The Minstrel's Melody

by Eleanora E. Tate

  “He has some sort of mental problem,” Madame explained. “After we took him in, we tried to find out where he was from and what had happened to him that put him in such a terrible state, but he never could tell us. We just made up the name Reuben for him.”

  Orphelia sat back on her heels. How kind and generous Madame Meritta and Mr. Othello were for taking Reuben in. They didn’t seem to mind his odd behavior or his hideous appearance or his mysterious past. As far as Othello was concerned, Reuben was hardworking and loyal. Orphelia began to feel a little ashamed for being so suspicious of him. Maybe he really wasn’t a bad man after all. Still, Orphelia couldn’t help feeling uneasy about him.

  Madame Meritta took out a package wrapped in white linen and pulled out a boy’s blue jacket, white silk shirt, cummerbund, trousers, and derby. “Oh, dear,” she said softly. Then, to Orphelia’s amazement, Madame Meritta’s face crumpled up. She pressed the jacket to her heart.

  Orphelia reached out and touched her on the arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Madame Meritta sniffed a couple of times, straightened, then briskly shook the coat in the air. “See if you can make these fit. They’re not doing anybody any good molding away in this trunk.”

  Orphelia examined the jacket, richly embroidered in white at the cuffs and collar, on both panels, and on the back. “It’s beautiful. Whose is it?”

  “Well, if you must know, it belonged to my son, Ralston. He would have been fifteen years old this year.” Madame Meritta fell silent.

  Orphelia was stunned. “What happened to him?” she asked.

  “He died of smallpox two years ago. He’s buried in a small cemetery in New Orleans. He went everywhere with me, but he never performed. And then that August we were in New Orleans. He fell ill, and there was nothing I could do to save him. I’ve always felt that had I not been on the road, he never would have gotten sick, and he’d still be with me now.”

  Orphelia peered up at Madame Meritta. The older woman’s eyes were large and wet. “Othello never got over it, either.” She glanced down at Orphelia. “Well, come on, Orphelia, try it on,” she said, all business again. “We’ve still got to get your act together.”

  Orphelia saw Madame Meritta’s eyes glisten as she turned away. Quickly Orphelia removed her dress and drew on the clothes. Everything was too big, but before Madame Meritta could tell her to remove them, Orphelia rolled up the shirt and pant cuffs and pushed back the jacket sleeves.

  “Look, Miz Madame. This will work all right, won’t it? Please say it will!”

  Orphelia couldn’t tell if Madame Meritta was gazing at her or just at the clothes. How would Momma react if she knew her daughter was wearing boys’ clothes! And Pearl would have to talk about the old-fashioned cut of the jacket, but she would love the needlework. After what seemed like forever, Madame Meritta spoke. “All right. It’s just this one time, anyway.”

  CHAPTER 6

  A CLOSE CALL

  Orphelia’s heart pounded. “The Grand Extraordinaire”—which was what Madame Meritta’s Pitchfork Creek gala was entitled—was under way. Orphelia stood at the back of the tent. She swallowed nervously and adjusted the derby on her head again. She pulled at the cummerbund, the wide belt around her waist.

  In a few minutes Othello, who would serve as Grand Master in place of Robert, would give her the signal. Then she was to run down the center aisle to the stage, hurry up the steps to the piano, and sing “Ballad of a Homeless Child.”

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand and tried to calm herself. The tent was the biggest she’d ever seen or been in—bigger even than the one at Hannibal’s Emancipation Proclamation program. And the people! It seemed like a thousand folks, mostly Negro but many whites, too, had crammed into the tent. She bet they came from as far away as Clarksville, Little Paradise, and maybe even St. Louis! Her heart was beating faster than it ever had.

  This would be Orphelia’s first and last chance to perform before a real audience. They had passed a tiny train station on their way into Pitchfork Creek. True to his word, Othello had dropped Reuben off there to give a message to the telegraph man for Orphelia’s parents. The note said that first thing in the morning, she would be carted back by train to Canton, where her parents were supposed to pick her up. The note also requested that they pay for the ticket.

  By this time tomorrow she would probably be back in Calico Creek. For the rest of her life, she would be forced to play only on her pretend piano. Momma would rope her to the washtub, where she would wash clothes forever and die an old maid. Pearl would marry Cap, have ten children, and continue to tell lies, and Poppa would just smoke himself to death in the outhouse. She tried not to be mad at Poppa, but she was, a little.

  Was doing this performance a mistake? What if I trip on these pants and fall flat on my face in front of everybody? What if I forget the words to the song? What if—

  There! The signal! Othello had just swept his arms high into the air. The band struck up the opening bars of “Homeless Child.” Orphelia gulped and froze.

  He raised his arms again, but she still couldn’t move. Have I had a heart attack and died standing on my feet?

  Othello stepped closer to the edge of the stage. The music faded. “Ladies and gentlemen … Orville, our Musical Orphan Boy Prodigy, will capture your hearts with a most sorrowful, heart-wrenching song. Please prepare yourselves with handkerchiefs. Orville, my child, please come forward to the stage now! Please come forward now!”

  At the sound of his voice, Orphelia came out of her trance. Perform with passion, she told herself. She doubled up her fists and rushed through the aisle between the rows of red and brown and yellow and black and white faces and gaping mouths, up the steps and to the piano. The band, which had swung into the chorus of “Homeless Child,” played softer now, waiting.

  As soon as Orphelia’s fingers touched the piano keys, she relaxed. She began singing the first mournful stanza. Gaining confidence, she moved into the chorus and quickened the beat, tapping her foot and bobbing her head. She looked out at the crowd. The people were nodding, and some began clapping in time to the faster beat. They liked it!

  When she came to the last stanza, she stood up and sang, “With a loving mother, I’ll never be homeless again.” She strutted around at the edge of the stage, then faced the audience with her hands poised on her hips, singing. The audience was right there with her, standing, smiling, and applauding. A woman near the back of the tent waved her green and white handkerchief in time to the music.

  They like me! They like me! Miz Madame will have to let me stay now.

  At the end of the song, Orphelia threw her hands up in the air and struck a pose. Remembering the boy who had portrayed Abe Lincoln in the talent show, she folded her arm across her waist and bowed deeply, like he did. But her hat fell off—just like his had—revealing her braided hair. The derby rolled to the end of the platform, dropped off, and wobbled down the center aisle.

  Aghast, Orphelia looked helplessly over to Othello, who shrugged, smiled, and applauded. The audience broke into laughter.

  A man in the front row rescued her hat. He walked up to the stage and, with a big smile, handed the derby back to her. Orphelia took the hat. “Thank you,” she said. Glancing again at Othello, she bowed to the man. The audience broke into an even louder round of applause.

  I bet they think he’s part of my act. Smiling gloriously, her sweaty face shining with victory, she bowed to him again.

  Othello came out onto the stage and took her hand. “Orville, the Musical Orphan Boy Prodigy. Or should I say Miss Orville, the Musical Orphan Girl Prodigy? Isn’t she wonderful?”

  As the audience applauded, a group of men who had been standing at the back of the tent now headed toward the front, talking and laughing loudly. Pushing and shoving one another, the men found seats. Then one of them pointed to Orphelia and Othello and yelled, “Hey, put some black on that gal! Better go get you some cork and put some black on you, too, fat
boy!”

  The other men stamped their feet and began to shout, “Black ’em up, black ’em up, black ’em up!” They were joined in the chant by some of the white members of the audience who suddenly didn’t seem as friendly as before. Some Negro members of the audience stood up and began to leave, looking over their shoulders nervously.

  “Get off the stage,” Othello said in a low voice to Orphelia. “Hurry!” Orphelia left the stage and ran to the musicians’ pit, where Laphet stood, holding his banjo like a bat. “What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

  Out of nowhere Reuben appeared, scooping her up in his arms. “Get away, get away, Otisteen!” he hissed, with a terrible expression on his face.

  Otisteen?! Did he just— She screamed and struggled to break free, but he held on tightly to her. “Wait! What did you say? That’s my Momma’s—how did you—ow! Put me down! What’s going on?”

  “No time! No time! Get away, Otisteen!” Reuben swept her out of the tent.

  Madame Meritta saw them and came running. “Thank the Lord. Oh, thank you, Reuben.” Reuben set Orphelia on the ground, and Madame Meritta grabbed her hand. “Honey, are you okay? Reuben, go find Othello and see if he needs help rounding up the others.” Reuben darted off.

  Orphelia could hear Othello shouting above the noise, “Please, let us have calm! Everything is all right!”

  To a tall, plump woman dressed in a stunning blue gown and lace bonnet and twirling a matching parasol, Madame Meritta said, “Bertha, you may have to drive this time. Take her with you.”

  Without a word, Bertha pushed back her bonnet, lifted the skirt of her gown with one hand, and grabbed Orphelia’s hand in her other. Dragging Orphelia with her, she ran across the yard to the equipment coach and pushed Orphelia through the door. Then she climbed up on the wagon seat and picked up the horses’ reins. Orphelia scrambled to the window and peeked out. What was going on? What had she done? And why on earth had Reuben just called her Otisteen?

  She saw Othello, Madame Meritta, and the other band members stride from the tent, surrounded by a ring of white men with their guns drawn. “Oh, are they gonna shoot?” Orphelia cried.

  “Those are the sheriff’s men,” Bertha shouted back, “so I hope not.” When Artimus scrambled up into the wagon seat by Bertha and took the reins, she hurriedly climbed down and pushed into the coach with Orphelia.

  The sheriff’s men formed a protective circle around the wagon to fend off the growing crowd of white men, who were shouting threats and cursing. “We want our money back!” somebody yelled. Madame Meritta, Othello, and Laphet pushed through the crowd and squeezed into the wagon while the rest of the troupe members made their escape to other coaches. Orphelia didn’t see Reuben anywhere. She hoped he was all right. He did save her, after all, and she was grateful. And she also needed to ask him how he knew her mother’s name.

  Frightened by the noise, one of the horses reared. With the coach tilting dangerously, Artimus snapped the reins and drove off.

  Everyone inside the coach was silent as it lurched over the rough road leading them out of Pitchfork Creek. Shoved up between Bertha and Laphet in her hot jacket and trousers, Orphelia could barely breathe. She tried to get some meaning of what exactly had happened by peeking at the faces of the men and women around her, but their expressions didn’t tell her anything.

  Madame Meritta’s head was turned toward the coach window, which had been closed for safety. Othello kept stroking his mustache, as if making sure it was still there.

  Orphelia remembered how the men had shouted at her and Othello to “black ’em up, black ’em up,” but in all the commotion, she hadn’t understood. Now she did. They wanted her and Othello to put that burnt cork on their faces, and the men had a hissy fit when Othello refused. It was so brave of him to face that mob!

  Still, if she hadn’t wasted so much time by taking so many bows and dropping her derby, she would have been off the stage by the time the men reached the front. The dancers would have come on, and maybe the men wouldn’t have thought about her not being in blackface.

  “Guess we’re having shoe soup tonight,” Laphet said.

  “Yep. I was counting on making a little piece of change myself, but ol’ trouble came along and took it away,” said Bertha.

  Orphelia tried to follow their conversation, but it made no sense other than that she was sure they were talking about what had happened. “Each of you will be paid your dues,” Madame Meritta said, “even if I have to sell all my coaches.”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining,” said Bertha quickly. “This isn’t the first time some devil disrupted a show and kicked my money down the drain, and it won’t be the last.”

  Everybody talked at once, saying how things were a shame and that Pitchfork Creek deserved its name because so many devils lived there. “And to holler and shout and threaten a little girl the way they did,” Laphet added, looking at Orphelia.

  “It was my fault, wasn’t it, for taking, so much time getting off the stage,” Orphelia whispered miserably.

  “Oh no, no, no, not you!” Laphet and Madame Meritta said together.

  Othello tapped Orphelia on the knee. “Those ruffians just wanted to start a fight. They knew if they could get something started, the sheriff would close us down. I wouldn’t doubt but that another show hired them to do just that so they could come and take our place. The sheriff was good to protect us.”

  Madame Meritta turned her head, and Orphelia could see that her eyes were puffy. “We’ll play Pitchfork Creek again. We’ve played it before with no problems.”

  Orphelia sat back against the coach wall, trying not to cry herself. Somehow it still felt like it was her fault. Everything had seemed to be going so well during her act. People had been enjoying her music. Madame Meritta was right. Life on the road wasn’t at all like she thought it would be. Maybe Momma really did know what she was talking about when she said show business was not where proper young Negro women—or at least Orphelia—needed to be. It was dangerous!

  Yet she still felt the flood of excitement she had experienced standing on that stage singing and playing the piano, with the people applauding her. Her first “professional” appearance only made her hungry for more.

  The equipment wagon finally rolled into a clearing, followed by the other coaches. Everyone climbed out and began jabbering all at once. Orphelia was relieved to see that Reuben was with them. She left the coach and took off her jacket, glad to be in the open air again at last. But even with the jacket off, she still felt a heavy weight pressing down on her shoulders. Knowing she would have to go back home in the morning filled her with dread.

  “I grabbed her,” Reuben said. “Othello, did you see me? I saved her.”

  “Yes, Reuben,” Othello said with a smile, “you did a good job.”

  Orphelia looked up at him humbly. “Thank you, Reuben.”

  He smiled proudly.

  “But why did you call me Otisteen?” she added.

  Reuben’s face clouded over. Orphelia waited for him to say something, but he just stood there, looking confused.

  “What are you talking about?” Madame Meritta asked.

  “Before,” Orphelia explained, “when Reuben was carrying me out of the tent, he called me Otisteen. That’s my momma’s name. How do you know my momma’s name, Reuben?”

  He shrugged and turned away momentarily.

  “Orphelia, I’m sure that’s not possible,” said Madame Meritta. “What with all the noise and confusion, you probably just heard him wrong. I’m surprised you were able to hear anything above that din!”

  “I guess you could be right,” Orphelia said. But she wasn’t really convinced.

  Finally Reuben spoke. He muttered sadly, “Bad luck,” and his face pulled into a deep frown.

  “Well, they say it can be bad luck to have a child along,” broke in Bertha, looking at Orphelia like she was a voodoo doll.

  “No, no, don’t say that, Bertha,” Othello
said.

  “Well, all I’m saying is how Maryanne got that terrible toothache, Lillian and Robert quit, and now this—in just a few days’ time.”

  So now Orphelia was bad luck? Was that why Madame Meritta didn’t encourage musicians to bring their children with them? Orphelia backed away from Bertha and Reuben. “I guess it’s good, then, that you’re putting me on that train, huh?” she said. She felt lower than a snail’s belly.

  “The train!” Madame Meritta groaned. She cradled her face in her hands. “Oh, I forgot about the train! But we can’t stay here overnight now. It’s not safe! Who knows what those troublemakers might be up to? Oh, Lord, do preserve my sanity.”

  “Madame, I think you are right,” Othello said. He pointed at the western sky, where dark clouds stretched like a greenish-black blanket. “And that rain we left behind Thursday night is about to catch up with us. It could be pretty bad. I believe it’s best we move on. We will have to try to catch the train at another stop.”

  “I think we better keep going too,” said Laphet.

  Madame agreed. She ordered the camp to break up. After the coaches had been secured, Orphelia climbed into the sleeper coach with Madame Meritta and Bertha. With the sleeper coach in the lead, the caravan pulled off.

  Orphelia lay back wearily on her bed, thinking about the events of the day. Of everything that had happened, the thing that still troubled her the most was Reuben calling her Otisteen. She was sure she had heard him correctly. But maybe it was just a coincidence—maybe he knew someone else by that name. After all, there was no way he could have known who Orphelia’s momma was. Orphelia was sure she had not seen him around the night of the talent show in Calico Creek.

  Unless Reuben had been in Calico Creek some other time. The thought made Orphelia uncomfortable. No one knew anything about Reuben’s past. Maybe he had been a hobo, like Cap—or worse yet, some sort of ruffian running from the law. Cap said that the Stone Shed was a popular stop for transients. Maybe Reuben had hidden out there.