The Ragtime Kid

by Larry Karp

  “Walter?” Hastain peered into the doctor’s face.

  “I’ve become the man my father feared I might,” Overstreet murmured.

  The lawyer blinked. “What say, Walter?”

  “Nothing. Let’s get moving.”

  “Fine.” Hastain pounded one fist into the other. “As far as anyone’s concerned, Freitag ran away with Saunders and the Alteneders, and left the McAllister woman waiting for them at her house. When they didn’t show up, she came running over here to look for them, and we’ve got witnesses who’ll swear she said she’d killed the woman to get her out of Freitag’s way, but she wasn’t about to take a fall for him. She had a gun, so no one tried to stop her running off.” Hastain looked around the room. “Anybody have a problem with that?”

  Silence. A couple of heads shook.

  Hastain fixed an eye on Brun until the boy commenced to squirm in his chair. “Can we count on you?” Hastain asked.

  “Well, sure,” Brun piped. “Why—”

  “Because sometimes a boy likes to show off a little, maybe when he’s got a snootful. Or wants to impress a girl. We can’t have that happen.”

  Brun held up his right hand. “I swear I won’t say a word, not to anybody, cross my heart.”

  Hastain covered a laugh with a cough. “All right, then, it’s settled. When Ed gets back, I’ll tell him our story and get Fitzgerald out of the can, back with his wife and the little boy, and onto the first train toward St. Louis. And—”

  Overstreet cut him off. “I’m the mayor, and Ed’s away. I’ll get Fitzgerald out. By morning, he and his family can be well on their way.”

  Hastain goggled, but recovered quickly. “All right, that’s even better. And Mr. Weiss, I’m sorry, but you’ll be on the next train to Houston.”

  Joplin got out one word, “But—” before Hastain broke back in. “I’m sorry, Scott, I know he’s here to help you with your music. But considering what’s happened tonight, and the mood this town’s gotten into, I’m concerned for his safety. And while I’m at it, I’ll also tell you that putting a white boy up on a stage with colored right now in Sedalia would be like holding tinder to flint.” He pointed at Joplin’s bandaged hand. “I think everything considered, you ought to let go of the program altogether. Isn’t there a good band coming down from Lexington?”

  Joplin nodded. He looked like a little boy promised some ice-cream, but the store was out.

  “Let the Lexington boys take care of the music. That hand of yours gives you every reason to back off for now. Next year, things may be very different.”

  Mr. Weiss made a clucking sound. “He’s right, Scott. Sometimes is necessary before you go forward to take a step back.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Stark moved forward to put a hand on Joplin’s undamaged arm. “Sometimes, you still move forward, but in a little different direction from what you’d planned. You and I have business to complete. Freitag burned our contract, but as soon as I get back from Knob Noster I’ll have Bob Higdon draw up another copy.” He looked at Higdon, who smiled and nodded yes. “‘Maple Leaf Rag’ is a fine tune. It will get your name out, we’ll both make some money, and then we may be able to publish more of your work.”

  Joplin turned a questioning eye on the shopkeeper. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Stark. I admit, I did wonder whether all that talk about the contract was just a trap to catch Freitag.”

  Stark’s eyes blazed; his beard seemed to bristle. “We are well-acquainted, but in time you’ll get to know me better.” He glanced at Freitag and Maisie. “John Brown was right, wasn’t he? But bloodshed is only a beginning; the matter must be seen through to the end. I have always been equal to all requirements, and I intend to so continue.”

  Stark put out a hand toward Joplin, who inched his own hand forward. Finally, he gripped Stark’s. Fifty years later, Brun said he could still see those clasped hands, one black, the other white, clear as the day he witnessed the handshake. Stark glanced at Isaac, then kissed the top of Mrs. Stark’s head. “I’ll see you late tomorrow, my dear. Isaac and I had better get on our way, if we’re going to finish our work before dawn.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sedalia

  Thursday, August 3, 1899

  After Stark and Isaac took away Freitag’s and Maisie’s bodies, rolled in the bloodstained rug they’d fallen on, Brun filled a pail with soapy water, took a scrub-brush and some rags, went down to the store and got rid of the mess Emil and Fritz had left on the floor of Stark’s office. Then, back upstairs, the boy walked around the living room to make sure there were no splatters anywhere. He dug a bullet out of a strip of molding, probably the wild shot Maisie took when Isaac finished her. Then he dropped into the nearest armchair, opposite Joplin and Weiss. Not long after, Mrs. Stark and Nell came back from cleaning up in the kitchen, and they all sat silent, one of those awkward times when everything seems to have been said. They’d have wished each other good night, but they knew the night was not yet over.

  At the first gray light of day, Higdon and Hastain came in with Edward Fitzgerald between them. Fitzgerald’s skin hung loosely over his cheeks; dark bags sagged under his eyes. His fine suit was filthy and unpressed, and he badly needed the attention of a barber. But as his eyes scoured the room, he held himself straight as any soldier on parade. Mrs. Stark got up and started toward the back of the flat. “I’ll get you what you’re looking for.”

  When Fitzgerald laid eyes on Frankie, his smile could’ve broken hearts. The little boy, clean from his bath and fresh from a few hours’ sleep, screamed, “Daddy!” and ran to his father, who swept him up and hoisted him onto his shoulders. Brun noticed that dirty as Fitzgerald looked, Mrs. Fitzgerald said nothing about Frankie needing another bath. But neither did she smile at her husband. When he came forward to kiss her, she turned her head so all he could do was peck her cheek. “I can only say,” she announced, “that I hope you’ve learned your lesson. All you ever get from that fine Southern chivalry of yours is trouble. You came close to making me a widow.”

  Brun thought Fitzgerald might do well to consider making himself a widower. But he just said, “Yes, my dear. I will be more judicious in the future, I assure you.”

  “I would certainly hope so! You know how delicate Frankie is, and dragging him and me down here was an act of extreme irresponsibility. I will hold you responsible for Frankie’s condition. After that horrible fright he had, if he grows up feebleminded, we will both know why.”

  Fitzgerald tried to shut down his wife’s tongue. “Now, Mollie, dear, I understand. I’m sorry, and so I have said. But I think that’s enough for now—”

  Unfortunately, the effect of his remark was opposite to what he’d intended. “Enough?” his wife screamed. “‘Enough,’ you say?”

  Frankie commenced to cry, and ducked down behind his father’s head.

  “When I’m through, it will be enough,” Mrs. Fitzgerald shouted. “And I’m not nearly there. On account of your folly, I will have to remember for the rest of my days that my son owes his life to a colored man. How do you suppose I should feel about that?”

  Said like Joplin wasn’t even in the room. Weiss laid a hand on the composer’s undamaged forearm.

  Brun expected Mrs. Stark would move in and bring the performance to a stop, but she just stood with an arm around Nell, an odd little smile on her face. Neither did Higdon or Hastain look the least inclined to interfere. Mrs. Fitzgerald pointed at Joplin. “This colored man ran over and pulled Frankie away from that terrible creature who was trying to kidnap him. I don’t even want to think about what might have happened.”

  As Fitzgerald looked at Joplin, his eyes filled. “Is that true?”

  Joplin looked away. The room was silent. It suddenly registered with Brun, plain as paint. Fitzgerald was not asking a rhetorical question. The man simply could not put faith in his wife’s version of any story. “It’s true, all right,” Brun shouted. “Every word
. That’s how Mr. Joplin got his hand hurt.”

  Fitzgerald blinked at Brun, as if realizing for the first time that the boy was there. Then, he turned back to Joplin. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Finally, Joplin said, very quietly, “Would you not have done the same? If you’d seen a child in danger like that?”

  Fitzgerald paused only a moment. “Yes…yes, of course. Oh, my dear man, I am forever in your debt. My son’s life is more precious to me than my own. I hope you are not badly hurt.”

  “Just my hand. It will get better.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Scott Joplin.”

  “Scott? Hmmm. Well, Scott, I just don’t know how to thank you.” The southerner extended a hand, which Joplin grasped.

  “Edward!” Mrs. Fitzgerald was beyond fury. “Have you taken leave of all your senses? Shaking the hand of a colored man, as if he were a gentleman? A simple thank-you would have been both sufficient and proper.”

  Fitzgerald paid her no heed. When he spoke again, it was in a voice firmer by degrees than Brun had ever heard from him. “When a man saves my son’s life, shaking his hand is not nearly sufficient. Whatever can I do for you, Scott, to show my gratitude? I fear I would offend you by offering a monetary reward.”

  Joplin nodded. “You fear correctly.”

  “Very well. But I want you to know that if I can ever be of help to you in any way, I sincerely hope you’ll call on me.” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Joplin. “And in addition…”

  Fitzgerald glanced at his wife, jaw forward, looking daggers. Brun half-expected to see smoke come curling out from her ears.

  “From this day on, I will honor you by calling my son after you—”

  “Edward!”

  Sarah Stark hurried up from behind and took hold of Mrs. Fitzgerald, who wriggled and tugged, but Mrs. Stark held firm. Fitzgerald spoke on. “My son is named after my great-great granduncle, Francis Scott Key, the man who wrote ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ We’ve always called the boy Frankie, but now he will be Scott.”

  “Over my dead body,” screamed his wife, still squirming something fierce in Mrs. Stark’s hold.

  Brun caught the expression on Hastain’s and Higdon’s faces and turned away, lest he burst out into some highly improper laughter.

  Fitzgerald bowed to Scott Joplin. “I apologize for my wife’s remarks, Scott. I fear this unpleasant business has unduly taxed her mind.”

  Was that a smile on Joplin’s face, for just a split second? Brun couldn’t be sure. “Of course, Mr. Fitzgerald. Please don’t concern yourself.”

  “Thank you, Scott. I am grateful for your understanding.”

  Shortly thereafter, Higdon and Hastain left for the depot with Weiss and the Fitzgeralds. Joplin went back to Lincolnville; his story would be that someone had tried to rob him on the street, and had stomped his hand during the fight. Brun walked slowly back to Higdon’s, enjoying the cool early-morning air. He considered dropping by Maisie’s and looking again for Joplin’s missing music, but didn’t want to risk having to explain to the police chief or anyone else who might catch him there. In the end, fatigue won out. The boy went straight to Higdon’s and directly to bed. Despite all the excitement, he fell asleep instantly and did not see daylight again until almost noon.

  ***

  Just about the time Brun crawled into his bed, Stark and Isaac, in a small clearing off the road halfway to Knob Noster, leaned on their shovels and looked over their work. “Should be fine, Mr. Stark,” Isaac said. “We got ’em deep enough, no wild dog’s gonna sniff ’em and dig ’em up. And the way we’ve covered it all over with leaves and moss, nobody’s gonna see the fresh dirt.”

  Stark nodded, then gestured with his head, and the two men trudged back to the wagon at the side of the road. They pulled fresh clothing from a sack, changed, and put their grimy digging duds into the sack, which they tossed with the shovels into the wagon. “Come on, then,” Stark said. “We can get to Knob Noster just about in time for breakfast.”

  Isaac grinned. “Sounds good to me, Mr. Stark. I think I worked up an appetite.”

  Stark’s face went wry. “I don’t suppose you’re ever going to call me John, are you?”

  The colored man’s smile faded. “You know why—”

  “But Isaac, there is no one anywhere near us right now to hear you.”

  “Best not to get into bad habits, an’ then one day I’ll forget and make a slip. I don’t want that happenin’, not for either of us.” He hesitated a moment, then reached out, took the white man into his arms, and pulled him close. For a few seconds, the men stood in embrace. Stark patted Isaac’s back. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.” The old man’s voice was hoarse.

  “Uh-uh, it don’t.” Isaac moved a step away to look Stark in the eye. “We both of us know what we be to each other. We both know why I took your name, all those thirty-four years ago.”

  Stark sighed, then climbed up to sit behind the horse. Isaac untied the animal from the tree they’d secured him to, got himself up beside Stark, clucked and shook the reins. The horse seemed to notice his lightened load, and moved off at a good clip toward Knob Noster. Stark cleared his throat. “After we finished back there, I said a little prayer.”

  Isaac looked like he wasn’t sure whether to grin or keep a serious face. “Guess their souls could use any prayers come their way.”

  Stark leaned to the side, hawked, spat. “Who said anything about their souls? I prayed we’d never again see the likes of them in Sedalia or anywhere else.”

  Isaac kept his counsel. His experience was, prayers tend not to get answered. Still, he allowed, you can bet your sweet mama’s life no prayer’s gonna get an answer if you never do ask it.

  ***

  While Brun washed and dressed, he saw his future clear and bright. Once Stark made it official that he was going to publish Joplin’s music, Brun would be sitting pretty. Considering what he’d done over the past week, he could be sure of a good situation in the new firm. There was also every reason to expect that Mr. Joplin would treat his white pupil well, so that maybe after a while, Mr. Stark would also publish ragtime by Brun Campbell. By the time Brun went down to the kitchen, he was whistling as happily as ever he had.

  Luella stood at the sink, washing a big black pot. Even the vinegary look on her face didn’t faze Brun. He bid the girl a polite good-morning.

  She tossed hair back off her face, and said, “Hmph. More like good afternoon, I’d say. Out carousing another night away with drink and loose women?”

  He came just that close to telling her he’d been in the company of her uncle almost the whole time, but caught himself.

  She sniffed. “I suppose you’d like some breakfast. I can make you some bacon, eggs, and coffee.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you. I can just go over to the Boston.”

  She set the pot upside-down next to the sink. “I don’t mind. I’m done here, and Belle’s gone out to get groceries. Sit down.” She opened the icebox and pulled out three eggs.

  Brun sat. “That’s really nice of you.”

  “Not at all. I want to talk to you, anyway.”

  Now, how about that? Maybe Belle or Higdon had somehow got through to her, and she wanted to say she was sorry for her recent bad behavior. Brun wasn’t entirely sure he’d favor a reconciliation; all-out war with Luella did have its unpleasant side, but the idea of endless skirmishes over Saturday night church socials and Sunday morning religious services didn’t have much to recommend it either.

  When she set the plate of food and the coffee cup down in front of him, he readied himself to accept her apology in a gracious manner. But the girl didn’t apologize, nor did she sit. Just said, “I’ll be back directly,” then walked out of the room.

  Brun had eaten only a couple of mouthfuls when she swept back in, plopped into the chair beside him, smacked a pile of papers onto the table between them,
and gently laid a Bible next to the stack.

  Brun dropped his fork. Right on top, staring at him, was the manuscript of “Maple Leaf Rag.” He snatched up the papers, thumbed through them like a crazy man. “Swipesey Cake Walk,” “Sunflower Slow Drag.” Partials of “Peacherine Rag” and “Easy Winners,” and “The Entertainer” fragment. And on the bottom, The Ragtime Dance, the entire score, every note. He snatched it up, scraped his chair back and was on his feet, ready to run, but Luella stopped him cold. “Sit down,” the girl said. “If you know what’s good for you.”

  That thirteen-year-old skirt sounded exactly like Brun’s mother when he’d done something to get himself in Dutch. Probably something else women are born with. Brun sat without a second thought.

  “Now,” Luella said. “What do you have to say about this?”

  Right there and then, Brun told himself he would never marry. “What do you mean, ‘what do I have to say?’ What do you have to say?”

  “I have to say that you’re a thief. And thieves should be punished.”

  Brun pulled the music closer, such that Luella couldn’t grab it back. “I see what you’re trying to do,” she snapped. “But you better not even think about running off. If you do, I’ll tell my uncle you forced your attentions on me, and when he sees what I look like, he’ll believe me.” She tugged at the front of her dress; a seam came loose. Then she raked a fingernail down her left cheek, and a four-inch streak of blood welled up. “Stop,” Brun shouted. He jumped forward, grabbed for her hand, but she pulled away. “Only if you sit down until I’m done. Take one step away from that chair, and I’ll rip off all my clothes and put scratches all over my body.”

  Worse by far than anything Brun’s mother ever had done. He sank back down. “All right. I’m listening.”

  “Well, that’s smart of you, Mr. Smartypants. First of all, I’ll tell you how I found this music. You hid it under your mattress, what a dumb thing to do. That’s the first place any robber would look.”

  “Oh, so you were snooping in my room.”

  “Don’t go high and mighty on me, Mr. Brun Campbell. It’s not me who’s the thief. I found it while I was making your bed.”