"He wrote it for you," Della said quietly. "He told me before. He said, 'This one's Roland's. He'll know how it ends.'"
Roland stared at the blank page. "But I don't."
Remember that: the song with no ending. Because by the end of tonight, that blank page is going to matter more than anyone in that ballroom could possibly imagine. Keep it in your mind.
Della stood, slower than before, and went to the window. On the sill sat a row of orange medicine bottles lined up like little soldiers. Some were full. Some were nearly empty. She picked one up, shook it, and frowned at the sound.
Money was the thing that was always missing in that apartment. It was missing the way air is missing in a closed room. You don't see it, but you feel it pressing on everything. Della's pension covered the rent, barely. It did not cover the medicine, and it did not cover the appointment she had next week, the one she kept telling Roland not to worry about.
She had a plan, though. That was Della; she always had a plan.
"There's a party tonight," she said, "downtown, a fancy one. They needed extra hands to clean up after, and they pay cash. Double, because it's last minute." She tried to make her voice light. "One night, it'll cover the doctor with a little left for groceries."
Roland looked at her. "You can barely stand up some days."
"I can stand up fine."
"Then I'm coming with you."
"Rolandβ"
"You said yourself there's nobody to leave me with, and I'm not staying here alone at night again." He crossed his arms, 10 years old and immovable. "I'll help carry things. I'm strong."
Della looked at her grandson for a long moment. At the holes in his sneakers she couldn't afford to replace. At the second-hand coat two sizes too big. At the hands. Theo's hands: long-fingered and sure. Hands that could do something extraordinary if the world ever gave them room. And the world had never, not once, given them room.
Della knew that hotel was a place for rich people. She knew how they looked at a poor Black woman and her grandson. She could leave him home, keep him safe from all of it. Or she could bring him and risk what might happen. What she chose next set everything in motion.
She chose to bring him.
"All right," she said, "but you stay close to me. You don't touch anything. You don't talk to anybody. You make yourself small. You hear me?" Then her voice softened and she put her hand against his cheek. "Your daddy played for empty rooms his whole life. Don't you ever learn to hide for full ones."
Roland didn't fully understand what she meant, not yet. He just nodded.