The Minstrel's Melody (13 page)

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 nearing 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.”

As Madame Meritta explained that Negro businesses and clubs planned to put up displays at the fair demonstrating the accomplishments of the Negro, she was walking back and forth and waving her arms around. Orphelia hadn't seen her this excited before.

“This way the city and the big white business owners and other fair-goers will see that Negroes are respectable, smart, and able to do most anything when given the chance. Then maybe we can get the kinds of jobs that will help us elevate ourselves and gain more economic and political leadership in city government.”

She added that the city had spent a lot of money fixing up some of the neighborhoods. On her street they planted new trees and got gas streetlights. The city also tore down a lot of old, ramshackle tenement houses and cleared empty lots of overgrown weeds and garbage.

“I guess Momma would be surprised to hear all that,” Orphelia said. Sounded like Momma was wrong again.

The closer Madame Meritta's entourage got to St. Louis, the more crowded the roads became. Now Orphelia was seeing throngs of people in horse-drawn wagons, with suitcases and children piled in the back. Orphelia glued her face to the window, taking in every detail so she could remember to tell Pearl about it all.

A short time later, they had reached the city itself. Motorcars, puttering and smoking, threaded through the streets around horses and bicycles. Children who looked like Orphelia played in the streets or sat on porches attached to houses three and four stories high. Mothers with babies in one arm and laundry baskets in the other chatted with one another. Men shined shoes on street corners or in small cubbyholes by stores, pushed cartloads of fruits and vegetables, or washed windows.

And just off in the distance were the grounds of the Louisiana Purchase Exhibition—the St. Louis World's Fair. Orphelia could see the magnificent giant Ferris wheel looming off to the left. She sighed. She was so close to the fair, and yet so far away.

And she still hadn't thought of any way to prove her theory about Reuben. Time was running out. If Orphelia didn't think of something fast, the chance of reuniting Momma and Poppa with Uncle Winston might be gone forever.

Unless … Maybe Orphelia didn't need any proof. Maybe all she needed was to get Momma to meet Reuben somehow. Surely Momma would recognize her own brother, even after all these years, no matter how much he'd changed. She would be able to see past the scarred face and the one eye that was swollen shut. Orphelia wouldn't need any more proof than that when she told Momma and Poppa her theory.

But what if Momma
didn't
recognize him? Orphelia would be in even bigger trouble than ever, stirring up memories of Uncle Winston like that and meddling in the affairs of adults.
Maybe I should just mind my own business. Momma and Poppa probably won't even show up anyway.

Othello spoke through the driver's hole. “Train station's just a few blocks further. Laphet and the others are heading off now. Artimus is going to the telegraph office. He'll meet us back at the station.”

Did that mean Reuben was gone, too? A knot twisted in Orphelia's stomach, and her heart flip-flopped. “Miz Madame, I don't feel well,” she said.

“Then lie down. I'll pour you some water so you can freshen up here.” She touched Orphelia's forehead, then gently lay her palm on her cheek. “You're not overly warm. I know you've been dreading the end of your great adventure. And you know what? I've been dreading it, too. I surely have, but the time has come for you to go back home. You've gotten much farther than either one of us expected, you know.”

Orphelia pressed her face against Madame Meritta's skirt. Her throat grew so full that she could barely talk. Tears rolled out the corners of her eyes and stained the skirt. “I don't want to say good-bye to you, Madame Meritta! Or Mr. Othello either!”

“Oh, Orphelia, Orphelia.” Madame softly rubbed her back and shoulder. “You've become very special to me, too, much as I hate to admit it. This is the first time since my son—” Her eyes filled with tears. She paused, and then cleared her throat and continued. “Well, it's been just wonderful to have you with us these past few days. But you're not our child, Orphelia. You belong with your own family There's a hole in your home with you gone,” Madame Meritta said. “I know what it's like not to have my child around, believe me. Your parents and your sister are in a lot of pain.”

“Well, if that's true, then why didn't they try to find me?”

“How do you know they didn't?”

“They probably won't even come to St. Louis. Momma hates it, and she probably hates
me
so much that she never wants to see me again.”

Madame lifted Orphelia up by the shoulders. “I promise you that is not true. Now stand up. Wash your face and get ready to go.”

C
HAPTER
9

O
RPHELIA'S
L
AST
C
HANCE