The Ragtime Kid

by Larry Karp

  Just then, the object of his musings burst through the doorway and up to the counter. Stark took him in with a mild squint. “I’d say you’re looking a bit worked up.”

  “Just thought I might’ve overstayed my limit.” Through teeth zipped tight.

  Stark smiled without changing the expression on his face. The girl must’ve turned him down, or maybe her boyfriend happened to walk in on them. “Well, perhaps you did, just a bit—but here.” He pointed at a fair-sized carton on the floor. “You can make up for it by getting these guitar strings into the display case molto vivace. Isaac’s out delivering a piano to a farm past Smithville. He’ll be gone all afternoon, so you and I are it.”

  As Brun hustled off, Stark lowered himself onto a stool behind the counter, and mopped at his face with a handkerchief. He looked up to see two colored men walk into the doorway, then just stand there, looking all around like they were a little unsure of themselves. Stark cleared his throat, slid his hand down to the shelf behind the counter, gripped the shotgun. He stiffened as he saw Brun stride up to the men. The boy was bright, but he still had a lot to learn, and if he didn’t learn caution in a hurry, he wasn’t going to live long enough to learn the rest. Stark heard him say, “Hello, there,” then ask how he could help.

  The bigger man smiled. He had on a black coat, a wide-brimmed black hat, and a neat white shirt and black tie. Heavy dressing for a day like this, and his near-black skin shone with sweat. “Thank you, young sir,” the big man said. “I means you no disrespect. But I think we needs to speak directly with Mr. Stark, yonder.”

  The man started toward the counter, moving in the slightly rolling, shambling gait of an old man with arthritic hips. The younger man followed him, staring all the while at Brun. Stark folded his finger around the shotgun trigger. As the older man closed in on the counter, Stark suddenly took his hand off the shotgun, and stood. “Mr. Weston, welcome. I’m sorry, I didn’t see it was you out there.”

  “Well, now, that’s no trouble,” the man said. “Sun’s bright outside, does make it harder to see.”

  Stark smiled, but his eyes were sad. “And at our age, our sight’s not what it once was, now, is it? What can I do for you, Mr. Weston? By the way, this young man is my new clerk, Brun Campbell. He’s just gotten to town from Arkansas City.”

  Weston looked Brun up, then down, seemed to approve of what he saw. “Welcome to our city, Master Campbell. What is it brings you to Sedalia?”

  “I came to take piano lessons from Mr. Scott Joplin.” Brun looked at the young man who’d come in with Weston, and who now seemed to be looking anywhere but at Brun. “Well, hello, there, Scott Hayden,” Brun said. “Don’t you recollect me? From the other day, when Mr. Joplin agreed to give me lessons? Remember, he introduced us, said he was teaching you and Arthur Marshall to write ragtime, and…”

  The dismay accumulating on Hayden’s face shut down the flow of Brun’s words. Stark glanced at his clerk, rolled his eyes. The older colored man looked fit to explode. From the scowl he turned on Hayden, you might have thought the young man was a loathsome bug that had just crawled in under the door. “Scott Hayden! Is this true?”

  “Well…yes, sir.” Hayden scraped the floor with the toe of his right shoe, held one hand with the other. “But Scott Joplin is a fine pianist, the best teacher in Sed—”

  Weston slammed down his huge fist; the counter shook and rattled. “That is the music of the devil! And you want to be our church organist? When you walk out of God’s house and consort with Satan’s followers?”

  Stark reached out, took Mr. Weston’s arm in his hand, and immediately regretted the move. The big, angry Negro seemed to shrink in size, the customary reaction of a colored man when a white took hold of him in the midst of an altercation. Stark released his grip. Weston, all his anger safely locked away, at least for the time being, said quietly, “I do apologize, Mr. Stark, for creating a commotion in your store.”

  Brun was astonished at the sudden mildness in Stark’s blue eyes. “Not at all, Mr. Weston,” Stark said. “I just wanted to say that I fear you’re making a mistake, abandoning such a fine young man to the darkness. Do you suppose our Lord Himself would have cast him out?”

  Mr. Weston looked at the floor.

  “Besides…” Stark chuckled. “If I’m not severely in error, the older generation has always thought their offspring were going straight to the deuce. Didn’t your own father ever have concerns about you, Mr. Weston?”

  Severity drained out of Weston’s face, replaced by an odd mixture of embarrassment and humor. What the man might have been going to say, we’ll never know, because Stark didn’t wait for an answer. “All right, then, Mr. Weston. What was it you wanted to see me and only me about?”

  A skinny old white man in a shabby blue shirt and torn overalls, who hadn’t had acquaintance with a razor for some time, shuffled into the shop on bowed legs. He tipped his leather hat and said, “How dee, Miz Stock,” showing teeth like a picket fence splashed with kerosene. “I need me a new C string, I do.”

  Stark nodded, then motioned to Brun. “Brun, meet old Clete the Fiddler, he’s been my customer since the day I opened. Can you please get him a C-string? Put it on the tab.”

  Brun was back with the string in almost no time. Clete shook his hand to some excess, told the boy how obliged he was, then left Brun to watch the rest of the drama. The matter of Scott Hayden and ragtime seemed to be in the past. Weston pointed toward a folding suitcase organ, all shiny varnished tiger-striped oak, sitting like a sovereign among a display of five or six of those little twelve-note organs that play paper rolls when you turn the crank. “Something like that li’l Bilhorn would do us just right—that’s a real organ. Got itself a fine sound, and when we ain’t usin’ it, we can fold it up and keep it safe under lock and key. An’ in fine weather, it could go down to the river with us for baptisms, or on a Sunday church picnic.”

  Stark nodded, then looked at Scott Hayden. “Before Mr. Weston makes a decision, why don’t you play him some music. Make sure you’re both satisfied.”

  Hayden looked doubtful, but walked over to the Bilhorn, stopping on the way to pick up the piano stool. He sat at the keyboard, pumped the sustain lever with his right foot, checked the swell lever outside his right knee. Then he shot his cuffs, wiggled his fingers, stretched his head all the way back, then forward again. Putting on a bit of a show, Brun thought. Mr. Weston called out, “Don’t you dare play no ragtime now, hear? Play us a hymn.”

  Stark picked up on the smile that flickered across Hayden’s face before the young man began to pump the pedals and move his hands. Like Scott Joplin’s, Brun thought, fingers gliding over the keys, gently pushing one here, three there. He wondered whether he’d ever be able to play like that, rather than banging away like those piano keys had done something to insult him.

  It took just a couple of measures for Brun to recognize “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Mrs. Howe generally gets credit for that tune, but she was a poet, not a composer, and just plugged her words into the popular Civil War anthem, “John Brown’s Body.” Hayden played it soft and slow, but then, on a second go-round, he commenced to pump more air. Mr. Weston smiled broadly. Brun heard him whisper to Stark, “There, now!”

  Stark, though, seemed not to hear him, just stared at Hayden, who at that point did something with the music that Brun couldn’t quite figure. But when he saw his own foot tapping, he realized Hayden had shifted the beat. He was syncopating. Playing the Lord’s melody to the devil’s rhythm. Just a hint at first, but the further Hayden went, the more the music seemed to carry him along; he stepped up the tempo, pumped the pedals ever faster, moved his knee into the swell lever to put even more emphasis on accented notes. Now his left hand played a clear barrelhouse rhythm. Faster and faster, louder and louder. Hands crossed over, back and forth. On a piano, this would have been an impressive performance; on the organ it was past belief, put to shame any playing Brun ever had d
one. The boy felt sick with envy. He heard applause behind him, someone clapping time with the music. He glanced back and saw it was Weston. “Isn’t that something,” the preacher called out. “Why, he’ll have them jumpin’ in the aisles in the church.”

  Lest Weston catch sight of his face right then, Brun quickly turned away. He saw Stark’s lips move, then realized his boss was singing, but as if to himself. “John Brown’s body lies a- mould’ring in the grave. John Brown’s body…” The pain weighting Stark’s eyes moved Brun so, he began to sing along, and then Weston joined in. “John Brown’s body lies a mould’ring in the grave. But his soul goes marching on.” Scott Hayden finished with a flourish, the fingers of his right hand dancing from key to key, finally winding up in a big, bass-supported, “Ah-men.”

  Hayden swung around on the stool, dripping sweat, a sly smile all over his face. A few people who’d gathered at the doorway cheered and clapped; then, as they saw Hayden move away from the organ, they went along their way. Weston was almost dancing with pleasure, but Stark looked like he was just barely holding back a flood of tears. Seeing Brun staring at him, Stark swiveled to face Weston. “I guess that organ is going to the right place.”

  Whereupon Weston’s smile faded. “I hope so, Mr. Stark, sir. I truly do. But of course. I need to ask the price.”

  “Well, of course,” Stark said. “Let’s see, now… That’s the best of the Bilhorn Telescope Organs, Style C, double reeds and four full octaves. It lists at seventy dollars, but for ecclesiastical use, we would give a discount of ten percent.”

  Weston took off his hat and fanned himself, exposing his bald pate and looking some twenty years older. He stared into space and his fingers twitched, as if trying to calculate sums. Then he looked at Stark with great seriousness. “I don’t wish to offend you, sir, but the fact is, our congregation simply does not have that much money to spend. But would you consider a time payment?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of bills and coins, and laid them on the counter. “Say, thirty-six dollars and eighty-two cents down, and five dollars each week?”

  Stark now looked fully recovered from whatever had been ailing him. “That would be just fine, Mr. Weston. We do offer time payments, and considering the situation, in addition to the ten percent discount, there will be no interest charged on the balance.”

  “Why, bless you, Mr. Stark.” Weston had Stark’s hand between the two of his own, and was working it like he hoped to fill a pail with water from the shopkeeper’s mouth. “Bless you, sir! My congregation will pray for your well-being, and your family’s.”

  Stark managed a reasonable-enough smile. “Well, then, Mr. Weston, I suppose we’re both getting a good deal, aren’t we?”

  After Weston signed a time-payment agreement, he and Scott Hayden folded up the organ and began to carry it out, Weston in front, Hayden bringing up the rear. As Hayden walked past Brun, Stark heard his clerk half-whisper, “I sure hope one day I’ll be able to play hymns like you.”

  For a moment, Hayden seemed to consider the wisdom of answering, but his grin wouldn’t be denied. “Glory hallelujah an’ a-men, brother,” he said to Brun.

  Once the Negroes had navigated the doorway and passed out of earshot, Stark turned a good hot eye on his clerk. “That was wicked of you, Brun.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stark thought the reply sounded more triumphant than repentant.

  The boy went on. “Mind if I ask a question, sir?”

  “That is the only way to learn. Say on.”

  “I was wondering…when Scott Hayden played that tune, you looked mighty severe. Didn’t you approve of his playing?”

  Stark looked away. He saw files of blue-coated soldiers, a young blue-eyed bugler at the edge of the first rank. The Indiana Twenty-first Infantry Regiment, late in the summer of ’sixty-one, marching southward toward Baltimore to the tune of “John Brown’s Body.” Stark felt as though Brun had gone trespassing on private property, but he could hardly fault the boy. There had been no signs posted.

  “I apologize if I talked out of turn,” he heard Brun murmur.

  Stark shook his head, couldn’t shake away the vision, finally fought his mind back to the present. “No, it’s all right, Brun.” He checked the clock, then strode around the counter, shut the front door and locked it, hung the CLOSED sign, and motioned Brun toward the office. Once inside, he sat behind his desk and motioned the boy to a chair opposite him. “You’ve heard of John Brown, I suppose,” Stark said.

  “Old Osawotomie Brown?” Brun shouted. “Well, sure. I grew up mostly in Kansas.”

  Stark smiled. “Then you’ve heard plenty.”

  “But everyone says different. Some say he was a saint and a martyr, and others say he was just a cold-blooded killer. And some say he was just plain bughouse.”

  “He was all that,” Stark said. “And then some. But most important, more than anyone else, he was responsible for starting the Civil War. He believed slavery was an abomination, and prophesized that the crimes of this guilty land—as he put it—would be purged only with blood. Well, for five years, Brun, I saw more blood shed than ever I could have imagined.”

  All the pain Brun had seen earlier flooded back into Stark’s eyes. The old man went on speaking, softly. “That was a long time ago…near-forty years. And now I’m a businessman in Sedalia, Missouri, I’ve got a good business, an even finer family, a good home. I’m respected here. I’m respectable.”

  Brun thought Stark made respectability sound just a bit unseemly. But he said, “Yes, sir.”

  “My daughter Nell learned piano, I sent her to Europe for two years to study with Moszkowski. You know of him, of course.”

  Brun nodded. He’d never heard of the man, but it sounded like he should’ve.

  “And now, my son Will wants to go into music publishing. He’s spending so much of his time in St. Louis, looking into possibilities, that I’ve had to hire a part-time boy for the shop.”

  “Which I’m not going to complain about, sir.”

  Stark felt surprise at how fond he’d become of this boy, and how quickly. He was just close enough to smart-alecky to be endearing. “No, I’m sure you’re not. But I’m concerned. Will thinks we can do better in music publishing than selling instruments, but I just don’t know. Music publishing wouldn’t be the first business to flame up, then burn out like a comet. I suppose if it did, Will’s young enough; he can start something else. But what about me? I’m fifty-eight years old.”

  Stark saw Brun open his mouth, motioned for the boy to close it. He shook his head slowly, denial of all possibility. “You’re a live wire, Brun, and you do have real musical talent. I’ve been giving it some thought. You might be the right man in the right place. If Will decides to go ahead with publishing, he can’t go it alone, and maybe you’d be the man to work with him. The store should support Mrs. Stark and me the rest of our days. After I’ve gone, Will could decide what to do with it.”

  Brun could hardly believe his ears. Thinking he might have been summoned into the office for a stern lecture about minding his own beeswax, he was being all but offered a junior partnership in the Stark Music Publishing Company. Well, when you’re being praised for a live wire, no point trying to pretend you’re a shy violet. “I’d be real interested in that, sir.”

  “Well, you think about it, then,” said Stark. “And I will do the same. Now, I’ll tell you what. Sunday, you come by and have dinner with us, one o’clock. Mrs. Stark would like to meet you.”

  “I’d be pleased, sir,” Brun said, but pleased didn’t even begin to cover what he felt. If Stark was considering him for bigger things, he’d need to be sure his Mrs. cottoned to the new boy. Brun vowed he’d make certain she would. For now, he’d show Stark he was on the ball. “I’ve got another question, sir. About that time payment—does it worry you? I mean, since you let them take away the organ.”

  “Good thought, Brun. But no, it doesn’t worry me. You heard what Pastor
Weston said about young Hayden having them jumping in the aisles? I’m sure he’s right. What do you suppose the pastor will do directly after that?”

  Brun couldn’t help laughing. “Pass the plate.”

  “So will I get paid sooner or later because they already have the organ in the church?”

  Answer enough. Brun nodded.

  Stark, though, was not finished. “And with everyone in that congregation knowing where the organ came from, and that John Stark and Son was willing to trust them, where do you think the men will go when they want a new banjo or a guitar? Or strings? Where will the mothers go when they want lesson books for their children? Will they go to Perry’s or Stark’s? The best salesman profits beyond his sales figures because he takes care that his customer is more than satisfied.” Stark stood and stretched. “All right, that’s enough for one day. I need a beer before supper.”

  They were outside, re-locking the door, when a young man who’d been sitting in the doorway got to his feet, a human rail in a light blue shirt with red sleeve holders, and baggy brown worsted pants held up by red suspenders. He picked up a basket, shifted it onto his left shoulder, then shuffled up to Stark and Brun, tipped a tattered wide-brimmed straw hat, and said a polite, “H’lo, Mr. Stark.”

  “Hello yourself, John,” said Stark. “Is there something we can do for you?”

  “Yes, indeed.” The man pointed at Brun. “I got a message for your boy. I seed him and you in there, so I sat down here to wait.”

  “You should have knocked. We’d have let you in.”

  “Well, I thought not to disturb you, Mr. Stark. B’sides, this time of day, I grab whatever chance comes along for me to take a li’l rest.”