A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (80)

“Well… no. There’s more.”

“Lord, help me over the fence,” she exclaimed before coughing heartily into the crook of her arm. Then she gazed into her cup, looking as though she wished it contained something stronger than Earl Grey. Shaking her head, she placed the teacup atop the stack of plantable note cards Ricki had gifted her (she hadn’t found a better use for them than “makeshift coaster”).

Ricki held back, genuinely frightened to tell the rest. She hadn’t planned on telling Ms. Della about Felice. It wasn’t her place to reveal harsh truths about a woman Ms. Della never knew, the mother she’d surely spent her entire life building up in her head. When Ms. Della told Ricki that she bought the building to feel closer to her, to fill in the blanks of her history, she couldn’t have known she’d find this out.

Telling her the truth felt cruel.

But now she was on the spot. Shoulders slumping, Ricki said, “I don’t really know how to say this. Ms. Della, at first, I didn’t believe Ezra’s story about the curse. It’s so far-fetched, it sounds like a fantasy. But when you told me about the history of 225?, your… uh… stories matched up. And then I knew it was true.”

“I don’t follow.” Ms. Della coughed again.

Ricki hated seeing her so unwell. She seemed unusually fragile, almost like her pajamas were drowning her.

I need to have a private talk with Naaz, thought Ricki. Ms. Della’s not okay. It’s obvious. And she’s too proud to ever tell me what’s wrong.

“Should we let you rest?” asked Ricki. “We can talk about this another time.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she responded, laying her beringed hand on her chest. “Ricki, what does my house’s history have to do with Ezra?”

“Ezra was cursed at a rent party on February 29, 1928. It was held downstairs, Ms. Della. In Wilde Things. Like I said, Ezra’s a pianist. And back then, he was a famous one, called Breeze Walker. The piano in my apartment? It was his. It was left in the house and boarded up all this time.”

“Dear, that’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, I know,” said Ricki. “But it’s also true. And there’s more. He’s immortal because his then girlfriend cursed him. And her name was… Felice.”

Ms. Della looked uncharacteristically stricken. And then she quickly collected herself.

“Felice who?” she asked.

“Fabienne.”

Tuesday looked confused. “Who’s Felice Fabienne?”

“My mother,” said Ms. Della sharply. “Which is obviously impossible.”

“It isn’t, though,” said Ricki, her voice soft. “I don’t know how to tell you this… so I’ll just spit it out. Felice cursed him on the roof and then committed suicide. Which matches up with your story. That pearl bracelet you showed me? Ezra gave it to her. His monogram is inscribed on it. BW + FF. Breeze Walker plus Felice Fabienne.”

Tuesday gasped, clapping her palm over her mouth.

“Felice wanted him to marry her and move back to Louisiana to be with her baby, but he… he turned her down. And she was furious.”

Ms. Della made a scoffing sound and smoothed out the wrinkles in her pajama pants. “Ricki, you can’t possibly believe such a thing.”

“I wish it wasn’t true, Ms. Della.” Ricki’s voice was trembling in shame. “I’m so sorry. I hate that I…”

The older woman held up a wrinkled, shaky index finger at Ricki, signaling for her to stop talking—now. When Ms. Della spoke, her voice was witheringly sharp.

“You do realize, Ricki, that there’s nothing new about a man blaming his ex for every wrong turn that’s happened in his life. Women are blamed for all the ills of the world.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be naive. Every baby mama is a B-word; every ex-wife is crazy. The second wife is trained to hate the first. Somewhere, right this second, one of your ex-boyfriends is telling some girl you’re a witch.”

“Men do be vilifying exes.” Tuesday nodded.

“Believe me, I know,” whispered Ricki, her voice unsteady. “But this time it’s different. Ms. Della…”

“What, dear?” she asked in a thin voice, her patience worn.

“Ezra told me that Felice’s daughter was named Adelaide. He told me this before you told me your real name. How would he know that?”

Ms. Della huffed out an exasperated sound.

“Do you know why Felice named you Adelaide?”

“No, and neither do you. And neither, certainly, does Ezra.”

Worriedly, Ricki chewed on her bottom lip and glanced at Tuesday, who gave her an encouraging nod. And so she kept talking. “Felice named you after her idol, Adelaide Hall. She was one of the first Black Broadway stars. And she inspired Felice to move to Harlem and become a dancer.”

A mighty exhale escaped from Ms. Della, leaving her looking smaller than ever. It was almost as if she had deflated.

“Felice loved you so much. Ezra said so. She was working hard to raise enough money to send for you. Everything she did was for you.”

“That’s enough,” said Ms. Della, fingering a napkin.

“It’s true. I wish it wasn’t. Because it also means I’m going to die in nine days.”