Jason’s suicide shattered our lives. I was his best friend since second grade at Sherman Elementary School. We went to Hidden Valley Camp in Maine every summer, played little league baseball and damn it, we spent almost every day together. How could I not know what was going on? Why would he hang himself?

At the cemetery when they were burying him, I couldn’t keep my eyes off his mom and dad, the perfect parents. Dr. Mednick was Chief of Staff at Jefferson Hospital. His mother owned the Fairwinds Flower Store in town and was on the school board. She was hysterical with grief, shaking and sobbing, leaning against her husband and holding their daughter, Myra close to her.

Jason said they were great parents and how easy it was to talk to them. They went on camping trips together, and last summer they spent three weeks in France and Italy going to art museums and other famous places. Jason said it was a perfect vacation because they let him wander off and go where he wanted. He loved that they trusted him. He told me he went into the old parts of Rome and Paris, down dark cobble stoned alleys and saw parts of the city most tourists would be afraid to see. His parents didn't know where he spent several afternoons or nights. He told me he loved danger and saw in those dark streets and alleys a side of humanity that was raw, ugly, yet beautiful and mysterious. He said they fascinated and terrified him. It was the intensity and fierceness in his eyes and voice when he said, “I have to know more! I have to understand. I want the truth!”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but two weeks after he returned from their trip to France and Italy, Jason started going into New York for guitar lessons every Saturday.

Before that, he fooled around on the guitar his parents bought him when he was twelve. He didn’t take lessons and taught himself some chords from youtube and learned a few folk songs, but he would go weeks without playing the guitar. Then suddenly, after returning from Europe, he became obsessed with learning to play the blues and listening to the old delta blues musicians.

His parents bought him a five year old Subaru for his senior year. His girlfriend, Sandy was beautiful and really talented. They seemed to have fun together and always had deep conversations about philosophy and music. She played violin in the school orchestra, and they often went to New York for concerts at Carnegie Hall. She said he seemed fine when they were together, but recently seemed to go deeper into himself, suddenly get quiet and spend more time in his room practicing the guitar, listening to the blues and writing songs, but she didn’t think anything of it. She liked how serious and passionate he was, and she was busy with college applications. She did mention one thing that seemed strange. She said he asked for a lock of her hair a few weeks ago. He didn't say why but seemed eager to have it.

Jason got accepted early admissions to Wesleyan. He was going to take a year off and travel and his parents were fine with that. He had the perfect life. So why did he go and hang himself in the basement? Why the note tucked under the strings on his guitar, “Trapped! There’s no way out.”

When the news spread through school on Monday that Jason had killed himself, classes were called off and they had an assembly. No one could believe it. The whole school was in shock. Why would someone who seemed to have the perfect life hang himself? They brought in counselors so we could break down into small groups. I left school after the assembly and asked his parents if I could sit in Jason’s room. They said they were fine with that.

I wanted to be where he spent his last hours. I wanted to see if I could feel what he was thinking. What did he mean, “There’s no way out?” Why did he feel trapped? What did he want out from? Was he in trouble? I had to know.

I sat on his bed and looked around the room. Jason’s guitar was on the floor next to his bed and that’s where the note about being trapped was found. He had a great CD collection which he kept organized in alphabetical order; books about the delta blues sat on one shelf; posters of black blues musicians like Muddy Waters, Howling Wolf, Honey Boy Edwards and photographs of juke joints filled one wall. A book about Robert Johnson lay open on the table next to his bed. I turned the pages and saw he had underlined a passage about the cross roads and selling his soul to the devil. Why did he underline that passage? I knew he wanted to go to Mississippi to see the old juke joints in person, to see where the blues originated. He wanted to see the houses where the blues players lived. He became obsessed with the blues.

Jason didn’t talk much about his music lessons. He was the only one I knew who listened to that kind of music. I’m not sure what it was but something was changing. He spent hours in his room listening to those records, playing his guitar, writing songs but never sang one to me. When I asked if I could hear one, he'd say,“It's not ready yet or maybe later.”

Though we hung out and our times together were good, now that I think back, it was a little strained. He would get quiet like he was far away, and I just thought it was because we’d be graduating soon and starting a new chapter. It was subtle so I just shoved it out of my mind.

Once I asked if I could go to the city with him and he said “no” in a sharp, angry voice that surprised me. He never said no if I asked him to do something. When I asked him why he didn’t want me to go, he just said, his day in the city was his space. It was too special. He needed it.

“What do you mean you need it?” I asked.

“Drop it!” he said. “Just drop it!”

I never asked him about New York again, and I never heard him play me one of his songs.

Searching his room, I found a card on his desk that said, Amos Lexington, Guitar Teacher. It had the address, 1523 Amsterdam Avenue, but no phone number. I picked it up and on the other side, written in pencil in Jason’s writing was Broody’s Blues Bar. I stared at the card, then put it in my pocket. What was Broody’s Blues Bar?

I decided I’d go and find out if his guitar teacher knew what was going on with Jason. What did he mean, “The city was his space, he needed it?” What was special? What did he need?

On Saturday, the week after Jason's funeral, I went to New York and found Amos Lexington’s guitar studio in Harlem and remember walking down the bustling street from the subway, aware I was the only white person. What am I doing here? This is a big mistake.

Standing in front of an old brick building, I checked the address on the business card, then took a deep breath. “Here goes,” then slowly climbed the well worn stone steps, determined to find out what had happened to Jason. After opening the door that badly needed paint, I stood in front of the row of buzzers and pushed the button next to Amos Lexington. The dark entrance was small with mailboxes next to the row of buzzers. While waiting for the buzzer, I looked around at the peeling green paint and a pile of old newspapers in the corner. I pushed the buzzer again and finally heard a voice come through a little speaker, “Who’s ringin’?”

“I’m a friend of Jason, one of your students. I need to talk to you.”

A low, gravelly voice said, “Oh yeah, Jason, Well, come on up then. I'll buzz you in.” When the buzzer went off, I took a deep breath, opened the door and walked the three flights to Amos’ apartment. The stairs were dirty, white paint was peeling on the walls and there were cracks and places on the ceiling where the plaster had fallen, exposing wood slats. The hall was dark and smelled like urine and beer. The only light came from a dangling light bulb in the middle of the hall. It was hard to see the numbers on the doors. Just then, a door at the end of the hall opened and a small black man looked out and waved me towards him. He went back in and left the door opened.

I stood at the open door before entering and wondered how Jason ever found this guitar teacher. Amos’ world was so different than our world on Long Island, but this is where Jason came every Saturday. I had no idea when he said he was taking guitar lessons in New York, that it was in a dilapidated old apartment building in Harlem. He never talked about it.

Amos stood on the other side of the room in front of a window with the shades down. No light came into the dark room. He was a tiny, skinny black man with a pencil thin mustache. He wore baggy gray pants held up by black suspenders, and a gray T-shirt with ketchup stains. He was bald except for a little patch of fuzzy white hair above his ears and had a toothpick dangling from the side of his mouth.

The room was cluttered with piles of newspapers and magazines. A bottle of Jack Daniels and a half empty glass sat on top of a pile of records. An ashtray filled with cigarette butts and ashes was on the floor next to a big worn out brown recliner with a small television in front of it. A beat up guitar leaned against the wall in the corner. The paint on the head of the guitar under the strings was all scratched away.

“Why are you here?” he asked, squinting.

“Did you know Jason hung himself?”

A low grunt came, then he shook his head from side to side. “Damn, Ida done got another one.”

“Ida. Who’s Ida? What do you mean?”

Amos just looked at me, put his hand on the top of his bald head, but didn't speak. He looked hard at me, squinting as if trying to see something in me. “Jason had a feel for the blues,” he said. “He was a natural and was gettin’ close, too close.”

“What are you saying? What do you mean he was getting close, close to what?”

“He was a black man in a white boy’s body,” Amos said, nodding, looking me in the eyes. “He was gettin’ close to the sound, the growl, the pain, the truth.”

“What did you mean Ida got him? You said Ida got him. What’s that about?”

“You don’t want to go there, boy. You best listen to me.”

Jason left a note that said, “Trapped. There’s no way out.”

Amos sighed and moved the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other and sighed, shaking his head. He closed his eyes and took another deep, weary breath.

“I want to know what happened to Jason,” I said. I took the card out of my pocket and asked, “Where’s Broody’s Blues Bar?”

“Broody’s ain’t no place for a boy like you,” Amos said. “Stay away.”

“Did Jason go there?”

“Yeah, I told him ‘bout Broody’s cause it’s the closest to a juke joint there is in New York.”

“Jason said he wanted to go to juke joints in Mississippi.”

“I know. That’s why I told him ‘bout Broody’s, but I warned him ‘bout Ida. She’s the owner. I said to Jason like I’m saying to you--stay away from there, but he went anyway. I knew he would. I told him if your going to go, tell Ida my name. He went there on Saturdays after his lesson. Damn, that boy was obsessed. He wanted to learn from the masters.”

“Where is it?” I asked.

He walked to the window and moved the window shade. “It’s down to the corner,” he said, motioning me to come to the window. He stepped aside and pointed.

I saw the bar on the corner across the street with a sign shaped like a guitar and the word, “Broody's Blues Bar crudely printed.

“I’ve got to go there,” I said.

Amos nodded at me and moved his face close to mine. I could smell the bourbon on his breath. “Don’t go there,” he said. “I’m sorry now I told Jason ‘bout it, but he had the blues in him. He had to go. You don’t need to. An’ I’m tellin’ you now boy, you’d do best to stay away from Ida.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I said, “but Jason was my best friend and I have to find out why he hung himself.”

Amos looked into my eyes and shook his head. I glanced away andnoticed an old book on the floor. It had a black cover and in red print I saw the title, Blues and the Devil. I stared at it and remembered the passage I had seen underlined in the book next to Jason's bed.

“What’s that book?” I asked. “What does the blues have to do with the devil?”

Amos rubbed his chin, “Do you listen to the blues?”

“No,” I answered, glancing down at the book, then back at Amos.

“Well, then it wouldn’t do no good to tell you ‘less you listen to the blues.”

“Did Jason know about what’s in that book?”

“Yeah and he knew the whole story ‘bout Robert Johnson at the crossroads and other stories,” Amos said. “He read that book about three weeks ago when it was raining out and asked if he could stay awhile until it stopped, then he went over to Broody’s.”

I wanted to ask him more about Jason and the book, but he said he had a student coming and he wanted to rest up.

“I’ve got to go to Broody’s,” I said.

Amos gave a little grunt, but didn’t speak.

“Well, thanks for your time,” I said, shaking his hand.

He walked to the door and opened it and took the toothpick out of his mouth. “I can’t stop you, but Broody’s ain’t no place for a white boy like you. I’ll tell you one more time, Stay away!”

When I walked down the dark hall, noticing my shadow on the wall from the dangling light bulb, I thought about Amos' warning. Maybe I should listen to him. I walked out the front door and stood on the sidewalk, and looked at Broody’s across the street on the corner and noticed the windows were painted black. I glanced at the guitar shaped sign, then looked up and saw Amos at the window, holding the window shade aside. When our eyes met, he let go of the shade.

Maybe I should just get out of here. That’s no place for a white boy, came to my mind, but I had to know what was going on with Jason. Who was Ida and what did Amos mean, “Ida got another one?” What did Jason mean, I’m trapped There’s no way out?

I had come this far. I had to find out what was going on with Jason and made my decision. The streets were busy. Trash littered the sidewalk. People glanced at me as we rushed by each other. This is nuts.

Cars, trucks, buses, cabs rushed in both directions. I heard honking horns and a siren in the distance. Stores lined both sides of the street. I passed a dress shop, a hardware store, a pizza shop, a pawn shop with a sign--check cashing and next to that, a barbecue restaurant with the smell of food coming out of the open door and a sign painted on the window, “Best ribs in town” and another sign, “Soul Food.”

I made my way to the corner and waited for the light to change. Several people climbed onto the bus that had just pulled up. I crossed the street and stood in front of Broody’s. I tried to look in the window even though it was painted black. I stared at the front door for a minute. When I reached for the handle, the door flew open and two black men staggered out. The taller one held up the other, obviously too drunk to walk and sneered at me with angry, bloodshot eyes and yelled, “Get the fuck out of the way, white boy!”

I quickly moved aside so that he and his drunk partner could get by. While I watched them stagger across the street, a car screeched to a stop, and a taxi's horn honked. I hesitated and stared at the black door not sure if I should do this. Part of me wanted to run away. Amos' warning not to go to Broody's echoed in me, while another part of me said, I have to find out what happened to Jason? I stared at the grimy brass door handle, swallowed and opened the door.

It was dark and smelled of smoke. When my eyes adjusted, I saw booths and tables. A long wooden bar with a dozen or so black stools was on one wall and behind it shelves filled with various bottles and glasses. A pool table was at the rear. A dart board was on the back wall with one dart in the center. It was empty except for a man with his head down on a table top, a glass in his hand. At another table, a man with a black bandana around his head and a woman with tightly braided hair sat drinking and talking. A small stage was in the corner with an upright piano, a few wooden chairs and two microphones folded up against the back wall. The only sound was music from a speaker over the bar—a guitar and a harsh growling voice singing some words I couldn’t understand.

At the far end of the bar, a fat black woman wearing a baggy sweatshirt with the word Broody on the front was slicing lemons. Large golden earrings dangled from her ears and a large Christian cross hung down the front of her shirt. When she saw me, she shook her head from side to side and chuckled to herself, then with a smirk on her lips went back to slicing lemons.

That must be Ida...I took a deep breath and walked over to her, not sure what I would say.

“What you doin’ in here?” she said before I could speak,

“Are you Ida?” I asked.

“Who wants to know?” She picked up a cigarette from the ash tray and took a puff.

“Me. My name’s Ben. Did you know a boy named Jason?”

“Jason?” she repeated his name, then nodded. “Yeah that white blues boy Amos sent over.” She smiled, “What about him?”

“He hung himself last week.”

“I ain't surprised.”

“What do you mean you're not surprised?”

She put down her knife, wiped her hands on a dish towel, shook head from side to side, then narrowed her eyes. “He was in dangerous territory.”

“Dangerous territory? What do you mean?”

“It's hard to explain.” She took another drag on her cigarette then turned to me. “But I want to know why you're here where you know you don't belong. This ain't no place for a white boy like you.”

“I found a card on Jason's desk with Broody’s Blues Bar written on the back so I wanted to know what happened. There was a note that said, 'I’m trapped.'”

Ida just looked at me, then picked up her cigarette and took a deep drag, letting the smoke come out her nostrils, then put it out, twisting it into the already filled ashtray. She took a deep weary breath, stood up, picked up her pack of cigarettes. “Come with me.”

She shoved her pack of cigarettes into the pocket of her baggy jeans, then waddled towards the rear. I followed her past the pool table and the stage in the corner and down a narrow hall and couldn't help looking at her wide hips and huge ass. She opened a door and waved me into a small dark room that smelled of incense. I couldn’t place the smell but thought it was cinnamon or vanilla. She flicked a switch and a red light from a floor lamp in the corner came on, giving the small room an odd, reddish glow. Ida closed the door and went around the room lighting candles.

The dim redness from the lamp blending with the flickering candle light caused my throat to tighten and a shiver went through me like it did when I watched a horror movie and knew something bad was about to happen. That’s when I looked up and saw six or seven small black dolls dangling from the ceiling just above me. Oh my God, I gasped.

“Take a seat.” Ida pointed to small brown couch with worn out cushions.

I didn’t budge and stared again at the dolls above my head, while Ida walked over to a small round table in the corner with more candles. When Ida lit them, I saw two chicken feet hanging from a string over the table. I stared at the the yellow, bony feet with claws. In the center of the table was something that looked like a big rattle. It was black and looked like it was made from snake skin. Leaning against the table was a wooden cane with a carved snake wrapped around it. At the top, its mouth was wide open with two sharp fangs and a narrow tongue looking like it was about to strike.

“You say you want to know what happened,” she said, and took a deep breath. “You sure you want to know?”

“Yes, I want to know. I have to know.”

“Then I'll tell you,” she said, “That boy heard the cry behind the blues, the sound of hell, the devil’s music and wanted to play the blues he heard because he knew his life was not real, not honest. He wanted to play and sing the raw truth. He wanted to play the devil’s music. I heard him play his guitar and knew he was getting close, maybe too close. I never heard a white boy play the blues like that.”

“This is crazy,” I managed to say. “What are you talking about? I’ve known Jason since we were kids. We were like brothers. What do you mean he heard the devil’s music?”

Ida went to a cabinet with a glass door, opened it and picked up a small blue bottle from the shelf. He chose to drink the potion,” she said, turning the bottle in her hand. “No one forced him.”

“What’s the potion? What happens?” I asked.

“See the dolls around the room. Jason’s spirit is now in the doll above your head.” I looked up.

“This is nuts,” I said. “Did you kill him with that potion.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He wanted to go to the music. He wanted the truth of the blues. He chose to go and find what he needed and I helped.”

“He was happy,” I said. “He told me he loved his life. Was he lying?”

“No, he wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t being honest either. He wanted more. He knew his life wasn’t honest. He knew there was something in him that had to get out. He felt the rawness of the truth. He heard it in the music and wanted to go to the crossroads. I warned him what could happen, but he insisted and paid me the money to get the potion and gave me the lock of his girl friend’s hair for the ceremony.”

“He gave you a lock of her hair--Sandy’s hair,” I said, remembering she told me that he wanted her hair.

“Yeah, it was an offering to Papa Legba before drinking the potion.

“Papa Legba? Who’s that?”

“Papa Legba, he be the guardian of the gates to his ancestors. He wanted to go to his origins and I was his Mambo.

“Mambo, what’s that?”

“I’m chosen by our ancestors to help folks find their way back. This potion takes you to the place where all can be seen and known. This is what I gave him. It takes you back to the beginning, back to the Congo, back to where he was from.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean back to the Congo?”

“He wanted to find the origin of the blues. He wanted to play it, live it, sing the truth. The potion took him to where our people came from, back to the Congo, back to the jungles where the blues began.”

I looked up at the ceiling at the dolls dangling. I saw a tray of pins on the shelf behind Ida.

“Why did Jason hang himself? What did he mean he was trapped? He said there was no way out. What did the potion do?”

Ida put the bottle back on the shelf and picked up the tray of pins. She went to the doll above my head. “Do you want to feel Jason?”

“What do you mean feel Jason?”

She reached up and took the doll down. It was about six inches long, wrapped in black cloth and its arms were out to the side. It looked like it was stuffed with straw or cotton.

“Jason’s here,” she said. When she stuck the pin in the doll’s arm, a sharp pain caused me to wince and shout, “Ouch!” Then, in a flash, I saw Jason's face with his eyes wide open, then it became blurred and disappeared. “How did you do that?”

Just then a big black man with a red bandana wrapped around his head opened the door. He had a long earring dangling from one ear. “Do you want me, Ida,” he asked. She put up her hand, indicating she wanted him to be quiet.

“So you want to know why Jason hung himself? Why he felt trapped in his life? Why he wanted to find in the blues?”

“You murdered him. You lured him to your crazy world.”

“No I didn’t,” Ida said.

“Amos said, Ida got another one,” I said. “What’s that mean?”

“Jason came to me. He was drawn to me. He played the blues for me. I never heard a white boy play like that and I heard the sorrow and pain in his voice. He knew too much, saw too much, but he wanted to know more.” Ida stopped and shook her head. She bit her lower lip like she was trying to hold back from crying. “He was getting close to the blues, to the darkness, to the danger. I warned him. I told him he was going where a white boy shouldn’t go. I told him he had to turn back.”

“This is crazy,” I said. “What did you do to Jason?”

“He begged me to give him the potion in this blue bottle,” she said, picking it up again from the shelf. “He knew about the crossroads and wanted to go there. He wanted to go to the real truth, the rawness. He knew his life was not honest. That he wasn’t being true to what he knew from the blues. He knew he was trapped, a black man in a white boy’s body. He knew about Papa Legba and the Daballah Wedo,” Ida said.

“What’s that?”

“Voo doo,” Ida said. “You must be a good friend to want to know what happened to Jason,” she added, narrowing her eyes. She came closer and looked into my eyes.

“I have to know. He was my best friend and I want to know why he hung himself. I have to know.”

Ida was silent then walked over to the table with the chicken feet hanging. She picked up the rattle and came back to me and without a word, started shaking the rattle over my head and mumbled some words, then said,“So you want to know what Jason knew, why he felt trapped and knew his life was not honest?”

My throat tightened. I was trembling and tried to swallow but couldn’t. The sound of the rattle over my head and the way Ida looked at me when she asked if I really wanted to know what Jason knew suddenly made me want to get away from her and run.

“If you want to know I can take you there. If you're truly his friend and want to know, you must give me a lock of your hair and drink this potion and you will see what Jason saw,” she said, smiling, then nodded to the man. While she picked up a pair of scissors, he grabbed me and held my arms behind me with his rough hands. I squirmed but she held my hair, snipped and held up the hair in her fingers and smiled. Then she poured the potion into a small glass. “Drink this and you will know what Jason saw. You’ll know what he found in the blues. You will know the real Jason.”

She held the glass to my lips while the man held me. “No I don’t want to go there. I want to get out. I’m afraid. Leave me alone.”

“This potion will take you to the crossroads and you can go with Papa Legba through the gates. You will go where Jason went, but there’s no way back.”

“No! No! I don’t want to go.”

The big man held my arms. Ida held the potion to my lips. “If you are truly his friend, be brave and drink this,” she said. “Go to your friend and he will tell you what he knows, then you will know.”

I squirmed harder in the big man’s arms, but he gripped me tighter. I had to get out of there. “Let me go!”

I kicked the man’s leg and stomped as hard as I could on his foot and he let go. Before he could grab me again, I knocked the glass from Ida’s hand, spilling the potion on the floor and ran out the door, through the dark bar and to the street.

The sudden glare of the sun hurt my eyes as I ran from the darkness and down the street, weaving my way through the crowd, but happened to glance up and saw Amos looking down at me from his window. I ran to the subway and finally felt safe when the train doors closed.

That night in bed I thought about Amos, Ida and Jason. I looked around my room at my books, my computer, my CDs, my clothes, the picture of our little league team, the Beatles poster, my tennis racquet. I wondered whether my life was honest and what Jason heard in the blues. What truth? I couldn’t sleep. I got up and went to my desk and picked up the card with Amos’s name. I turned it over and looked at the word Broody’s Blues Bar in Jason’s hand writing. I thought about the potion that Jason took to find the blues. I opened my desk drawer, put the card there and slammed the drawer shut.