The Minstrel's Melody (12 page)

Early Monday morning, Orphelia woke to Bertha's hand shaking her shoulder. “Morning, sister. Good news! Laphet and them think they can drive the coaches to the other side by this afternoon. Water's already gone down enough that they don't think the horses will be scared.”

Orphelia sat up, rubbing her eyes.
So why wake me up at the crack of dawn?
All she said was, “Yes, ma'am, that's good news.”

“Which means if you got anything you want to wash, you'd best get up and start working on it now so that your clothes can get halfway dry before we have to get moving. Othello's got some grub cooking, but you better hurry 'cause he won't wait.”

Orphelia wished she had brought along some white birch twigs to brush her teeth with. Maybe she could at least find some salt to rinse out her mouth. Orphelia pulled off her stockings and dug around in her schoolbag for her other clothes, but they were dirty, too. She stood up and examined her dress. It also needed to be washed, badly. She'd ask Madame Meritta what she could wear in the meantime.

Orphelia went outside into the cool morning. The sun was just beginning to make its climb into the sky, and dew lay thick on the grass.

Madame Meritta waved a pan of food at her from where she sat by the equipment wagon with a pile of clothes at her feet. “Rice and crawdaddies, courtesy of Othello. He said you loved it the other day.”

Orphelia hesitated. “Uh, I ate it before I knew what it was,” she said. She picked at the rice, separating the crayfish segments into a small pile by themselves. She was ready for some hominy and fatback about now, and a thick slab of Momma's johnnycake and some buttermilk.

“Orphelia, if you don't like it, you don't have to eat it,” said Madame Meritta. “You can get some salted fish or beef out of the storage wagon.”

“No, I can eat it,” she said and jabbed a crayfish tail with her fork. She popped it in her mouth and chewed bravely. It wasn't bad, but she still couldn't get the picture out of her mind of the crayfish alive and wiggling, impaled on a fishing hook.

Madame Meritta handed her a cup of lye soap, a long shirt, and one of her skirts. “They're too big, but you can wear these while you're drying your dress.”

Orphelia took the clothes and the soap, ducked back into the coach, and changed clothes. Then she followed Madame Meritta out a ways to a rocky outcropping near the water. “You have to do everything yourself?” said Orphelia.

“Everything except cook,” said Madame Meritta. “I leave that to Othello.”

Orphelia was soon busy washing her clothes, dipping them into the water, scrubbing them with lye soap, rinsing them, and with quick expert twists, wringing them out. Then, following Madame's example, she hung them on nearby branches to dry.

“You're pretty good,” said Bertha as she came up with an armload of men's clothing. “You think you can wash out Artimus's Sunday shirt for him? And Laphet's? Maryanne and I are doing their pants and other clothes. It'll be a big help for them, 'cause they're not real good at this kind of work.”

Wanting to say “no” but not daring to, Orphelia nodded and began washing the shirts. The more shirts she washed, the more Bertha dropped off for her to do. The sun climbed higher in the sky. She wiped sweat off her forehead with her wrist. Her knees ached from having to lean on them against the rough rock, and her back felt like it was going to break.

Just when she thought she was finally finished, Reuben walked over and stood nearby, watching for a moment. Then he removed his ragged shirt and held it out. Orphelia stared at the shirt and then looked up at him.

“What?” she said.
Does he expect me to wash that filthy thing?
She turned to Madame Meritta for help, but Madame was nowhere to be found. Neither was Bertha.

“Can you wash my shirt?” Reuben asked. Beneath the one he had removed was another one, with even more holes.

“Can't you do it yourself?”

He bowed his head, clutching his shirt. He looked pitiful, with his shoulder bones sticking out through the holes. “Ain't no good at it.”

“Oh all right. Give it here.” Slowly and gingerly, she took the heavy woolen shirt. It was frayed at the collar and cuffs, with deep pockets on each side. And it smelled!

“Thankee,” Reuben said. As he turned to go, something around his neck glittered in the sunlight. Orphelia noticed for the first time that he was wearing a tarnished silver chain around his neck, most of it hidden beneath his undershirt. Through one of the holes, a silver pendant peeked out. “Can I see your necklace?” she asked, curious about the pendant.

Reuben glowered.

“I know, I know, it's yours,” Orphelia said, backing up a bit. “But I promise I won't even touch it. I just want to see it, is all. It's the least I deserve if I'm going to wash that grimy shirt of yours.”

Reluctantly, Reuben pulled the chain out from under his shirt. Orphelia stood up on her toes and leaned forward to get a closer look at the pendant. A chill ran up and down her spine. It was shaped like a musical note—just like Uncle Winston's pin.

Right then Madame Meritta returned. “Reuben, could you go get some water for the horses?” Reuben nodded and headed back toward the coaches. “Orphelia, what's the matter with you? You look like you've seen a ghost. Reuben isn't still frightening you, is he?”

“No, ma'am,” Orphelia said. “It's just that I was wondering where he might have gotten that pendant he has on that chain. My Uncle Winston had one like it, only his was a pin.”

“Well, that is a funny coincidence, isn't it?” Madame Meritta said. “All I know is it was about the only thing he had on his person when we found him. It must be something very important to him. He never takes it off.” She shrugged. “Now, why are we standing around talking about this when there's a heap of work yet to be done? Get yourself busy, young lady! We need to leave soon.”

Madame Meritta instructed Orphelia to gather up all the dry clothes and bring them back to the camp. They had found a bridge about five miles downstream and wanted to get across before dark. “Artimus has gone ahead to telegraph your folks,” explained Madame, “and let them know where you are. We'll catch up with Artimus in the town of Falsify, where we'll put you on the train for home.”

Orphelia took the clothes off the branches, folded them carefully, and stacked them in piles. Carrying the clothes back to the coaches took two trips. She had just enough time to complete that chore before Madame Meritta called for her to help with something else. And all the while Orphelia was thinking,
Why does Reuben have a pendant just like my uncle's pin?
It had to be more than a coincidence. She was sure of it.

She almost bumped into Othello, who was carrying boxes from one coach to another.

“No time to daydream now, ma chère,” he said as he moved out of her way, headed for the storage coach.

Orphelia hurried after him, remembering another question that had been weighing on her mind. “Mr. Othello, those men in Pitchfork Creek in the tent—were they going to lynch us 'cause we didn't put on blackface?” she asked.

Othello stopped and looked at her somberly. “Oh, no, no, no. Now listen to me, Orphelia. Lynching is a terrible, terrible thing, and it's true that our people have lost too many good men and women to murderers who hung them from trees, stoned them, beat them, and even threw their bodies in the river. But most people in Pitchfork Creek are good people, and the sheriff and his deputies were right there to protect us. So there's no need for you to let such thoughts cross your mind.”

“Well, I just wondered.” She looked after him as he rushed away. It was a relief to know that they wouldn't have been lynched. But then again, Uncle Winston had been in a jail with sheriff's deputies all around, and yet
he
had been lynched.

C
HAPTER
8

A C
RAZY
I
DEA

By sundown on Monday they had safely crossed the bridge. Reaching it took a lot longer than Othello had expected, however. It was on a winding narrow road that ran dangerously close to the streambed.

As they drove along, Orphelia half asleep, Othello and Madame Meritta discussed the pros and cons of whether to camp or to push on. Finally Madame told Othello to just stop wherever he could. He steered the sleeping coach as far to the side of the road as possible. Orphelia knew he was worried that if he left the path completely, the wagon would get stuck in the mud along the side of the road.

Orphelia huddled down in a corner of her sparse bed and gnawed on a strip of salted beef. The beef, which had never been tasty, was even less so now without Othello's touch. She wouldn't even have minded some of his craw-daddy gumbo. Her arms and back ached from the day's work. She slapped at mosquitoes and moths, scratched chigger bites, and sighed to herself.

Knowing everything she now knew about Momma and Uncle Winston, Orphelia realized that Madame Meritta was probably right about her parents being frantic with worry. Orphelia swallowed hard, a lump rising in her throat.

But on the other hand, how come they hadn't sent out the sheriff or anyone to find her and bring her home? Surely a search party would have caught up to the wagons by now. Maybe Momma and Poppa didn't care what happened to her. After all, Poppa had told her, “You've buttered your bread, now eat it.” Was that what he was making her do now? She blinked away a tear.
I ran away, but I'm not a bad girl, not really. But maybe Momma thinks so by now.

Bertha was squinting at a magazine in the dim light of the one kerosene lamp allowed in each coach. Madame Meritta sat cross-legged on her bed in her petticoats and undershirt. She was rubbing pomade into her thick black hair, which hung down past her shoulders.

“So how do you like show business on the road now?” Bertha asked Orphelia. She'd been watching Orphelia fight with the insects.

“Oh, I still like it.” Orphelia sneezed. She scratched a chigger bite. She pulled at one of her braids. “I'm having a great adventure. Nobody else in Calico Creek has ever done anything like this before.”

“You're probably right about that.” Bertha rattled her magazine. “And when you get back home, you'll have another great adventure when your momma gets started on your behind.”

“Bertha, don't tease her,” said Madame Meritta. “Here, Orphelia, let me comb your hair and fresh up your braids.” Madame Meritta scooted to the edge of her bed and patted it. “I can rub what I use into your hair, too, and help clean it without having to wash it. It's just castor oil and white wax with a little lemon oil. It smells good, too.”

Orphelia gratefully crawled off her own bed and sat down on the floor, settling herself between the older woman's legs. Orphelia had wanted to wash her hair in the river today, but the laundry had kept her too busy.

Madame Meritta loosened both intertwined locks of Orphelia's hair and gently began scratching Orphelia's scalp with the edge of her comb. Next she parted Orphelia's hair and dabbed the sweet-smelling ointment along the part. When she had done this all over Orphelia's scalp, she placed more of the ointment in Orphelia's hair and rubbed vigorously.

“Mmmm, that feels good.” Orphelia sighed like a cat purring. “Momma usually washes it on Saturday nights.” Another lump formed in her throat at the thought of Momma. But this was real show business life now, she decided. The bad things like the riot and the awful food and the hard beds apparently were part of it, but having a famous person like Madame Meritta combing her hair as if they were old friends was really special. It was almost like home. Orphelia heard a whip'o'will call in the quiet, and another one answered it. That sounded like home, too.

The next thing Orphelia knew, she was waking up to the swaying of the wagon. It was daylight, and they were moving again. Orphelia yawned and stretched. Her arms were still sore from washing more clothes on Monday than she'd ever done at one time, even with Momma.

“Where are we?” Orphelia asked.

“Not too far from Falsify,” replied Madame Meritta. Orphelia's heart sank.

But a few minutes later, the coach stopped. “Now what?” muttered Madame Meritta. “We still have two or three more miles to go.” She got out to investigate. Orphelia followed, glad for the opportunity to stretch her legs. Othello, looking exasperated, stood next to the wagon talking to Artimus. What was Artimus doing back? Orphelia wondered. Weren't they supposed to meet him in Falsify?

“Bad news, Maryanne,” said Artimus. “The train won't be running today. Seems that storm the other night flooded out part of the track.”

Madame Meritta looked at Othello. “Tell me this isn't happening—
please.
”

“I'm afraid so,” he responded, sighing heavily. “Orphelia, once again your stay with us seems to have been extended.”