The Minstrel's Melody (6 page)

Had the coach moved at all, or was she still in the school yard, where Miz Rutherford and everybody would find her? How awful and embarrassing that would be—to have run away to the school yard! Orphelia peered out through a knothole. Light mist rose from unfamiliar wheat fields. She also vaguely remembered the swaying of the coach and the horses' hooves thudding on the dirt road.
I'm not in my old school yard anymore, but exactly where am I?

She touched the big bump on her forehead. At least the skin wasn't broken.

Talk about trespassing! This was the second time in two days she'd gone into a place forbidden to her. She was truly a sinner now.

What would Momma and Poppa and Pearl be saying at home right now? They had to have realized by this time that she wasn't there. Had Poppa gone to the sheriff and rounded up a search party, or had he just walked to the outhouse and smoked his cigar? Or sat down in his chair and read the newspaper? Had Pearl become so guilty over her lies that she finally told the truth? Or was she telling some bigger ones?

And Momma.
Is she glad her troublesome youngest daughter is gone, or madder at me now because I've run away?
One thing Orphelia knew for certain: Momma had to be saying, “Ran away! Absolutely not the kind of behavior for proper young Negro women, according to the standards of the day!”

The thought made Orphelia smile a little until a mouse ran across her foot. She almost screamed. Then she heard something rattle the coach door.
Hide!
She had just enough time to crawl to a corner behind the door and bury herself under a huge pile of flour sacks and burlap bags. Too late she saw that her schoolbag still lay in full view.

Someone opened the door, shoving it against her. A man, she figured from the heavy footsteps, had stepped in and was moving barrels and boxes around. One fell inches from her head. He yelled something in a strange language right above her. She held her breath. Had he seen her, or her bag?

The door closed. The man was gone. She let out her breath in relief but stayed where she was. In a few minutes she heard a low murmur of voices, and horses whinnying. She smelled coffee and heard the sizzle of salt pork, which made her stomach growl. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she heard the jangle of horses' harnesses and felt the coach lurch forward and begin to move. She pulled her schoolbag to her and slipped the strap around her neck. She reached inside and found a carrot left over from yesterday's lunch. Grateful for the food, she munched on it. Soon the coach was swaying again, and she dozed off.

Orphelia woke with a jolt when the coach stopped, but this time no one opened the door. The coach was hot and stinky, and she had to use the outhouse. She could also smell apples and fish and wanted to search the coach for them, but her need for the outhouse was stronger.

Orphelia pushed aside the rags and hid her schoolbag beneath them. She found an overturned metal washtub and stood on it. Looking through the small window where she had entered, she could see outside. The other coaches were gone. Maybe Madame Meritta and her folks had gone into some nearby town for a matinee performance.

She tried to push open the door, but it refused to budge. It was locked from the outside, Orphelia figured. Going back to the window, Orphelia squeezed herself through it and dangled headfirst above the wagon wheel. She grabbed a handlebar that ran alongside the coach, righted herself, and climbed down the wheel to the ground. Straightening her clothes, she looked around and saw no one. She scampered a short distance to a clump of trees and relieved herself.

Orphelia was glad to be out in the fresh air. She wandered back to the storage wagon and walked around to the other side of it. She noticed that its paint was peeling, the lettering had faded, and some of the walls had holes in them. She hoped that Madame Meritta's coaches back in St. Louis were in better condition than this one was. She could see where one whole section had been completely boarded up, except for the spot where the “window” was.

Orphelia mulled over her situation. The World's Fair performance was next Saturday. If Orphelia could remain undetected until they reached St. Louis, Madame Meritta would have to let her stay on. And then Orphelia could also find out where Madame Meritta's maids and butlers and fancy coaches were. And after Orphelia got famous, she'd come back to Calico Creek in furs and feathers and with her own entourage. Wouldn't Momma and Pearl be surprised! Momma would have to be proud of her then.

Wondering what she'd wear during her performance at the World's Fair, and wishing she'd thought to bring along her best dress and shoes, she skipped around the corner of the storage wagon—and froze. A tall man in a tattered gray jacket and black hat stood not two feet from her. He glared at her out of his right eye. His left eye was closed and sunken, the eyelid thick, moist, and wrinkled. He gripped a large bowie knife in his hand. With her heart doing a tap dance in her chest, Orphelia began stepping backward slowly, away from him, until her back struck the coach wall. Trapped!

The man raised his knife. Orphelia flung her arm over her face and tried to scream, but no sound came out. The man reached into his pocket with his other hand, brought out an apple, and cut it in half with his knife. He pushed one half of the apple, including the core, into his mouth and chewed with his mouth open. A line of slobber slid into the black stubble on his chin. Then he sat down on an overturned bucket, chewing and staring at her.

Orphelia took a deep breath and eased a few more feet from him and the coach. “Hello. Um, is Madame Meritta here?” she asked. The man didn't answer. “Is anybody here? I mean, besides you? Where are we?”

Still not answering, he shoved the other half of the apple into his mouth. A seed stuck to his lower lip. He pulled out a second apple. When he stretched out his neck to swallow, she saw that a thick, ropelike scar ran from one side of his throat to the other. Goose pimples popped out on her arms.

“Well, I guess I'll be going,” she said nervously and turned as if to walk away, hoping that he would, too. But the man stayed put.
Now what? I can't climb back in while he's watching!
Her stomach rumbled.

“Little Paradise,” the man said, chewing with his mouth open.

“Huh? Oh.” It took her a second to realize he was answering her last question. Relieved to recognize the name of the town and glad that he was talking, she relaxed a little. “That apple looks mighty good,” she said. “Did you get it from this wagon?”

“Mine!” The man jumped up, knocking over the bucket, waving the knife, and holding the apple high over his head. “Mine, mine, mine!”

“Don't—mister, don't get upset! I—I don't want your apple!” Orphelia held up her hands palm side out to him, hoping to calm him down. But he didn't seem to understand. Instead he whirled around. With great leaping steps in oversized boots and flapping coat, he bounded through the wheat fields and on into the woods. He looked like a human scarecrow.

Orphelia leaned against the wagon in relief, fanning herself with her hands. Great grumpity gracious, what a creepy fellow! Momma would have a fit if she knew her daughter was talking to a strange man, and a hobo at that! He certainly couldn't have been a member of Madame Meritta's minstrel show.

At least she knew where she was now. Little Paradise was a tiny crossroads somewhere south of Hannibal. It was even smaller than Calico Creek, and it didn't even have a church or a school. A few Negro families farmed around here, but she didn't know any of them.

Using the overturned bucket as a stool, Orphelia climbed back through the window of the storage wagon. Inside, she stacked up boxes and barrels to make a wall that she could hide behind. Then she dumped a pile of flour sacks and burlap bags onto the floor for a bed and to cover herself with. After she had made her nest, she found some apples in a bag hanging from the ceiling and some salted fish, salted pork, and dried beef in barrels against the wall. She ate a handful of fish and a handful of beef. Both were good and curbed her hunger, but now she was thirsty.

Water! She'd have to go back outside. She hadn't seen a lake or stream nearby, but a source must be close because the horses had to have it. Once again she climbed out the window. Within reach of the horses were two barrels cut in half lengthwise and full of water. Cautiously she approached the horses, who paid no attention to her. The water looked clean enough. Though she didn't care for horse spit, she'd drunk horse water before, when she and Pearl were in Canton one dry day and were thirsty. She scooped up some water in her cupped hands, sniffed it, then drank.

Once her thirst was quenched, she hoisted herself back into the storage wagon and slipped behind the barrels and boxes. Then she settled herself in among the flour sacks for a long wait.

Her fingers twitched. She pulled the composition book from her schoolbag and studied the music. Was the composer a musician that Madame Meritta might have known? Orphelia would have to show her the book and ask. She lifted her hands to her imaginary piano and began to sing and play.

As she played, Orphelia wondered about the other people who might have lived in Calico Creek long ago. Hardly anybody in Calico Creek had ever said much about Negro history in Lewis County, except to say how happy everybody was when Emancipation came after the Civil War. Everybody who lived in Calico Creek was Negro anyway, except for that white family who had lived in the Stone Shed. She knew when Calico Creek Missionary Baptist Church and Training School was established, in 1880. She knew about the history of the Stone Shed, or at least part of it. But what about the rest? How did those instruments and that music book get into the Shed?

The horses whinnied outside. Soon Orphelia heard the creaking rumble of wagon wheels and knew the other coaches were returning.
Hide!
She covered herself with flour sacks. Had that evil one-eyed man returned? Would he tell Madame Meritta that she was in their camp? Orphelia heard the sound of the coach door opening.

“You must have been in here straightening up,” a man with a foreign accent said. “You made it so neat that I can't find my towels. What a sweet lady! But I prefer them right behind the door. So now you have put them where?”

“I put them nowhere, Othello. Maybe you left them on a clothesline at the last stop.” It was Madame Meritta!

Orphelia tried to flatten herself under the bags. Footsteps tapped on the wood floor. “Whew! Smells like rotten fish in here, Othello. Did you leave the lid off the barrel last night?”

She could feel someone—the man?—right above her. She held her breath. “Madame, salted fish smells like that all the time. Have you been moving my barrels, too? Well, here are my towels and my—
Mon Dieu!”
The man jerked Orphelia to her feet, shouting in a language Orphelia didn't know. It sounded like French.

With bags still draped around her head, Orphelia flailed blindly about. “Let me go!” She snatched off the sacks and came face-to-face with a short, plump, red-faced man with long black hair and a bristly mustache.

“Oh my goodness, girl, what are you doing here?” said Madame Meritta. “Stop, Othello, it's all right,” she said. “Well, no, it's not all right, but let her go anyway What else is going to happen? First the coach breaks down, this tooth is killing me, and now we've got a stowaway!”

Othello released Orphelia. She straightened and smoothed down her dress, her heart pounding so fast she thought it would leap up her throat and out of her mouth. “I'm Orphelia Bruce, from Calico Creek, remember? From last night!”

Nodding and frowning, Madame Meritta placed her palm against her swollen right cheek. “Oh yes, I remember you, but why—how did you get inside my food wagon? Do your folks know where you are? Of course they don't. You've run away! But you can't stay with
us
.”

“Well, I won't go back! You said you wanted me to play with you.”

“But that didn't mean come with me now, like this! All right, sit down there, be quiet, and listen to me.” Madame Meritta motioned for her to sit on the overturned washtub. “I can't take a girl your age with me. No. Period. And especially not without your people's permission! Don't you understand? Yes, you have talent, but—why, the authorities could say I kidnapped you!”

“But you joined a traveling show when you were twelve,” Orphelia said, “and you performed with famous musicians and organized your own—”

“Oh, that's just show-business talk, Orphelia. You can't believe everything you read.” Madame Meritta closed her eyes for a moment. “Listen, when freedom came, my mother died. I was a baby having to live from day to day with whoever took me in. I had no choice. I was on the road at that age only because the family that I was living with at the time was on the road, too, but it wasn't show business. A child shouldn't have to be made to work the way I … Honey, you have a family! You must go back home!”

“No, and if you send me back, I'll just run off again! Momma said I can't even be a church pianist anymore! I won't be able to play piano at all.” Orphelia's heart tumbled as fast as her words rushed out. She grabbed hold of Madame Meritta's skirt.

Othello stood in front of the door with his arms folded, staring at Orphelia like she'd fallen out of the sky. He reminded her of a hairy sausage. “Madame, you must get ready for this evening,” he said. “We still must pick up the coach and the others, remember? And your tooth?”

Madame Meritta looked from Orphelia to Othello and back. “How much more complicated can my life get? Orphelia, I can tell that you love music, and that's wonderful. I'm sure your mother will change her mind once you're back home. At any rate, I'm going to have to put you on the train immediately.”

“Which means that we'd have to go back to Hannibal, and that's miles away and the last train left there hours ago,” Othello said.