I drift away at that. I don't need to hear more.
When Eliz and Jed arrive back home before sunset I'm tired and barely there. Jed goes to his room to dress for bed. When he doesn't come back, I go to see him. Eliz joins me a moment later.
“You okay?” Eliz asks. Jed sits on his bed, rubbing my Bible.
“He said Dad used to call me Yella Hawk. Why'd he call me that?”
Eliz smiles, as if the nickname brings back memories of her own. “Does it matter why?” she asks. “He was a good man who loved you.”
I know why, I should say. I know why I called you Yella Hawk. I know why Dan has come back here and I know why I am still here and I know why I'm tired of this and I know why I am.
I know why.
But I don't try to say anything – not even my normal sighs and angry winds. Jed just smiles at his momma, nods to her words, and I'm gone.
And no one knows.
The Dragon of Tin Pan Alley
A hundred pianos. A thousand musical notes rising and falling through clarity. Before reaching West 28th Street, Seth Thomas had wondered why the heart of New York City's sheet music industry was called Tin Pan Alley. Now he knew – the street sounded exactly like endless tin pans banging together. Worse, the dragon in Seth's knapsack squirmed and rolled in a futile attempt to quiet the noise. Seth was terrified someone would notice and discover the tiny creature.
Seth paused in front of a large brick building from which hung the sign M. Witmark & Sons. Seth knew their sheet music from the copy of “Grover Cleveland's Wedding March” his father gave him several years ago when the President married his fiancée in the White House. Because his father purchased the sheet music by working extra shifts in the mine, Seth never complained about the song's trite lyrics and sour notes. Still, the song had sold well, so Seth guessed M. Witmark & Sons was as good a place as any to look for work.
Seth walked to the front door, where a large uniformed man stopped him. Even though the doorman was a black man like Seth, he stared with contempt at Seth's worn pants, sun-faded shirt, and dark skin.
“What do you want?” the doorman asked dismissively.
“I'd like to see Mr. Witmark,” Seth said.
“And which one would that be?”
“The father,” Seth said, bluffing.
The doorman laughed. “Boy, the father doesn't do anything. His three sons run the place.”
Seth asked if he could see one of the Witmark sons, but the doorman shook his head. “Are you a plugger? We only try pluggers on Mondays.”
Seth didn't know what a plugger was. “Mr. Witmark would like to hear me play. I'm a really good pianist.”
“Like I said, we hear pluggers on Mondays. Come back next week.”
Seth's heart sank. He'd arrived in New York City this morning, having spent the last of his money on a third-class train ticket from West Virginia. He needed a job if he wanted to eat.
Before Seth could argue, the tiny dragon stuck its head out of his knapsack and glared at the doorman, who instantly stiffened. Wisps of the dragon's ethereal notes flittered around Seth – high notes merging into angelic tones, a song of happiness becoming a cry for peace – and he almost fell under the song's spell alongside the doorman. But Seth snapped back to reality when the dragon lunged forward and tried to bite the man. Holding the dragon's snout shut, he edged around the dazed doorman and bolted up the stairs. As the man woke and yelled, Seth ran to the second floor and into the first open door he saw.
“May I help you?” a white secretary asked warily. Seth shoved the dragon back into the knapsack and asked for Mr. Witmark – any of them, even the father. But before the lady could answer, the doorman stepped into the room holding a large wooden bat.
“Careful, Miss Patterson,” the doorman warned. “That thing gets in your head.”
The secretary ran from the room as the doorman swung the bat at Seth, who fell backward, his knapsack smacking the floor beside him. The angry dragon slithered out of the sack, its eyes pinpricking fire as it flapped its wings and flew across the room, wrapping its long tail around the bat and biting into the man's shoulder. Seth raced forward and tried to pull the dragon off, but its nail-strong teeth grated into muscle as the doorman screamed.
Just then a man in a stylish hat and suit stepped into the office. The man stared in shock for a moment before punching the dragon, causing it to hiss and release the doorman. Seth grabbed the dragon and retreated across the room.
The dapper-looking man leaned over the doorman and pressed a handkerchief to his bloody shoulder. “Go get cleaned up before Mr. Witmark catches us,” he whispered. Once the doorman staggered away, the man turned to Seth and the dragon. “About time that damn dragon got here,” he muttered.
If the dragon seemed surprised by this comment, it didn't let on. Instead, it curled around Seth's shoulders and puffed a contented ball of smoke into the air.
* * *
The dapper-looking man said his name was Ernest Hogan. Hearing people coming down the stairs to investigate the doorman's scream, Ernest dragged Seth to a office across the hall.
Large oak bookshelves lined the room, each shelf filled with sheet music. Seth had never seen so much music before, and his hands shook with excitement as he pulled out titles like “The Electric Light Dance for Piano” and “The Ben Bold Ballad.” Paintings of dancing women in bright red and blue dresses jumped from the covers as the booklet's sweet cut-paper scent hugged the entire room in its embrace.
“Is this your office?” Seth asked in awe.
“No, this is the reference library. They don't give colored folks offices around here.” Ernest frowned for a moment, then brightened as he watched the dragon fly around the room. “I'm a performer. Maybe you've heard my hit song ‘La Pas La Ma.'?”
Seth said no, causing Ernest to shake his head and chuckle.
“What did you mean earlier, about waiting for my dragon?” Seth asked.
Ernest didn't answer. “Where are you from, kid? I hear a lot of country in your voice.”
“West Virginia.”
“Didn't know many black people still lived down there.”
Seth started to explain that his father was a miner, but fell silent when the dragon hissed at someone walking down the hallway. Seth remembered the bleeding doorman and realized the police might be coming to arrest him.
Seeing Seth's fear, Ernest laughed. “Don't worry, kid. Once things calm down, I'll sneak you out the back and you can be on your way.”
Seth started to ask why Ernest was helping him, but decided he didn't care. He walked around the small piano in the corner and glanced out the window, relieved not to see any police. As he kept watch, Seth absently ran his fingers across the ivory keys. Suddenly, the dragon landed on the piano top and stared into his eyes. A sad song rang through Seth's head – the song of a scared kid in a big, strange city, and an even-more-frightened dragon trying to protect the kid from a world it no longer understood.
Before Seth knew what he was doing, he sat down on the piano stool and began playing.
“Be quiet,” Ernest whispered. “Someone will hear you.” He reached for Seth, but stopped as the music's power washed into him.
Sadness is. Sadness isn't.
Dreaming is. Dreaming isn't.
Friendship is, always is,
protecting a friend when the world falls insane.
As Seth played, tears tumbled down Ernest's cheeks. When an angry white man slammed the office door open, his cursing stopped as he also fell under the music's sway. The song pulled both men's emotions into Seth – the white man's love of the song fighting against his hatred toward black people; the jealousy Ernest felt at hearing a song more beautiful than anything he could begin to create. Then the dragon's magic fell away and Seth finished playing. As the room snapped back into focus, he prayed the angry white man wasn't a police officer.
“An amazing piece,” the white man said, clapping his hands condescendingly. “But like I'
ve told Ernie before, there's no market for sad Negro music.”
The dragon, which had flown to the ceiling when the man barged in, sparked a single flash of flame from its snout.
* * *
A large police officer stood next to Seth in the hallway, while another stood inside the office where Ernest, the doorman, and the young white man argued. The white man who'd caught Seth was Isadore Witmark, who ran M. Witmark & Sons. Seth listened as Witmark screamed at Ernest and the doorman. The policeman standing beside Seth shook his head and muttered about “damn niggers,” his pug eyes daring Seth to respond.
Above, the dragon growled softly, still blending with the shadows on the ceiling.
As Ernest told Seth before the police arrived, Isadore Witmark ran the company and was known as the Wiz Kid of Tin Pan Alley, having entered the music business in 1886 when he was only 17. He was the one who'd purchased Ernest's first hit song.
Suddenly, the office door slammed open and Isadore Witmark barged out. “Open your knapsack,” Witmark ordered. Embarrassed, Seth opened the sack to reveal an old blanket and an even older extra set of clothes.
Witmark stiffened. “Take him away,” he told the policemen. Seth steeled himself before realizing Witmark meant the doorman. The policemen each grabbed one of the doorman's arms and led him from the building.
After they left, Witmark turned back to Seth. “Ernie tells me you want to be a plugger.”
Seth still didn't know what the word meant, but he saw Ernest nodding his head so he said yes.
“Very well, we'll start you tomorrow. Dress nicely and do as Ernie says. We'll send you to the Negro sections of the city, hit the tenements and stores in San Juan Hill.” Witmark frowned. “However, I don't want to hear one bit of trouble out of you. I don't care if Albert had been drinking and seeing imaginary dragons – I will not tolerate fights by Negroes on my premises.”
Seth said yes sir, which satisfied Witmark.
After Witmark walked back to his office, Seth whistled for the dragon, which flew down and curled up in his knapsack. Ernest stared at the knapsack didn't say a word as he quickly led Seth out of the building.
* * *
That evening Seth and Ernest sat in a bar in San Juan Hill. “Thank you for helping me with Witmark,” Seth said.
“Didn't have a choice, now did I?” Ernest said, drinking a quick shot of whiskey. “A man sees a real live dragon, I figure he's got to side with said mystical beast.”
Seth knew Ernest was keeping something from him, but instead of prying he sipped his sarsaparilla before lowering the glass to the knapsack in his lap. The dragon's long tongue shot into the glass as the creature hummed with pleasure.
“Where'd you find that thing?” Ernest asked.
“In a coal mine. My father was cutting through rock when he found a small hole. The dragon was curled up inside. He brought the dragon home and it's been with me ever since.”
Ernest nodded. “I've heard of people finding frogs inside rocks, but never a dragon.”
Ernest ordered another sarsaparilla for Seth, who glanced around at the large crowd. There must have been fifty people in the bar – black men and women in suits and ties and fancy dresses, others in clothes still grubby from a hard days work. Seth was amazed. In West Virginia, black people hadn't been allowed in white bars, and where Seth and his father had lived there weren't enough black people to open their own places. Seth smiled at a passing woman, who hugged the arm of a man in a dapper grey suit. Everyone seemed happy and, for the first time since leaving home, Seth felt the same.
When Ernest finished his whiskey, he walked to the bar's piano as peopled cheered. “Now I'm not gonna play all night,” Ernest warned. “I've got a friend up from West Virginia and you know how country boys need their sleep. Sun goes down, they're out 'til the cock crows.” He paused for comic effect. “'Course in the city, cocks crow all night long, but he'll learn about that in due time.”
The bar roared with laughter.
“This is a little song you may know.” Ernest played a syncopated tune as people began dancing a jig by walking forward then jumping back. Seth assumed this was Ernest hit song “La Pas La Ma.” Ernest sang as he played:
“Hand upon yo' head, let your mind roll back,
Back, back back and look at the stars
Stand up rightly, dance it brightly
That's the Pas Ma La.”
Seth had never experienced anything like Ernest's music. He remembered his father talking about cakewalk dances and wondered if this was similar. Feeling the dragon stirring, Seth opened the knapsack's drawstrings so the dragon could stick its head out and watch. Seth rubbed his fingers down the dragon's scales as the creature vibrated in rhythm to the piano.
Seth caught a glance of Ernest and saw his new friend smiling back. As if on cue, the dragon puffed a contented smoke ring, which floated to the ceiling. Ernest laughed as if this was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, and he continued laughing as the music and dancing flew on through the night.
* * *
At first light, Seth went to work as a plugger. Ernest borrowed clothes for him and handed Seth a clean knapsack, which the dragon crawled into and promptly fell asleep. Ernest then led Seth to a fancy department store, sat Seth before a piano, handed him a stack of sheet music, and told him to play.
Seth glanced around. He and Ernest were the only black people here. All of the white salesmen wore expensive-looking suits while the customers looked even fancier.
“Are your sure this is where I should play?” Seth asked, remembering how Isadore Witmark had said Seth would play in Negro stores.
“A favor. To me.”
“When do I stop?”
“When I come back,” Ernest said as he walked away. “Won't be long.”
Seth played for the rest of the day. At first he was happy because he'd never had the chance to play so much. If a song was good, people walked over to the displays and purchased its sheet music. If a song was bad, people ignored him. Seth quickly learned which songs to avoid.
Eventually Seth grew hungry and tired. However, when he stopped playing to eat his lunch, the balding white man who managed the sheet music department hissed to get back to work. By late afternoon Seth's fingers hurt to every touch of the keys. He felt like he might faint from not eating.
Just when Seth knew he couldn't take any more, the dragon stuck its head out of the knapsack. The dragon stared at the sheet music, flicked its tongue in disgust at the notes, and nipped Seth on the right hand with its razor teeth.
Seth stopped playing, shocked by the dragon's bite. The manager muttered to keep going, but Seth ignored him as a single drop of blood welled on his palm. Seth stared as all the exhaustion, all the hunger and pain, left his body and splattered with the bloody drop across the tile floor.
“Boy! Did you hear me,” the manager yelled. Seth glared at the white man – wanting to curse the fool – but instead of risking a fight he simply returned to playing. But this time, the music flowed out of the keys with a power Seth had never experienced. A large crowd of shoppers soon gathered around the piano, listening with rapt amazement as the notes jumped and shook themselves in happy fits. When Seth played the best songs, the sheet music disappeared instantly from the shelves. When he played the worst songs, the sheet music sold like the best songs had sold earlier in the day.
Seth was still playing when Isadore Witmark arrived that evening. When he saw Seth at the piano, his eyes sparked to anger until the manager ran up to him. They talked for a moment before Witmark walked over to the piano.
“You can stop now,” he said. “They've sold all our sheet music.”
Seth kept playing the piano. “And that's good?” he asked with a mischievous grin.
“Don't be funny. Let's go back to my office and talk.”
* * *
By the time Seth reached Ernest's apartment – which Seth only found when the dragon finally showed him the way back – it was almost midnight. Seth
entered quietly, afraid he'd wake Ernest.
He needn't have worried. Ernest sat in a chair by the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“You didn't come and get me,” Seth said, still feeling the power of the dragon's bite.
Ernest looked down. “Sorry,” he said. “I had a chance to perform for Ed Albee, who's opening a new theater and looking for acts. But I needed someone to cover my shift. When I came back, you were gone.”
“Witmark came by.”
Ernest groaned. “So much for work.”
“Actually, he gave me your plugging job. Said I was to go there every day. Paid me ten dollars for today's work.”
“Ten dollars!?!”
“I sold all of the sheet music.”
For a moment Ernest looked like he was going to curse before he sighed and told Seth he'd done a good job. Seth wanted to let Ernest stew, but couldn't keep his face straight and started laughing. “Don't worry,” he said. “I told Witmark I wouldn't work without you. So you spell me when I get tired, I spell you when you're tired.”
Ernest thanked Seth for looking out for him. Seth undressed and climbed into his bedroll as the dragon laid down next to his head. Ernest watched the dragon for a moment. He downed his glass of whiskey and climbed into his bed.
“I owe you,” Ernest said.
“Then tell me, what did you mean the other day, talking like you'd expected my dragon?”
Ernest didn't answer at first, and was silent so long Seth almost fell asleep. Finally Ernest said in a low voice, “As a kid, my momma told me stories about dragons. How they granted wishes. How they helped you reach your dreams. When I saw your dragon, I thought it was a sign. That it was telling me to go play for Ed Albee. That I'd be a star in Albee's new theater.”
“Did he hire you?”
“Of course not. He took one look at the color of my skin and threw me out the back door.”
* * *
The next day, Seth and Ernest arrived at the department store shortly before opening. Since there were only a few customers in the morning hours, Seth let Ernest perform until lunch.
Never Never Stories Page 27
