The Minstrel's Melody (10 page)

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.

The Stone Shed was also where Orphelia had discovered the music for “Lewis County Rag”—the song that had sent him into fits. Could there be a connection? Maybe he had heard the song played when he was there. But why would it bother him to hear the song again?

The only thing Orphelia knew for sure was that some strange things were beginning to trouble her about Reuben.

Later Orphelia lay on Lillian's old bed with her schoolbag for a pillow. “Thanks for giving me my chance, Miz Madame,” she said.

“You were marvelous.” Madame paused from writing in her ledger. “You're a curious young lady. You really are determined, aren't you? You remind me of myself a little, when I finally got bit by the show-business bug.”

“I do?” Orphelia beamed proudly.

“Honey, you moved that audience so much with your singing that they turned the place into a riot!” Bertha burst out laughing. “Now if that ain't some kind of genius, I don't know what is!” Bertha fell back against the bed, she was laughing so hard. Madame Meritta laughed, too.

Orphelia crossed her arms and pursed her lips. That didn't sound funny to her. “Why're you laughing at me? What's so funny?”

“Baby, we're just playin' with you,” said Bertha. She struggled up to a sitting position, still chuckling. “You come onstage with your little ol' self and sing, and people go crazy. You got star quality. Keep hold to it.”

“It's good to laugh, Orphelia,” Madame Meritta said gently. “After all we've been through these past two days, it's good to laugh instead of cry. By the time you
do
get back home, you'll be a real trouper, just like us.”

Orphelia thought about the day's exciting activities. She saw herself onstage over and over as “Orville, the Musical Orphan Boy Prodigy,” with the people cheering and waving at her. And then she saw herself in a stunning gown like Madame Meritta's, surrounded by adoring fans. Madame Orphelia, musical star! She drifted off to sleep.

Sometime later, in the middle of the night, she was awakened by sharp, earsplitting booms. Gunshots? She sat up straight. Were the men in those tents after them again? When the sky lit up, she realized the sounds were claps of thunder, and she was seeing lightning. Soon the coach was being pelted by hail and heavy rain. The coach swayed as the storm bore down on them.

Orphelia curled up around her schoolbag with her hands over her ears. Poppa had always said that thunder could never hurt her, but it still frightened her. A few minutes later, she felt rain drip down on her head from a rent in the coach roof. She scrambled to another spot, but soon the roof was leaking there, too. Orphelia pulled a thin blanket over her head. She could feel the coach moving slower and lurching as the horses strained to pull their load through the muddy road.