The Minstrel's Melody Page 9

  Orphelia was soon busy washing her clothes, dipping them into the water, scrubbing them with lye soap, rinsing them, and with quick expert twists, wringing them out. Then, following Madame’s example, she hung them on nearby branches to dry.

  “You’re pretty good,” said Bertha as she came up with an armload of men’s clothing. “You think you can wash out Artimus’s Sunday shirt for him? And Laphet’s? Maryanne and I are doing their pants and other clothes. It’ll be a big help for them, ’cause they’re not real good at this kind of work.”

  Wanting to say “no” but not daring to, Orphelia nodded and began washing the shirts. The more shirts she washed, the more Bertha dropped off for her to do. The sun climbed higher in the sky. She wiped sweat off her forehead with her wrist. Her knees ached from having to lean on them against the rough rock, and her back felt like it was going to break.

  Just when she thought she was finally finished, Reuben walked over and stood nearby, watching for a moment. Then he removed his ragged shirt and held it out. Orphelia stared at the shirt and then looked up at him.

  “What?” she said. Does he expect me to wash that filthy thing? She turned to Madame Meritta for help, but Madame was nowhere to be found. Neither was Bertha.

  “Can you wash my shirt?” Reuben asked. Beneath the one he had removed was another one, with even more holes.

  “Can’t you do it yourself?”

  He bowed his head, clutching his shirt. He looked pitiful, with his shoulder bones sticking out through the holes. “Ain’t no good at it.”

  “Oh all right. Give it here.” Slowly and gingerly, she took the heavy woolen shirt. It was frayed at the collar and cuffs, with deep pockets on each side. And it smelled!

  “Thankee,” Reuben said. As he turned to go, something around his neck glittered in the sunlight. Orphelia noticed for the first time that he was wearing a tarnished silver chain around his neck, most of it hidden beneath his undershirt. Through one of the holes, a silver pendant peeked out. “Can I see your necklace?” she asked, curious about the pendant.

  Reuben glowered.

  “I know, I know, it’s yours,” Orphelia said, backing up a bit. “But I promise I won’t even touch it. I just want to see it, is all. It’s the least I deserve if I’m going to wash that grimy shirt of yours.”

  Reluctantly, Reuben pulled the chain out from under his shirt. Orphelia stood up on her toes and leaned forward to get a closer look at the pendant. A chill ran up and down her spine. It was shaped like a musical note—just like Uncle Winston’s pin.

  Right then Madame Meritta returned. “Reuben, could you go get some water for the horses?” Reuben nodded and headed back toward the coaches. “Orphelia, what’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Reuben isn’t still frightening you, is he?”

  “No, ma’am,” Orphelia said. “It’s just that I was wondering where he might have gotten that pendant he has on that chain. My Uncle Winston had one like it, only his was a pin.”

  “Well, that is a funny coincidence, isn’t it?” Madame Meritta said. “All I know is it was about the only thing he had on his person when we found him. It must be something very important to him. He never takes it off.” She shrugged. “Now, why are we standing around talking about this when there’s a heap of work yet to be done? Get yourself busy, young lady! We need to leave soon.”

  Madame Meritta instructed Orphelia to gather up all the dry clothes and bring them back to the camp. They had found a bridge about five miles downstream and wanted to get across before dark. “Artimus has gone ahead to telegraph your folks,” explained Madame, “and let them know where you are. We’ll catch up with Artimus in the town of Falsify, where we’ll put you on the train for home.”

  Orphelia took the clothes off the branches, folded them carefully, and stacked them in piles. Carrying the clothes back to the coaches took two trips. She had just enough time to complete that chore before Madame Meritta called for her to help with something else. And all the while Orphelia was thinking, Why does Reuben have a pendant just like my uncle’s pin? It had to be more than a coincidence. She was sure of it.

  She almost bumped into Othello, who was carrying boxes from one coach to another.

  “No time to daydream now, ma chère,” he said as he moved out of her way, headed for the storage coach.

  Orphelia hurried after him, remembering another question that had been weighing on her mind. “Mr. Othello, those men in Pitchfork Creek in the tent—were they going to lynch us ’cause we didn’t put on blackface?” she asked.

  Othello stopped and looked at her somberly. “Oh, no, no, no. Now listen to me, Orphelia. Lynching is a terrible, terrible thing, and it’s true that our people have lost too many good men and women to murderers who hung them from trees, stoned them, beat them, and even threw their bodies in the river. But most people in Pitchfork Creek are good people, and the sheriff and his deputies were right there to protect us. So there’s no need for you to let such thoughts cross your mind.”

  “Well, I just wondered.” She looked after him as he rushed away. It was a relief to know that they wouldn’t have been lynched. But then again, Uncle Winston had been in a jail with sheriff’s deputies all around, and yet he had been lynched.

  CHAPTER 8

  A CRAZY IDEA

  By sundown on Monday they had safely crossed the bridge. Reaching it took a lot longer than Othello had expected, however. It was on a winding narrow road that ran dangerously close to the streambed.

  As they drove along, Orphelia half asleep, Othello and Madame Meritta discussed the pros and cons of whether to camp or to push on. Finally Madame told Othello to just stop wherever he could. He steered the sleeping coach as far to the side of the road as possible. Orphelia knew he was worried that if he left the path completely, the wagon would get stuck in the mud along the side of the road.

  Orphelia huddled down in a corner of her sparse bed and gnawed on a strip of salted beef. The beef, which had never been tasty, was even less so now without Othello’s touch. She wouldn’t even have minded some of his craw-daddy gumbo. Her arms and back ached from the day’s work. She slapped at mosquitoes and moths, scratched chigger bites, and sighed to herself.

  Knowing everything she now knew about Momma and Uncle Winston, Orphelia realized that Madame Meritta was probably right about her parents being frantic with worry. Orphelia swallowed hard, a lump rising in her throat.

  But on the other hand, how come they hadn’t sent out the sheriff or anyone to find her and bring her home? Surely a search party would have caught up to the wagons by now. Maybe Momma and Poppa didn’t care what happened to her. After all, Poppa had told her, “You’ve buttered your bread, now eat it.” Was that what he was making her do now? She blinked away a tear. I ran away, but I’m not a bad girl, not really. But maybe Momma thinks so by now.

  Bertha was squinting at a magazine in the dim light of the one kerosene lamp allowed in each coach. Madame Meritta sat cross-legged on her bed in her petticoats and undershirt. She was rubbing pomade into her thick black hair, which hung down past her shoulders.

  “So how do you like show business on the road now?” Bertha asked Orphelia. She’d been watching Orphelia fight with the insects.

  “Oh, I still like it.” Orphelia sneezed. She scratched a chigger bite. She pulled at one of her braids. “I’m having a great adventure. Nobody else in Calico Creek has ever done anything like this before.”

  “You’re probably right about that.” Bertha rattled her magazine. “And when you get back home, you’ll have another great adventure when your momma gets started on your behind.”

  “Bertha, don’t tease her,” said Madame Meritta. “Here, Orphelia, let me comb your hair and fresh up your braids.” Madame Meritta scooted to the edge of her bed and patted it. “I can rub what I use into your hair, too, and help clean it without having to wash it. It’s just castor oil and white wax with a little lemon oil. It smells good, too.”

  Orphelia gratefull
y crawled off her own bed and sat down on the floor, settling herself between the older woman’s legs. Orphelia had wanted to wash her hair in the river today, but the laundry had kept her too busy.

  Madame Meritta loosened both intertwined locks of Orphelia’s hair and gently began scratching Orphelia’s scalp with the edge of her comb. Next she parted Orphelia’s hair and dabbed the sweet-smelling ointment along the part. When she had done this all over Orphelia’s scalp, she placed more of the ointment in Orphelia’s hair and rubbed vigorously.

  “Mmmm, that feels good.” Orphelia sighed like a cat purring. “Momma usually washes it on Saturday nights.” Another lump formed in her throat at the thought of Momma. But this was real show business life now, she decided. The bad things like the riot and the awful food and the hard beds apparently were part of it, but having a famous person like Madame Meritta combing her hair as if they were old friends was really special. It was almost like home. Orphelia heard a whip’o’will call in the quiet, and another one answered it. That sounded like home, too.

  The next thing Orphelia knew, she was waking up to the swaying of the wagon. It was daylight, and they were moving again. Orphelia yawned and stretched. Her arms were still sore from washing more clothes on Monday than she’d ever done at one time, even with Momma.

  “Where are we?” Orphelia asked.

  “Not too far from Falsify,” replied Madame Meritta. Orphelia’s heart sank.

  But a few minutes later, the coach stopped. “Now what?” muttered Madame Meritta. “We still have two or three more miles to go.” She got out to investigate. Orphelia followed, glad for the opportunity to stretch her legs. Othello, looking exasperated, stood next to the wagon talking to Artimus. What was Artimus doing back? Orphelia wondered. Weren’t they supposed to meet him in Falsify?

  “Bad news, Maryanne,” said Artimus. “The train won’t be running today. Seems that storm the other night flooded out part of the track.”

  Madame Meritta looked at Othello. “Tell me this isn’t happening—please.”

  “I’m afraid so,” he responded, sighing heavily. “Orphelia, once again your stay with us seems to have been extended.”

  Orphelia could hardly believe her ears. “Does this mean what I think it means?” she asked breathlessly, her hands clasped with excitement. “Do I get to go to St. Louis with you after all?”

  “Well, yes, it does look that way. If we stay in Falsify and wait, we won’t make it to the fair in time, and we’re not going to leave you here by yourself. It could be a day or so before the train is running again. So Artimus telegraphed your parents, asking them to meet us at Union Station in St. Louis. The tracks should be clear around these parts by the time your parents come through.”

  Orphelia was beside herself with happiness. Oh, thank you, thank you, Lord! She could easily put up with chiggers and mosquitoes and dried beef for a little longer if it meant she was going to see St. Louis. And was there still a chance that she might get to see the World’s Fair, too?

  That night Madame Meritta let Orphelia stay up a little longer at the campfire with the others. It was a beautiful spring evening, and after another long day on the road, Orphelia could hardly stand the thought of getting back into that stuffy coach again. And she was so excited about seeing St. Louis the next day that she didn’t think she’d ever be able to fall asleep. But she also knew that the sooner she went to sleep, the sooner it would be morning. And the sooner it was morning, the sooner they would be on their way. Othello expected they’d reach St. Louis by tomorrow afternoon!

  Orphelia yawned and excused herself to go to bed. Wearily she climbed up into the sleeper coach, more tired than she thought. Maybe the events of the past five days were finally catching up to her. She’d been on an adventure that she would never forget.

  As excited as Orphelia was to reach St. Louis, a part of her didn’t want the journey to end. And part of her also worried about seeing her folks. Orphelia shuddered to think of the punishment Momma would have come up with for her by now. She was probably boiling mad about having to go to St. Louis, on top of Orphelia running away. And what would happen when Orphelia told her parents what she knew about their past?

  Orphelia reached into her schoolbag and pulled out the songbook with the article in it. She studied the book, wondering whose it might have been. She turned it over and, for the first time, noticed something written in tiny letters on the back cover, in the bottom right corner. When she looked closer, she saw they were somebody’s initials -W.T.

  Orphelia thought for a moment and then gasped. W.T.? That stands for Winston Taylor! Of course. This was Uncle Winston’s music. These were his own personal compositions and arrangements. He must have left the notebook behind the night of the riot! But how did the newspaper article get in the back of it? Maybe Momma or Poppa would know.

  Poor Momma. What would she say when she saw her brother’s songs after all these years? Would she be upset? Would she be angry? Would she be so shocked that she’d fly into some fit of hysterics like Reuben did when he heard “Lewis County Rag”?

  Reuben …

  A crazy idea began to form in Orphelia’s head. And the more she thought about it, the crazier it got—and the crazier it got, the more it made sense.

  Darting out of the coach into the darkness, Orphelia ran back to the campfire. “Madame Meritta!” she panted. “Back when you first found Reuben, what year did you say that was?”

  Madame Meritta looked up at her in surprise. “Well, I don’t remember exactly It must have been about eleven or twelve years ago …”

  “I remember,” Othello piped up. “It was August of 1892. We were on our way back from Iowa, yes? Camped near the river somewhere. But why do you want to know, Orphelia?”

  “Oh, just curious!” She ran back to the coach, her heart pounding and her hands trembling as she pulled the newspaper article out of the back of the notebook. She unfolded it. The newspaper was dated August 8, 1892, just as she’d thought.

  Scanning down to the bottom of the article, Orphelia read the last sentence. “Sheriff’s officials say that although the body has not been found, Taylor is presumed dead.”

  Presumed dead, Orphelia repeated to herself. Presumed. But maybe Uncle Winston wasn’t dead after all. Maybe Uncle Winston was … Reuben.

  It hardly seemed possible, and yet it made perfect sense. Madame Meritta had found Reuben that same August, downriver from where Uncle Winston had been thrown in the Mississippi. The lynching and near-drowning would have left Uncle Winston’s head so scrambled up that he couldn’t remember who he was, but surely some memories could have survived, tucked way down deep inside him. That’s what must have come bubbling up when Orphelia played “Lewis County Rag.” After all, it was his own composition he was hearing! And of course Orphelia would have reminded him of Momma, his sister. The ruckus in Pitchfork Creek must have jarred his memory and made him relive that terrible night at the Dixie Palace. And even if his brain didn’t work well enough anymore to be able to sing or play music, or even remember anything else about his previous life, some part of his mind still hung on to that old self, carving all those wooden cornets.

  And the silver musical note—well, the only thing that didn’t make sense was why Reuben’s was a pendant and not a pin, but surely there was an explanation for that. She would just have to figure out what it was.

  But how? Until she could think of a way to prove her theory about Reuben, she would have to keep it a secret. It was too big a pronouncement to make based on a hunch. She would just get in trouble for talking nonsense and agitating people with her crazy notions. Better to wait till she was absolutely, positively sure. But it would have to be soon. She didn’t have much time left, with Madame Meritta’s Marvelous Traveling Troubadours approaching St. Louis.

  Madame Meritta was smiling and walking from one side of the swaying coach to the other, picking up clothing and boxes and moving them back and forth. The midday sun was already high in the sky, and they were near
ing the outskirts of the city.

  “I can’t wait to get home. I live just off Market Street, not far from Union Station. I can’t wait to get to my own bed and my own kitchen, my own little house! Sometimes this coach gives me so much claustrophobia that I could scream!”

  “So I’ll get to see your house?” Orphelia asked, trying to disguise the hope in her voice.

  “It depends on the time we get into town and what train your parents will be arriving on. Artimus instructed them to send a telegram, letting us know when to expect them, so we need to check on that first. But let’s not talk about that now Look! Look outside!”

  Orphelia crawled over to the window. What she saw made her open her mouth and close it. She turned to Madame Meritta, then back to the window in astonishment. “Why, I’ve never seen so many mules and horses together! Is this a rodeo or something?”

  “Not exactly. They’re being herded to the World’s Fair.” The coaches had stopped at an intersection of a road that crossed the railroad tracks not far from the Mississippi River. The animals had just been unloaded from a long string of brightly decorated boxcars that said Boer War Reenactment Exhibit. “Look over there at that steamboat on the water,” Madame said, pointing.

  The steamboat, she explained, had returned from being anchored near Hannibal. It held huge fish tanks for Illinois’s state fish exhibit at the fair.

  “Miz Madame, I hope this doesn’t sound sassy, but Momma said she heard that our people weren’t being treated right at the fair. Is that true?”

  Madame Meritta rubbed her chin and folded her arms. “I wish I could have answered that question directly to your mother. Let’s just say that I’m positive our people will get a better shake here than we did at the Chicago World’s Fair. At least that’s what the Palladium would have us believe.”

  “What’s the Palladium?”

  “It’s one of our colored newspapers. We have colored hotels, colored restaurants, colored photographers—everything! We have ragtime musicians pouring in from everywhere to play at our clubs and get noticed. There’s a fella here named Tom Turpin who owns the Rosebud Saloon on Market Street. He’s writing a song called ‘St. Louis Rag.’ Before this fair is over in December, everybody’ll have that song on their lips! But the World’s Fair board won’t let anybody play ragtime on any official program because it says ragtime’s not respectable. Shoot, that’s not stopping our fellas. They’re getting music jobs on the Pike and playing ragtime there to big crowds. We’ll be playing on the Pike, too. That’s the big mile-long midway just outside the gates, you know. It’s part of the fair, but you can get in for free.”