The Ragtime Fool (21 page)
Alan trotted across the road after him. Every step made the side of his head pound, but he was not about to complain. Once they’d entered the woods and the road had disappeared from view, he said, “I didn’t even have a chance to thank you. Who are you, anyway?”
“Lotta people call me Samson, but my right name’s Richard Curd,” the man called over his shoulder. “Richard Curd, Junior. But let’s just keep walkin’ for now. We get ourselves clear, there’ll be plenty time for the formalities. Anyways, it was my pleasure to give that motherfucker Barton a couple good cracks upside his head.”
***
Brun looked around the tidy living room, and thought he might have taken a trip in one of Cal’s time machines. Sedalia, 1899. Tufted chairs and a sofa, antimacassars set just so on their arms. A small music box rested on an oak table under the window; a Bible sat on the little mahogany table inside the door from the hall. Only a telephone on the wall above the Bible seemed out of place.
That the woman would be in any way kindly disposed toward him surprised Brun no end. Damn her eyes, if it hadn’t been for her, he’d have stayed in Sedalia, kept taking lessons from Mr. Joplin, then gone along to St. Louis with Mr. Stark and his new music publishing business. And when Mr. Joplin and Mr. Stark both went to New York, how different Brun’s life would’ve turned out. He’d be a big shot in the music business now, not a dinky-town barber in a shop too small to swing a cat in.
Luella showed no sign of finishing up her phone conversation, so Brun walked across the room, opened the lid of the music box, peered at the shiny brass cylinder and steel comb. He bent stiffly to read the colorful card with its list of eight tunes, pinned to the inside of the lid. Six opera songs, all Italian names, then “Home Sweet Home,” and last, “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”
Damn! All those years he’d pissed into the wind, talking up Scott Joplin and ragtime music, and people still thought Irving Berlin had sat down one morning on Tin Pan Alley and invented ragtime. Well, maybe this ceremony and Joplin’s journal were going to turn things around. He had to get that journal, whatever it took.
As he heard Luella hang up the phone, he quickly closed the lid to the music box.
“Would you like to hear it?” Luella asked.
He waved off her offer. “Thanks. Did you get hold of Mr. Rosenthal?”
“Not yet. His wife said he had to go to St. Louis today, but he’ll be at the Hubbard High School all day tomorrow, getting ready for the ceremony. She said you should go see him then. She’ll tell him to expect you.”
Brun swallowed disappointment. “Took a long time for her to say that.”
She smiled. “No phone conversation with Fannye Rosenthal is short.”
Again, Brun wondered why she was going miles out of her way to help him. He coughed politely, then said, “Well, I sure do appreciate all your kindnesses.”
Gray eyes flashed behind rimless glasses. “I don’t know that I’d call it kindness. As far as I’m concerned, it’s Christian charity, a proper concern for others, and I’m not talking about you. You’ve somehow bamboozled a boy into coming out from back east to bring you an important book, and I’m concerned he’s fallen into some very bad company. I think it’s time for you to tell me the whole story. Then, I might be better able to help him, and yes, perhaps you, in the process.”
Brun drew a breath, but before he could speak, Luella said, “The real story, Brun. All of it, and straight.”
He smiled. She didn’t.
He began to talk.
When he finished, she sat for a moment, studying him. “Is that the whole story?”
“Yes. God’s truth.”
She almost told him not to take the Lord’s name in vain, but settled to make a wry face. “You’re as impetuous as ever, Brun. You have no regard for the harm your reckless behavior might cause others. I don’t believe in gambling, but if I did, I would bet everything I own that all you have on your mind right now is how to get your hands on that journal and wave it around in front of people tomorrow night. Just where did that boy get his hands on five thousand dollars?”
The way Brun banged a fist against his chest, Luella thought he was doing a
mea culpa
. But then he said, “I got the money in a pouch here. I’m gonna make that right.”
Just a bit of wind left her sails. “Well, good. I’m glad. But that’s not nearly my greatest concern. Otto Klein is a despicable man. He hates the colored. I don’t know how or why he got your young man to stay at their house, but it makes me fear for the boy’s safety. Brun, aren’t you at all concerned? Just a little?”
He lowered his eyes, didn’t speak.
“Well, at least you do have some capacity to feel shame. Now, why didn’t the boy answer the door when we rang the bell?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was in the toilet? Maybe he was asleep.”
“At nearly twelve noon? And when we came back here and called, he didn’t answer the phone either. Brun, that boy is not there, or if he is—”
“Does Klein got a wife? Maybe we could talk to her.”
“Hah! Rowena Klein is afraid of her own shadow, probably because when she sees it, she thinks it might be her husband’s. We’d get nothing out of her.”
The venom in her voice took Brun aback. He worked his glasses off the bridge of his nose, pulled out a handkerchief, slowly wiped at the lenses. “You think we oughta go talk to the cops?”
A sour look came over Luella’s face. “I’ve thought of that, but it’s probably not a good idea. The first thing they’d do would be to talk to Klein, and he’d tell them exactly what he told us. And then Klein might get scared enough to do something he hadn’t originally intended. I think it would be safer to keep our counsel, and try to find the boy and the journal ourselves.”
Brun reached absently into his shirt pocket, pulled out the little container, took a pill between his fingers, and slid it into his mouth.
“Would you like a glass of water?” Luella asked.
Brun shook his head. “Unda mah toeng.”
“That’s the medicine they use for heart pain?” Luella struggled to keep her voice even.
Brun nodded. “Nitroglycerin.”
She remembered the beautiful fifteen-year-old boy, full of energy, radiating desire and ambition. “Just imagine,” her Uncle Bob had said to her. “Fifteen years old, he runs away from home because he wants to learn to play this ragtime music, and only Scott Joplin’s good enough to teach him. I’ve never seen a boy with so much get up and go. He could be president of the United States if he doesn’t get hung first.”
“Whew.” Brun took a deep breath. “That stuff really works fast.”
Luella looked at the old man, slumped in his chair, dewlap under his chin, bags under his eyes, and willed tears not to pour down her cheeks. Fortunately, just then, Brun pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “No!” Luella barked. “Not in my house, you don’t smoke.”
He wondered why her voice was so quavery. “Beg your pardon.” He slid the pack back into his pocket.
“Thank you,” she said primly. “All right, now. Thinking about Rowena Klein gives me an idea. We wouldn’t get any information from her, but Eileen is another story.”
Brun cocked his head. “Eileen?”
“Otto and Rowena’s daughter, the one who brought Alan to the supper last night. How a girl can be so different from her mother, I’ll never know. But I’ll bet…I believe if she knows anything, I can get her to tell us.”
Brun started out of his chair; Luella motioned him back. “School doesn’t let out till three-twenty. Just sit back and rest a bit. I’ll make us some lunch.”
Brun’s smile could have broken her heart. “Like I said, Luella. I appreciate your kindness.”
Smile at Eileen Klein like that, Luella thought, she’ll spill every bean in the pot. “As
I
said, Brun, just consider it Christian charity. For the boy.”
***
Alan couldn’t imagine how this was going to end. He’d followed Richard or Samson or whatever the man’s name was for miles through the woods, getting smacked in the face by low-hanging branches, tripping over roots. His feet and legs ached all the way to his armpits, and his head pounded something fierce. Samson didn’t seem the least bothered, never mind the big gunnysack, filled with God knew what, slung over his shoulder.
As they drew up to a half-rotted tree trunk, Samson signaled for Alan to sit, which he did gladly. The colored man pulled a canteen from his belt, handed it to the boy, who drank deeply, then passed the water back to Samson. “Thank you,” Alan said softly.
Samson grinned, took off his wide-brimmed hat, mopped his face with a raggedy sleeve. “Sorry to make you move so fast, young mister, but I figured before Mr. Barton woke up, we better get as much space as we could between us and him. Nobody knows these woods good as I do, so I believes we’s safe. Just in case, though, I got me a trusty shotgun in my house.”
Alan looked all around.
“You gonna see it soon enough. But first, I thought we oughta talk a bit just between us. I got me a wife an’ a daughter back at the house, an’ no point them hearin’ what they don’t got to. Now, if I’m not bein’ too nosy, I would sure love to know how you got to be out in the woods there with Mr. Barton.”
Alan laughed. “I don’t mind telling you,” he said. “But it’s a pretty long story.”
Samson clapped his hat back onto his head, and settled onto the log next to the boy. “One thing I got plenty of is time, young mister. But say, I don’t believe you ever did tell me your name. Or if you did, it went right on past my ears.”
The boy reached a hand. “Alan Chandler. And I sure am glad to meet you.”
***
When Alan stopped talking, Samson said, “Well, that’s sure a-plenty. We got to get you away from here before Mr. Barton can go back out lookin’ for you. They’s trains to St. Lou pretty much all through the day. I can get you to the station…”
Samson’s speech ground to a halt as he saw how hard Alan was shaking his head. “No, I can’t do that. I’ve got to get the journal back and give it to Mr. Campbell.”
“You was lucky once, boy. You can’t count on me bein’ there the next time.”
Alan chewed at his lip. “What
were
you doing out there, anyway?”
The colored man laughed, showing wide gaps between yellowed teeth. He picked up his sack, reached inside, came out with a dirt-crusted, gnarled piece of wood; a dense, earthy odor rose up. “Sassafras,” the man said. “For to make sassafras tea, which is the best tonic you can take in the springtime. Keep you healthy all year. That no-good stuff in the drugstores they calls sassafras ain’t nothin’ but the old, dried-out bark. Only the roots can do the job right, and they gotta be dug up soon’s the sap starts runnin’. My daddy used to dig roots an’ sell ’em to the people in town. His name was Richard, like me, but ever’body called him Sassafras Sam, which is why I got to be called Samson. Daddy allus took me along an’ learned me how to tell which plants was good that year and which wasn’t. Then when Daddy got hit by a car and kilt, the people was all upset, didn’t know where they was gonna get their sassafras, so I figured I’d carry on. Lucky for you I was diggin’ out there. I heard Mr. Barton and Mr. Klein yellin’, so I come up real quiet to see what they was up to.” Samson cackled. “Don’t ever let nobody tell you sassafras ain’t good for your health. But I tell you, boy, even sassafras ain’t gonna be no help to you if Mr. Barton get anywheres near you again.”
“Mmmm.” Alan sighed. He stood, plucked a blade of grass, chewed at it. “I think I’ve got an idea.”
“What you thinkin’?”
“When I came into town…” Alan paused. “It was just Saturday, but it seems like a month ago. I met Mr. Tom Ireland and another man, a hundred years old.”
“Had to be Isaac Stark.”
“Right. They said they remembered Mr. Campbell from when he was here in 1899, and they were really interested in the journal. If you can tell me how to get from here to Mr. Ireland’s house, I’ll go there tonight and fill him in on what happened. I’ll bet he’d let me stay there till morning, then tomorrow, he could help me find Mr. Campbell. And after we do, I could go to the police about Mr. Barton.”
“Think the police gonna believe you when Mr. Barton tell them that what you say never happened? He a big shot here, and it be your word against his.”
“No it wouldn’t. You’re my witness. You can—”
“Hold on right there, boy.” Samson shook his head slowly, emphatically. “Colored who don’t know when to keep they mouth shut don’t get to be near as old as me. Mr. Barton be mean as they come, an’ he got himself a bunch of friends every bit as mean, so even if he do get put away, that still gonna be the end of me and probably my family too.”
“Sure.” Alan made a face. “I wouldn’t ever want you or anyone in your family to get hurt because you saved my life.”
Samson grinned. “Sometimes a man got no choice, he got to take a chance. Else, he don’t belong on this earth.”
“I won’t say anything to anybody,” Alan said. “Not even Mr. Ireland. I’ll tell him I got away from Mr. Barton on my own. Just show me the way from here to his house.”
“No sirree!” Samson stood, stretched his back. “I ain’t sending you off on your lonesome, not through these woods, and not along the big road either. And for sure, not while it be light out. Tonight, real late, I’ll walk you down to Mr. Ireland’s, an’ we both tell him what happened. I know he gonna help you.”
“You could just take me as far as his house. Then I’ll go in alone, and he won’t have to hear anything about you being involved.”
Samson smiled. “Not to give you offense, but Tom Ireland’s no man’s fool. You go in there and tell him you got yourself away from Mr. Barton, then found your way back all on your own, he ain’t gonna believe a single word outa your mouth. But don’t worry none. If I can’t trust Tom Ireland, there ain’t nobody nowhere I
can
trust.” Samson gestured: get up. “Gonna take you to my house now.” He smiled. “Bet my daughter Susie’s gonna love hearin’ a white boy, talks funny the way you do, tell her all about New York City. An’ I ‘spects a nice cup of sassafras tea gonna do you a world of good.”
Monday, April 16
Late afternoon
Elliot Radcliffe thought there must be a better way to make a living than as an editor in a major publishing company. Across his desk, Rudi Blesh barely sat in his chair, broadcasting fury. Blesh was the consummate gentleman, civil and civilized, but right then he appeared on the verge of flying from his chair, sailing over the desk and taking Radcliffe by the throat. The editor focused a pair of bloodshot eyes on the author. “Rudi, please. Calm down. I’ve never seen you in a state like this.”
Blesh’s fist pounded the desk. Papers shook; a small ashtray bounced off the edge and clattered to the floor. Blesh didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve never
been
in a situation like this,” he roared. “Finally, after almost two years of pleading, begging, cajoling…groveling, for heaven’s sake!
Finally
, I get Lottie Joplin to understand how important that journal might be. And then what happens? An entire publishing house sits on its collective rear end while the Big Boss has a nice little European vacation. And while the boss suns himself in Italy, that halfwit barber Campbell makes off with the journal. What I can’t understand is how in hell he even knew about it.”
“Maybe he’s not such a halfwit,” Radcliffe said, and immediately regretted it. Now, Blesh was on his feet, his face the color of marinara sauce, pumping his fists like a six-year-old who’d just been told he’d clean his room or else. “Rudi, all right, now, stop,” Radcliffe pleaded. “Maybe we can figure out what’s happened, and do something constructive. How do you know it was Campbell?”
Blesh took two exaggerated deep breaths. “Who else could it have been? Look, Ellie. You called me this morning, and told me Mr. Knopf gave his okay, so I went right over to Lottie’s and what did I find?” He began to tick off points on his fingers. One. Some Negro man came by two or three times last week, told Lottie he was a musician, working with me, and tried to get her to give him the journal. Two. Friday morning, a teen-aged kid came in, she thought his name might have been Alan. He said he was there for Mr. Blesh, paid her five thousand dollars, and went off with the journal.”
“Five thou—”
“Yes, Ellie. Five thousand dollars. Where did a teen-aged boy get that kind of money, and where did that particular number come from?”
The editor drummed fingers on the desk top, wondered whether he ought to say what he was thinking, decided he had to. “You
are
sure Mrs. Joplin said the boy told her he was there to pick up the journal for you?”
“Yes. And then the boy said he was going to take it to Sedalia for a ceremony honoring Joplin. There actually
is
going to be a ceremony there, tomorrow night, in fact. And who’s been trying to work with the locals on that ceremony for more than half a year now? Campbell, that blasted fool. But that’s not all. Lottie told me another interesting story.”
Radcliffe willed calm. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“She said a little while after the boy left with the journal, that same Negro man came in and asked her again to give it to him. She said he got angry when she told him the boy had already picked it up. She has no idea who he is, and couldn’t say any more than he was a nice-looking young colored man. The poor woman was terribly upset. I told her not to worry, that I’d get it all straightened out, and damn it, Ellie, I will.” Blesh pushed up his sleeve, checked his watch. “If I leave right now, I can get to my travel agent before she closes, and have her book me on the first morning flight to Kansas City. I’ll have two hours in my favor, so I ought to be able to catch a train out of Kay Cee, to Sedalia and get there in time for that ceremony. If Campbell’s there and he has that book, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“Okay, Rudi.” To his own ear, Radcliffe’s words sounded weary to the point of being patronizing. “Just don’t forget, what’s happened might be underhanded, but it may not be illegal. You’ve got no claim on that journal. Mrs. Joplin was free to sell it to whomever she wanted. Don’t do anything stupid. Please.”
Blesh was halfway to the door. “I’m not a stupid man, Ellie.”
“No, you’re not,” Radcliffe said. “You’re one of the brightest men I know. But bright men can do some pretty goddamn stupid things when they get as worked up as you are.”
***
Brun helped Luella clear the lunch dishes off the table, then picked up a towel, and as she washed, he dried. He partially stifled a burp, excused himself. Luella half-smiled. “I’m pleased that you enjoyed the meal.”
“That I did. I guess I got a lot of reasons to be glad you found me. If you hadn’t, I’d be walking the streets in circles right now, getting noplace in a hurry.”
She turned a prim look his way, nose tilted upward. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Brun set down the dish he was drying, picked up another. “Guess I can’t argue with that,” he said, and thought, I ain’t that dumb.
“We should be able to leave for the school in about half an hour,” Luella said. “It’s a fair little walk, down Ohio to Broadway, then a couple of blocks east. I hope that won’t be too much for you.”
“No, it oughta be fine,” Brun said. Her solicitousness both moved and irritated him.
She hung the dishrag on the edge of the sink. “Well, you’ll let me know if you’re having a problem. I think the farther from her home we can catch the girl, the more likely she’ll be to talk to us.”
“You’re the doctor.”
***
They were on Ohio, approaching East Fourth, when Brun felt a tug at his arm. He turned, and found himself staring into the well-appointed but very angry face of a middle-aged, light-skinned colored woman. She smacked a hand onto each hip. “You look like you don’t even recognize me, Mr. Campbell. Bet you thought you were never going to see me again.”
A tall, muscular dark man beside her took in Brun and Luella from under the peak of a woolen tweed cap. He looked no more cordial than the woman.
“Well, sure I remember you,” Brun said. “You’re Miss Vinson. Scott Joplin’s daughter.”
“Yes,” a hiss. “And this is my brother-in-law, Mickey Thurman. From New York. The one who works at Knopf.”
Two colored men, one large, one smaller, who’d been walking down Ohio a half-block behind Brun and Luella, hustled to make up most of the distance, then turned into the sheltered doorway at Jack’s Clothing. Each lit a cigarette, then stood, ears bent toward the animated foursome.
Without changing expression, Thurman tipped his cap toward Luella. Brun picked up. “This here’s Mrs. Luella Rohrbaugh,” he said. “Friend from way back. She and I got to know each other back in ‘ninety-nine, when I was here taking lessons from Mr. Joplin.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Vinson, Mr. Thurman,” Luella said.
Bess nodded. Her face said she wasn’t pleased about anything right then. “I’m giving you fair warning;” a snarl. “You figured you were pretty smart, didn’t you, getting that kid to steal my father’s journal from Mrs. Joplin.”
Mickey Thurman began shuffling his feet. Brun thought he looked nervous. “What’re you talking about? I told you back in California, I didn’t get any kid—”
“How stupid do you think I am?” Bess’ anger seemed to grow with every exchange. She was shouting now. “Let me tell you something. Mr. Thurman and I are going to get that journal back, and then he’s going to take it to New York, and call Rudi Blesh. I didn’t want him to have it, but I’m not about to let a scumbag like you diddle me. If Mr. Blesh wants it,
he
can pay me five thousand dollars. And if not, someone else will.”
In the doorway, Green’s eyes bulged. Slim grinned.
Bess extended a hand toward Brun. “If you’re smart, you’ll give me that journal now, and save yourself a lot of trouble.”
“Can’t give you what I don’t have,” Brun said. “But even if I did have it, I wouldn’t give it to you. Beat it. Get outa here.”
Thurman took a heavy step toward the old man. Luella moved quickly to come between them. “Mr. Thurman, Miss Vinson!” The words could have cut through a steel plate. “You’ve said quite enough. Now, either you move along, or I will call a policeman and complain that you’re making a public nuisance and threatening us. And I will do the same if I see you following us around.”
Bess glanced toward Thurman, then locked eyes with Brun. “You’re going to be sorrier than you’ve ever been in your whole damn life,” she snapped. “We’ll be around, all right, and we’ll be watching. And for sure, we’ll be at the ceremony. Just try and show anybody that journal, and it’s going to be me who calls a cop. Then you can explain how you happened to get your greasy hands on a journal that belonged to my father.”
She glared at Luella, but she might as well have tried to intimidate a stone statue. “Get away from here,” Luella ordered, then wheeled around and started walking down the sidewalk. Brun stepped along to keep up with her pace.
Thurman grabbed Bess by the arm. “Woman, you better quit that stuff before you get us time in the workhouse. Hell’s bells, we ain’t just colored. We’re colored from New York.”
Bess pounded one fist into the other palm, spat on the sidewalk, and stomped away, Thurman trailing in her wake.
In the doorway, Slim whistled softly. “Whoo-whee. Something new every minute. Looks like we got us even more competition.”
Green nudged him toward Brun and Luella. “Go see what they be up to. Maybe they’ll take you to the kid.” He inclined his head ever so slightly toward Bess and Mickey. “I’ll try an’ find out more about them.”
Slim strolled out of the shelter and along the sidewalk, taking care to stay a block behind Brun and Luella.
***
Brun felt like he’d wandered back into Cal’s time machine. So many buildings on Ohio looked just the same as they had in 1899. That damn Vinson woman had stopped them right outside what used to be Doc Overstreet’s office. The barber craned his neck to look down West Fifth, to where he’d worked in Mr. Stark’s music shop. The Starks had been so very good to him. Back in 1910, in Tulsa, Brun heard that Mr. Stark had brought his wife back from New York, to die in St. Louis. He could have gone and visited, but never did. Why the hell not?”
Luella nearly asked whether he was having heart pain again, but caught herself. They walked the rest of the way to Broadway in silence.
***
Teen-agers poured out of the Smith-Cotton Junior-Senior High School. Luella led Brun to the corner of Broadway and Lamine. “We’ll wait here,” she said. “Whether the girl’s going directly home or is going to stop with friends for ice cream or soda pop, she’ll pass this way.”
The kids scrambled by, a sea of youth, their chatter white noise to Brun’s ears. Luella scanned the crowd. Every now and then, one of the girls said hello or good afternoon, and Luella answered each one by name. Knows everyone in town, and probably all of their business, too, Brun thought. But if it takes a busybody to find the kid and the journal, okay.
A girl with lots of dark, curly hair, brown eyes, and a look about her that Brun thought oughtn’t to be on any girl under eighteen said, “Hello, Mrs. Rohrbaugh. What’re you doing here?”
“We’re waiting for you, Eileen.” Luella reached bony fingers to take the girl by the arm, then worked her off the sidewalk, out of the crowd, and said, “This is Mr. Brun Campbell. He’s come all the way from California to find the young man who escorted you to the supper last night.”
The girl flushed.
She got to know him pretty well, Brun thought.
Luella stepped closer to Eileen. “Do you know where we can find him?”
The girl looked puzzled. “He’s at our house. He told me he was supposed to wait there and see if the ceremony committee wanted to put him on the program for tomorrow night.”
Brun started to say something, but stopped when Luella kicked his shin. “We’ve already been to your home, and there’s no one there. Do you have any idea where we might find him? It’s very important.”
The girl moved her head slowly, side to side. “I don’t know where he could have gone.”
“Eileen, just how long have you known Alan? Have you ever visited his family back east?”
“No. I just yesterday met him for the first time. I think there’s a big misunderstanding. I didn’t say last night that he’s a friend of our family, I just said he’s a friend and he was staying at our house. Actually, Mr. Barton brought him over to stay with us. Mr. Barton’s one of Daddy’s friends.”
“Yes, dear. I know Mr. Barton.”
And you don’t like him one bit, Brun thought.
Tears started down Eileen’s cheeks. She tried to cough them away.
Luella edged the girl farther off the sidewalk, away from the flow of teen-aged traffic. “You don’t have to cry,” the old woman said. “Mr. Campbell and I are concerned about Alan, the way he’s apparently disappeared. You seemed quite a little fond of him last night. Wouldn’t you like to help us?”
She nodded vigorously, then blurted, “Yes, ‘course I would. He’s peachy…I mean, he’s really nice. He was so excited about having the journal and showing it to Mr. Campbell. On the way out to the supper last night, I asked him why Mr. Barton had brought him to our house, and he told me about how a big colored man had pulled a gun on him and tried to take away the journal, but Mr. Barton rescued him, and got him to check out of the hotel he was in. Then he brought him to our house so he’d be safe, away from the colored man.”
Luella felt weary. Was the girl lying? Was the boy lying to her? Was Brun lying about the way the boy had taken it upon himself to get the journal and bring it out?
Eileen went on. “I tried to sneak a look at the journal while Alan…” Her face went scarlet. “…while Alan wasn’t there. But he came in and caught me, and he seemed really upset. I told him I was just curious, and…and, oh, Mrs. Rohrbaugh, I don’t have any idea why my father and Mr. Barton would be having anything to do with that ceremony for the colored piano player. They don’t like colored people. I don’t understand this whole thing.”
“Neither do I,” Luella said, her voice softer now. “But I’m going to find out. And you know, Eileen, when I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”
The girl nodded vigorously. “I don’t want Alan to get hurt.”