The Minstrel's Melody Read online

  The electric lights flickered merrily above her like stars shining in a purple sky. A candelabra chandelier above the stage grew brighter until every light blazed. Othello strode out to the edge of the stage in his white derby hat and white cutaway coat and tails. He tipped his hat, smiling at the audience, and introduced himself as the Great Grand Master.

  Orphelia swallowed nervously. How would she get onstage? Were Momma and Poppa out there already? What would they do when they saw her? What if, after finally realizing her dream of performing at the World’s Fair, she was a failure? What if the audience booed her?

  Othello introduced Madame Meritta, who floated out in a golden gown with sparkly jewelry around her neck and wrists and a gigantic tiara on her head. Her hair hung down past her shoulders. What a beautiful lady she was! When she began to sing a song about St. Louis, the audience applauded. The more she sang, the more they applauded. By the end of the song the audience was on its feet cheering. So was Orphelia.

  Next came two men and two women dancing a fancy cakewalk. They must have been some of Madame’s St. Louis backup performers, because Orphelia didn’t recognize any of them.

  Orphelia patted her foot and pretended to dance with them. During the next acts, she concentrated on practicing the words to her songs and rehearsing the fingering in her head.

  The show neared its end. Sweating in the heavy clothing, Orphelia ignored the butterflies in her stomach. It was time to make her move. Otherwise, the show would be over and so would her dream.

  Othello came to the stage again and began to thank the audience and café owners while the band softly played its theme song.

  Orphelia straightened her hat. She rushed toward the stage, but she immediately discovered that it wasn’t as easy speeding around tables and chairs as it had been to run up the aisle in Pitchfork Creek. She bumped into a chair and fell into a woman’s lap.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, getting up. She careened against a table and fell to the floor. Still on her knees, she waved her hand. “Mr. Great Grand Master, Mr. Grand Master, I’m back again like I promised. Don’t forget me!”

  Othello paused and looked around. “Turn up the houselights, please,” he said. “Who is calling the Great Grand Master?”

  As the lights came up, Orphelia struggled to her feet and caught Othello’s eye. “It’s me—Orville, your Musical Orphan Boy. I’m back! Don’t forget me!”

  “Orville?” Othello said, his face full of surprise.

  People began to chuckle and point at her. Orphelia made it to the edge of the stage. She tugged at Othello’s pants leg. “Oh, please, Mr. Great Grand Master, please let me sing my song of sorrow!”

  Letting go of his pants leg, she slipped down on one knee and held her arms out wide. “Just give me my one last chance.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, a moment, please,” said Othello. He bent down to her and whispered, “You just don’t give up, do you, Orphelia?” He stood up, removed his derby, and tapped his head with one thick forefinger, appearing to be deep in thought.

  Orphelia began to sing softly. She rose to a full standing position, singing louder and louder. She stopped singing, then clutched her hands together and raised them in the air toward Othello.

  Following his gaze to the left, Orphelia saw, right in the front row, Momma, Poppa—and Pearl! They were all there, staring at Orphelia in shock. Seeing her family after nearly a week’s absence made Orphelia lose her concentration for a few seconds, but she regained it and continued singing.

  Othello smiled a little, then broke out into a grandiose grin. Bowing to her, he helped Orphelia up onstage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you our little Orville, who will capture your hearts. Please prepare yourselves with handkerchiefs. And now … Orville, our Musical Orphan Boy Prodigy!”

  Orphelia bowed to the audience and struck a pose. She began to sing “Homeless Child,” then abruptly remembered that she was supposed to be playing the piano. Still singing, she slipped over to the band at the front of the stage. The piano player stood up and gave her his seat.

  People in the audience began to nod and dab at their eyes as she sang. When she gained enough courage, she glanced down at her family. Poppa sat with a proud smile on his face; Pearl was grinning and waving; and Momma—well, Momma looked like she had turned to stone.

  At the end of the song Orphelia stood up and bowed. The audience stood, too, clapping heartily. Thrilled by the response, Orphelia sat back down at the piano. She glanced at Othello, who nodded and tipped his hat to her. “Isn’t she divine? Orville, our Musical Orphan Boy Prodigy! Or should I say Miss Orville, our Musical Orphan Girl Prodigy! Perhaps she’ll give us one more song.”

  Orphelia sang and played “Listen to the Mockingbird,” which the audience loved as well. Then Othello started for the center of the stage, signaling her to finish. But Orphelia wasn’t about to stop now. She broke into “Lewis County Rag.”

  The audience clapped in time to the song, and people waved their hats. Orphelia looked over at her parents. Poppa’s mouth had fallen open. Momma pressed her hands to her face.

  Quickly Orphelia ended the song and stood up. The applause was thunderous. Orphelia jumped off the stage and ran to her family as the crowd began to file out.

  Poppa placed his hands on her shoulders and then took her into his arms. “I’m so glad you’re still in one piece, Li’l Sweets.”

  Pearl clamored to hug her, too. “Everybody at school and church has been talking up a storm about you,” she whispered. “Momma refused to go to St. Louis, even after we got that second telegram. But I told her if we didn’t go, I’d run away, too. So, see? I promised I’d make it up to you.”

  Momma stood back, her mouth a straight line across her face. Poppa and Pearl moved a little to one side. Orphelia forced herself to look up. “Hello, Momma,” she said softly.

  “Orphelia,” Momma said, her voice as cold as ice, “where did you learn that song?”

  “Otisteen, can’t you say hello first?” Poppa broke in. He put his arm around Orphelia. “She’s here, she’s all right, and she’s just shown us what a bundle of talent she has. Orphelia, I’m sorry you had to run away to make us see how much you love music.”

  “It’s okay, Poppa. I learned the song from this, Momma,” Orphelia said, pulling the composition book out of her trousers. “I found it in the Stone Shed. It was Uncle Winston’s, wasn’t it?”

  Momma gasped and raised one hand to her mouth.

  Orphelia continued. “I know now why you didn’t want me to perform. I know all about how you and Poppa and Uncle Winston were playing at the Dixie Palace. And I know how Uncle Winston got killed—only I’m not really sure he’s dead—but I read about the lynching in this article.” Orphelia pulled out the newspaper page, unfolded it, and held it up.

  “What is it? Let me see!” Pearl snatched the newsprint out of Orphelia’s hand.

  Momma began to sob and fell against Poppa’s chest. He held her tightly.

  “So you found it, Orphelia,” he said quietly.

  “Great grumpity gracious! This really happened?” Pearl shouted out as she read the article. “How come I don’t remember any of it?”

  “Because you were only a baby then, Pearl. Too young to know what was going on,” Poppa explained.

  “But, Poppa, why didn’t you just tell us about it?” asked Orphelia.

  “We could never agree on when we should,” Momma spoke up. “I always blamed myself for what happened, because I was the one who wanted to have a trio.” Othello brought a chair over for Momma to sit down on. “If I hadn’t been so insistent, Winston would have never joined. He loved to play and compose, but not professionally He just wanted to be a farmer, I wanted us to travel and perform. Just when it seemed that we were getting popular, this terrible thing happened.”

  Momma looked down at her hands. Then she looked up at Orphelia and shook her head. “You see, I thought if I kept you from playing sassy music that you�
�d be safe and that you wouldn’t want to follow in my footsteps. You are so much like me, Orphelia, and I was afraid. Oh, I’ve known for years that Pearl’s not a musician, so I never worried about her. But you?” She sighed and fumbled at her throat with trembling fingers. “I just was so afraid. I didn’t want to lose you, too.”

  Orphelia searched Momma’s face. “Momma, do you hate me now? Are you going to say I can’t play piano anymore when we get back home?”

  “No, Orphelia. You have too much of a gift for me to make you keep it to yourself.”

  Orphelia could barely keep herself from jumping with elation. She threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Oh, thank you, Momma! Does this mean I can play whatever kind of music I like from now on?”

  “Yes—well, almost any kind. But first we have to get you back home. And don’t think you won’t be punished for all this!” Momma scolded, sounding more like herself again. “You disobeyed us. I didn’t raise girls to lower themselves and act like common gutter girls. You’re wearing boy’s clothes! Proper young Negro women don’t cavort in public in men’s trousers.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Orphelia said, stifling a giggle. Some things about Momma would never change. But Orphelia didn’t mind. It was comforting in a way.

  Madame Meritta approached. “I can assure you, Miz Bruce, that it was never my intention for your daughter to hook up with our show when we left Calico Creek,” she said. “I nearly had a spasm when I discovered her in our storage coach. But she truly has been a joy, so tidy, so hardworking, that she really wasn’t much trouble. But I am glad to hand her back over to you.”

  Momma blew her nose into a handkerchief. “I can’t thank you enough for taking care of her these last few days. It’s a relief to know my daughter was in such responsible hands the whole time.”

  Pearl spoke up just then. “Orphelia, what did you mean when you said you weren’t sure that Uncle Winston was dead?”

  “I’m sure she just wants to believe there’s still a chance he’s alive,” said Poppa, “just like we did. It was so painful for us because we never found his body. But he is gone, Orphelia. We finally accepted it, and you must too.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Orphelia saw Reuben creep to the side of the stage. He was staring at Momma and Poppa. “Well, it’s just that—” she started.

  “Who is that man?” Momma asked, frowning.

  “Oh, that’s Reuben,” replied Madame Meritta. “Sort of a hired hand. Well, more like ‘found’ hand, in this case.”

  This was Orphelia’s chance. “Momma, Poppa, I think he’s someone you all should meet.” She went over to Reuben, took him by the hand, and led him over to her parents. “He was found about half dead by the river, somewhere south of Hannibal, right after Uncle Winston was lynched. He can’t remember anything about where he came from or what happened to him, but, Momma, one time he called me by your name.”

  “Orphelia, what are you trying to say?” said Poppa.

  “Reuben, can I see that pendant you have on that chain around your neck?” Orphelia asked. Reuben shook his head no and nervously backed away.

  “Please, Reuben?” she asked again softly. “It’s really important. I promise nothing bad will happen to it.”

  Reluctantly he pulled the chain out from under his shirt. The silver musical note dangled from it, catching the glow of the stage lights.

  Momma leaned slightly forward and looked at it. Then she looked at Reuben. Then her eyes got large, and she fainted.

  While Poppa attended to Momma, Madame Meritta demanded to know what was going on. “Orphelia, what’s all this got to do with Reuben?”

  “Miz Madame,” Orphelia said. “You all might call him Reuben, but my family calls him Uncle Winston.”

  Later that evening, Orphelia and Pearl sat on the ornate couch in Madame Meritta’s parlor while the adults talked about Reuben—Uncle Winston. Madame had just brought in a tray of lemon tarts and iced tea for everyone. Momma rested on another couch with a wet cloth on her forehead, and Poppa sat nearby. Othello and Reuben were outside tending to the horses.

  Even after everything had been explained to Reuben, he still didn’t really know who he was or that he was with his family. But that wasn’t important, Momma said. What mattered most was that he was still alive.

  “Much as we hate to part with him again,” Poppa was saying to Madame Meritta, “we think he should stay here with you all. It may take quite a while before he understands who we are—if he ever does. Poor fella’s been through a lot, but he’s happy now. And I assure you we will help out in any way we can to make sure he’s not a financial burden to you.”

  The fact that Orphelia had solved the mystery surrounding the whereabouts of her missing uncle had not quite hit home yet. All she could really think about was that Momma didn’t hate her after all, and that she could keep playing the piano.

  “Girl, Cap was going on and on about how he gave you instructions on what to do on the road,” Pearl told her. “Miz Rutherford’s face was so long it looked like somebody had run over her with a motorcar. Now you’re going to have to tell me every single thing that you saw, did, smelled, touched, heard, tasted—”

  “I had to wash clothes and scrub floors is what I did,” Orphelia said. “It’s hard work traveling around like that. I got a crimp in my back from sleeping in that little bed in the coach, and if I never eat another piece of salted beef ever again, that’ll be all right with me. I thought being in a traveling show would be all music and pretty clothes and somebody else cooking all your meals, but it’s not.”

  “So you’re ready to go back home now?” Momma said.

  “Well, maybe just for a little while.” Orphelia smiled sheepishly.

  Then Orphelia remembered to ask Momma the story behind Uncle Winston’s pin.

  “It was a gift from our father, you see, and it was Uncle Winston’s good-luck charm. But your uncle had a habit of losing things,” Momma recalled with a smile, “and so a short time after that portrait was taken, he decided to have the pin put on a chain that he could wear around his neck. He never took it off after that.”

  Then Poppa explained to Orphelia that what she’d read in the newspaper was not quite how the Dixie Palace riot had occurred.

  “The man in the Dixie Palace—yes, that was the Stone Shed—actually grabbed up a handful of ashes from the fireplace and tried to rub it on your mother’s face,” said Poppa, shaking his head. “He was drunk, of course. And naturally, Winston and I tried to protect her. The fella lost his balance and hit his head on the edge of a table. But times being what they were, with so many lynchings going on around the South and Midwest, why, it didn’t take much for mob mentality to take over.”

  “I still can’t believe that happened in our own Lewis County.” Orphelia shuddered. “I always thought it was a good place to live.”

  “It is, Orphelia. That drunk who started the trouble and his devilish buddies were not even from Lewis County,” Poppa said, putting a hand on Orphelia’s shoulder. “Lewis County is a good place to live.”

  “But, Poppa,” Pearl piped up, “there’s something I still don’t understand. How did Uncle Winston’s composition book end up in the piano bench in the Stone Shed, with the newspaper article in it?”

  “Yes, Thelton, that’s a good question,” said Momma, propping herself up on her elbows. “You were supposed to destroy it, remember? I didn’t want any reminders left of that horrible night.”

  “I know,” said Poppa. “But I thought there might come a day when you’d change your mind and regret not having held on to your brother’s music. Those compositions were one-of-a-kind. So I stuck the newspaper article in the back of the composition book and hid them both in the piano bench.”

  “Good thing you did, too, or Orphelia would never have found Uncle Winston!” said Pearl.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Momma admitted. “Thank you, Thelton. I realize now that I should have kept that songbook anyway and learned to pla
y all those songs myself, in his memory But instead, I haven’t touched a piano since.”

  “Maybe now you’ll start playing again,” Orphelia said. “Is that old piano in the Stone Shed yours?”

  “Oh, no. After that awful night, I gave my piano to the church. You’ve been playing on it all this time, Orphelia.”

  Orphelia smiled so hard she thought her lips would split. “Maybe that’s why I love it so much.”

  1904

  GOING BACK IN TIME

  LOOKING BACK: 1904

  In 1904, small-town life in Missouri had changed little since the end of the Civil War nearly 40 years before. People still traveled mostly by foot or on wagons drawn by mules or horses. Few buildings had indoor plumbing or electricity A girl Orphelia’s age would probably never have traveled beyond her hometown or seen big-city sights like an automobile or a theater.

  In black communities like Calico Creek, people’s lives centered around the church. For a musically inclined girl like Orphelia, the church offered a chance to get training in piano and voice—and to perform before the congregation every Sunday.

  A visit by a traveling minstrel show would have been a rare and thrilling event, and most of the town would have turned out to see it. A traditional minstrel show always began with the whole troupe singing onstage as the curtain rose. Next came singing, dancing, and comedy acts. Each act was introduced by the interlocutor, or announcer.

  In Orphelia’s day, both white and black audiences enjoyed minstrel songs, which portrayed the lives of southern black people, often in a humorous or romantic way Audiences also loved dances like the cakewalk, which featured jaunty strutting and fancy footwork.

  Before the Civil War, minstrel shows featured white performers who mimicked the speech and music of black slaves to entertain white audiences. The performers dressed in tattered clothes and smeared their faces with burnt cork, or blackface makeup. After slavery was outlawed, many white Southerners felt bitter toward the former slaves, and their imitation of blacks in minstrel shows became even more insulting. White minstrel show managers began to hire black singers and dancers but made them wear the exaggerated blackface makeup too, because that was what white audiences expected to see.