The Ragtime Kid

by Larry Karp

  Stark smiled, then went on tiptoes to peer into the man’s basket. “Your oranges look good today.”

  “They is,” John said. “Sweet and juicy. Better in the apples, but tomorrow, who knows?”

  Stark dug into his pocket, dropped twenty cents into John’s hand. “I’ll take one, and another for Brun here—he’s our new boy. Brun, this is Mr. John Reynolds, Apple John. He sells the best fruit in Sedalia.”

  Apple John considered his new acquaintance. “He’s the very one I come here to see. But whatever kind of a name is that, Brun?”

  “Short for Brunson.” Which seemed to satisfy Apple John. He took off his hat, brushed lank, sweaty black hair off his forehead, then plunked the hat back on. “Mr. Boutell over by the saloon, he ask me to come tell you his piano man’s sick and can you play for him tonight?”

  “Well, sure. Sure.”

  “Mr. Boutell say be there nine o’clock. You get tips and food and beer.” Apple John made a face as he spoke the last word. “But you listen right to me, you take the tips and the food, but just you leave the beer. Any kinda liquor, it ain’t good for you. That and those cigarettes, they’s the worst kind of thing for your body. Cause liver troubles and consumption. Now, me, I walk to Smithton every day, pick up my eggs and butter and fruit, maybe fifty pounds, and I carry it back to Sedalia. Then I walk up and down the streets all day, sellin’ it. You think I could do that if I drank liquor, or smoked an’ chewed tobacca?” John cocked his head to give Brun a severe look. “I hope you pay heed, but ’course, I can’t no more than warn you, can I? Now, you gotta go tell Mr. Boutell yes or no yourself about tonight, ’cause I ain’t no messenger boy. Don’t mind doin’ a man a favor, he asks, but I got my own work, and I got to be on my way now.”

  “I’ll go right over,” Brun said. “And thank you. I’m real glad to get that job.”

  John shuffled off down the street, calling, “Apples and oranges…apples and oranges.” Stark and Brun walked to Boutell’s, where Stark lowered himself onto a stool at the bar, ordered a mug of Moerschel’s, and lit a cigar. So much for Apple John’s counsel, Brun thought. He told Boutell he’d be there at eight, then said good-bye to Stark, and set off back to Higdon’s.

  ***

  Scott Joplin ran a handkerchief over his forehead, then shoved the soggy cloth back into his pocket. He looked up at Julius Weiss, then toward the bar, where two colored railroad workers had just sat down. As Walker Williams drew beer into glasses for them, all three suddenly burst out laughing. A joke, Joplin thought, or more likely, something to do with a woman. “I suppose we’d better quit for now,” he said to Julius Weiss. “The whole lot of them will be in, and then we won’t be able to hear ourselves think, let alone talk.”

  Weiss shook his head sadly. “Scott, Scott…why you gotta be so fussy, you need such peace and quiet to write your music? Don’t some of your friends make up their music in saloons and…other places?”

  Joplin pulled the red rubber ball from his pocket and began to squeeze, slowly, first with the left hand, then the right, then back to the left. “Of course you can write barrelhouse music in a barrelhouse.” The composer’s tone was that of a patient teacher, one he’d heard for enough years to pick up and make his own. “But I write classical music. Respectable music. I can’t do that with drunks shouting foolishness and obscenities into my ears.

  “But, Scott—if you want to write ‘respectable,’ then why are you writing this ragtime? Why don’t you write symphonies? Operas? Ball—” He stopped mid-word as he saw the trap he’d stepped into.

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” said Joplin. “The Ragtime Dance is a ballet. And one day I will write operas and symphonies—”

  “In ragtime.”

  “Yes. Classical ragtime.” Joplin squeezed with the right hand, then the left.

  Weiss had to use all his restraint to resist an urge to grab that ball out of his protegé’s hands and throw it as far as he could. “Scott, if you want so bad to write like Beethoven, then why don’t you just write like Beethoven? Like Boone does.”

  “Blind Boone makes his living performing in concert halls, so he plays Strauss’ waltzes, Chopin’s polonaises, and Liszt’s etudes. And when he writes waltzes and polonaises and etudes, they sound like what Strauss, Chopin, and Liszt might have written after a trip to Africa.” Squeeze left, squeeze right. “But I intend to succeed on my own terms. What I hear in ragtime, rough as it is, I will make over into art. Into a classical music no one in Europe has ever heard.”

  “And no one in the United States, either. Scott, let me tell you. Most people don’t take right away to something what’s new. It’d be hard enough for a white man to make music from the parlors respectable.”

  “That’s one reason I agreed to take on the boy from Oklahoma as a pupil.” Joplin’s voice was soft, but Weiss couldn’t miss the fiber in his words. Squeeze right, squeeze left, squeeze right. “He has the talent, but I don’t know whether he has the ear. The way he plays…if I can teach that white boy to play my ragtime like a proper classical music, it might be the making of us both. If I need a pair of white hands to help me lift ragtime out of the gutter and put it into the drawing room and the concert hall, I will get those white hands. There’s no need for another Beethoven or another Lizst. Fifty years from now, mark my words, music critics will talk about Beethoven, Lizst and Joplin.”

  Amazing, Weiss thought. From anybody else, that would sound like a ridiculous conceit. But from Scott Joplin… A rush of emotion flooded the old man’s head, as if this ink-black colored man might actually be his son. “But you need to get known, Scott. Even if you teach Brunnie to play right, if nobody knows you, neither one of you is ever going to get anywhere. Music sheets are so popular now, every day a new tune for people to buy and play. You should let someone publish your ragtime.”

  Cramps ran up Joplin’s arm from his right hand; he relaxed his grip on the rubber ball. “I’d be glad to have my ragtime published on sheets, but only as my ragtime, composed and arranged. And under a royalties agreement.”

  “Scott, that is just foolishness, you must know that. Even some white composers only get an outright purchase.”

  “But many of them get royalties.” Joplin slipped the ball back into his pocket. “And if I want the public to take me seriously as a composer of classical music, I need to insist that publishers take me seriously.” Joplin’s face tightened. “As long as I’m willing to take their ten or twenty dollars, let them list someone else as arranger, and not object when they put out a cover with Negroes who look like monkeys with razors in their back pockets, no one will respect me or my music. I made a mistake last year with Carl Hoffman, but I won’t make it again.”

  Weiss felt beyond defeated, guilty as sin itself. How many times had he drilled into that young colored boy’s head that he was as good as anyone, and in regard to music, better than anyone, the white Rodgers children included? How was Weiss supposed to argue with the man who’d grown from that boy? Weiss had planted the seed, watered and fertilized it, and now the mature plant was rooted more firmly than any oak tree. Despite his anguish, Weiss smiled. If he’d had a child of his own, he could never be prouder of him than he was of Scott Joplin.

  The old German pulled at the composer’s arm. “Come on, Scott. It’s been a hot day and we’ve worked hard. Let’s go over by Mr. Williams there and have us a beer. It won’t hurt you to drink a beer every now and then.”

  ***

  As Brun ran in through the front door, the smell of dinner cooking hit him full blast. A quick lean-through the kitchen doorway to say hello to Miss Belle and Miss Luella, then up the stairs to his room, shut the door. He took the locket and money-clip from his pocket, laid them on the bed, then picked up the locket, clicked it open, and looked hard at the picture. No question, Elmo Freitag. The boy cursed himself for running off with that locket, not leaving it for the police to find on the dead woman’s body. Was she Freitag’s wife? Which
brought up a terrible notion in Brun’s mind. Would Freitag have put his own wife onto getting Joplin’s music to publish? Sure he would’ve. And no telling just what Mrs. Freitag had tried. Did she make Joplin so sore that he killed her?

  So Brun couldn’t take the locket to the police any more than he could the money-clip. At best, his father would be on the next train down from Arkansas City; at worst, Freitag would tell a story about how he’d sent his wife to sweet-talk Joplin out of his music, and hadn’t seen her since. And a story like that would end with Joplin in a jail cell, or worse, hanging from a tree outside town.

  Better hide the clip and locket where no one could possibly find them, then sort out what to do. Brun stared through the window into the back yard. No. Someone might hear him digging. Dresser drawer? Not nearly safe enough. Same for the writing table and under the armchair cushions. Under the mattress? He might break the money-clip, or set it to playing, by lying on the bed. The closet… Brun opened the door, stood on his toes, felt around above the door, found a little floored recess between beams, behind the top of the jamb. Perfect. He ran back to the bed, snatched up the money-clip and locket, carefully slid them into the cubby, then took off downstairs for dinner.

  ***

  Higdon laughed when Brun told the dinner company about his evening’s engagement to play piano. “The way you’re going, Brun, by this time next year you’ll own the city, and we’ll all be working for you.”

  Miss Belle clucked and told her brother he shouldn’t tease Brun, that it was good to see a young man these days willing to work so hard. Then she turned Brun’s way and asked, “Is your engagement for just tonight?”

  “Belle!” Luella had been sitting there like a mouse, but all of a sudden she looked mightily distracted.

  Brun remembered how his father used to say it’s not easy to put up a shelter when you don’t know which direction a storm’s coming from. “Far as I know,” he said. “Mr. Boutell told me his regular player got bit by a kissing bug last night and went all swollen up. He’s better today, but not better enough.”

  “Well, then, I’d guess he’ll be all right by tomorrow night. If he is, would you like to escort Luella to the young peoples’ church social? I thought that would be a nice opportunity for you to make some new friends here in town.”

  Brun hoped with all his heart that what was in his mind was not showing on his face. He’d been looking forward to his first Saturday night in Sedalia, going down to West Main Street, maybe dropping into Miss Nellie Hall’s establishment and hearing how Big Froggy played. But he smiled at Luella, her face by now redder than the ripest raspberry in the bowl on the table, and looking everywhere but at him. “Why, I’d be real pleased to do that,” he said. “That is, if Miss Luella would agree.”

  Luella instantly stopped looking flustered, and commenced to gaze at Brun like he was the grand prize in the Fourth of July raffle, and the number stamped on her ticket was also stamped across his forehead. “What time is the social and what church is it at?” Brun asked.

  “Eight o’clock,” said Luella. “At the Central Presbyterian Church, on the corner of Sixth and Lamine.” Then, a concerned look came over her face. “You’re not a Catholic, are you?”

  Brun laughed. “Truth, Miss Luella, I’m not much of anything when it comes to religious faiths. But I’m sure not any Catholic.”

  “Oh, good. My friend, May O’Brien, says the nuns tell her she must never go into a Protestant church, else she’ll burn in the flames forever.”

  Brun laughed. “I guess I’ll take my chances, Miss Luella. Somehow, I figure if I burn in the flames, it won’t be because I went to a social in the basement of a Presbyterian church.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sedalia

  Friday, July 21, 1899

  A little past ten that evening, a big man with more muscles than teeth and hair, and way too many drinks under his belt, wobbled up to Brun at Boutell’s piano and bellowed, “Play ‘Silver Threads Among the Gold.’ And play it straight, y’hear? Not like it was some kinda nigger tune.”

  In a saloon the customer was always right. Beer on whiskey can be very risky, and piano players who ignored requests were likely to get themselves permanently silenced. So Brun played “Silver Threads” straight as any arrow, and tried not to watch the man snuffle and honk into his glass of brown lightning. Then, the drunk demanded “Aura Lee,” and after that, “When I Saw Sweet Nellie Home.” He snorted and sobbed his way through all three of those Godawful tear-jerkers, and by the last lines of “Nellie,” you could hear discontent grow in the room like a swarm of yellow jackets coming closer and closer. When the drunk demanded “Sweet Genevieve,” another voice boomed out, from the opposite side of the piano, “Fuck ‘Sweet Genevieve.’ Play something with some life in it, boy.”

  A piano player’s nightmare. Very slowly, Brun edged off from the piano, but then saw Gaylord Boutell hustling full-bore out from behind the bar, and up to the sniveling drunk. “Come on, now, Horace, let’s you give somebody else a chance, huh?” He put a lock on Horace’s arm and wrestled the man off in the direction of the bar.

  Brun eased back onto the stool, but before he could put hands to keys, he heard from behind him, “Hey, there, Young Mr. Piano Man, takin’ lessons from Scott Joplin. You play ‘Harlem Rag’?”

  If Brun had been chewing gum, he’d have swallowed it. He looked up, up, up at the tallest person he’d ever seen, a young colored man not much older than himself. The man’s dark flat cap sat a good seven feet off the ground. Skin like milk chocolate, thick brows, a nose more Roman than negroid, surprisingly thin lips stretched over white, even teeth. The Negro was all angles, hands and fingers like twin brown daddy-longlegs, face skinnier than any horse’s. His was the first brown face Brun had seen in Boutell’s Saloon. Not that anybody seemed to care. “Hey, Henry, how y’ be,” hollered an old Reuben with a beard halfway down his shirtfront. From back near the bar came, “Well, if it ain’t High Henry—ain’t seen you in a coon’s age.” Everybody laughed.

  Including High Henry. If the joke bothered him, he didn’t show it. “Go on now, Young Mr. Piano Man,” Henry crooned at Brun, that long face near-split by a friendly smile. “You jes’ play ‘Harlem,’ and I show you something I guarantee you ain’t never seen before.”

  “Yeah, Henry,” someone shouted. Someone else yelled, “Show him your stuff, Henry.” “Play that boy his music,” called a third voice.

  The men backed off from the piano and formed a wide circle around High Henry and Brun. Young Mr. Piano Man was more concerned than curious, but when he saw Boutell calm behind the bar, grinning, he turned back to the piano and commenced playing “Harlem Rag.” The crowd whooped and clapped, and in a quick glance over his shoulder, Brun saw Henry dancing, a kind of buck and wing, but in the most frantic manner. Henry’s legs bent, then straightened. His feet slapped the floor; his arms flew every which way but Sunday. And then without the least warning he fell forward, like a tree just cut down. Brun thought for sure he’d passed out from his exertions, was going to smash his face to bits and scatter those pearly teeth from one end of the saloon to the other. In one quick motion, the boy left off playing, jumped up from the stool, and ran to catch Henry before he hit ground. But as the colored man’s elbows touched the floor, up he bounced again, the felled tree going backwards, just like there was some sort of big spring between his chest and the floor. Then Henry stood and stared at Brun like that white boy was some kind of fool.

  Brun realized the whole room was laughing, then laughed himself. “How the hell you do that?”

  Henry wiped at his eyes. “Don’t exactly know, but it’s a thing I been doin’ since I was little. Guess I just kind of got me a knack.”

  The men drifted away from the piano, back to their card games and drinks. Time for the piano player to take a break. “Buy you a beer?” he asked Henry.

  The Negro shook his head. “Mr. Boutell’s a good man, but best a colored boy don�
�t go drinkin’ in a white ’stablishment.” As Henry began to edge toward the door, he leaned down to whisper, “Long as I do my dance, I be all right with white mens, but now I done with the dancin’, so time I take my colored face someplace else. I just wanted to hear you play. Arthur Marshall be my friend, an’ he tell me you be playin’ here tonight.”

  “That’s how you knew I’m taking lessons from Scott Joplin.”

  Henry grinned.

  “And you wanted to see if I’m any good.”

  Henry’s grin widened.

  “Am I? Any good?”

  “You got promise, Young Mr. Piano Man, I’ll sure say that much. Now, I’d best be on my way.”

  Brun thought a beer would go well, never mind Apple John’s warnings. As he pushed through a knot of men drinking and arguing local politics at the bar, he caught sight of Mr. Fitzgerald, so he walked over and said hello.

  Fitzgerald studied the boy over the top of a whiskey glass. “Well, Master Campbell. I’m pleased to see you again, I surely am. How are you coming along?”

  “Couldn’t be better, thanks to the start you gave me.” Brun told Fitzgerald about his good fortune since that time, then added, “And since I’m boarding with Mr. Higdon, I got back a dollar from the Y when I left. So I can pay you back what I owe you.”

  He reached for his pocket, but Fitzgerald stopped him with a gentle touch. “If I’m not mistaken, you’ve not yet received your first pay.”

  “No, that’ll be tomorrow. But with the tips I got here the other night and the ones I’ll be getting tonight—”

  “There’s no such hurry.” Fitzgerald’s voice was firm. “You just wait ’til you’re more comfortable, and then you can repay me, if you’d like.”

  It occurred to Brun that he might just need a little money the next night. Bad idea to have empty pockets when you go out with a young lady, to a church social or anywhere else. So he thanked Fitzgerald, and asked how much longer he expected to be in town.