a damn about music, so my guess is he’ll leave us alone.”

Dave shook his head. “The way he watches us, he’s planning something we’re not going to like.”

#

As I walked down the hall, my cell phone vibrated with Charlie Parker’s sultry rendition of “Lover Man.” Ringtone for Anthony.

“Hey there Lover Man,” I answered.

“Been listening all afternoon, Babe, lovin’ that voice of yours,” he said, his own voice dark and mellow. “Going to join me tonight?”

Anthony Williams and his sexy sax at The Bird House in San Francisco. That’s the way I announced his gig on air today. I knew what was happening even if it wasn’t happening for me. “Gotta go back down to Mama’s.” I sighed. “The realtor wants to have an open house in a few weeks.”

“You’ve been working down there nearly every night for a week now. Why don’t you let me help you? I can meet you after my show. We can snuggle in your little girl room. You’ll wear your baby doll pajamas . . .”

I thought of the small single bed in the room I’d grown up in. “You’d have to fight off my teddy bear and kangaroo.”

“Your teddy bear, your teddy… I’ll take ’em all out.”

I laughed. But no, I didn’t want him to be with me when I went through my past. I wanted him to know the free jazzy me, not the moody blues side, the whole damn muddle of my life. Not yet anyway. I walked down the stairs and pushed through the door, out into the rain. “I’ve got to do this myself.”

Though Anthony and I had known each other for only a few months, it seemed like much longer. It was that kind of relationship, fast and deep. I’d met him at a club in North Beach where he was playing one evening. I was drawn to the sensuality of his tenor sax and approached him after the last set to tell him so. He had a big warm smile, a hearty laugh. After a few hours and enough flirty conversation at the wine bar to make me want more, we made a dinner date for the following night.

Anthony worked by day as a carpenter but took jazz gigs in the evenings, mostly weekends. In between, we met at coffee houses and restaurants. When I told him I hosted a radio program, Women in Jazz., he said “You don’t like men in jazz?” the back of his hand brushing up my arm, his skin a shade deeper than mine. I kissed his hand and dared him to a Cajun dinner at my place. It was that night we opened up to each other. I fell easily into his body, dark and solid like rosewood.

God it would be great to be with him tonight. “I’m saving tomorrow night for you,” I said.

“Promises promises,” an audible smile in his voice. I could go crazy for his voice alone.

#