In their bare feet, Jack and Annie hurried a short distance to the wide, busy street. A sign read CANAL STREET.
The sidewalks on both sides of Canal Street were crowded with vendors pushing carts and shouting in rich, loud voices.
“Buttermilk! Buttermilk! Fresh from the buttermilk man! Bring out your bucket! Bring out your can!” shouted a man.
“Blackberries! Mighty fine! Three sacks for a dime!” called an old woman.
“Read all the news! Chase away the blues!” sang a boy with newspapers.
“Let’s buy a paper,” said Jack. “It’ll tell us the date.”
Jack and Annie ran over to the boy selling newspapers.
“A paper, please,” said Annie.
“A penny, please,” said the boy.
Jack and Annie dug into their pockets.
“Uh-oh,” said Annie. “No money.”
“Uh-oh,” said the boy. “No paper.” He started to walk away.
“Wait, please,” said Jack. “Can you just tell us the date?”
“October thirty-first, the eve of All Saints’ Day,” said the boy. “You didn’t know that?”
“Uh, not really,” said Jack.
“And what year is it?” Annie asked.
The newsboy scowled. “It’s 1915! Don’t you two know anything? Who are you?”
Before Jack could think of an answer, Annie blurted out, “We’re musicians. We came all the way from Frog Creek, Pennsylvania.” She held up their trumpet.
“Oh, right. And it’s a different year in Frog Creek, Pennsylvania, than here in New Orleans, Louisiana! I forgot!” The newsboy headed up the street, laughing at his own joke.
“Well, yeah,” said Annie.
Jack laughed. “Okay, Louis Armstrong was born in 1901, so if it’s 1915…”
“He’s fourteen years old,” said Annie. “So that means he’s playing with kid bands in the streets. Excuse me!” she called to the buttermilk man. “Can you tell us where some kid bands might be playing today?”
“Try Jackson Square in the French Quarter,” said the man.
“What’s the French Quarter?” asked Jack.
“It’s the oldest section of the city,” said the buttermilk man. “Catch that streetcar that’s stopping up ahead! It will take you right there.”
“Thanks!” said Annie. She and Jack ran up the sidewalk.
“So I guess those train cars in the street are called streetcars,” said Jack.
“Makes sense!” said Annie.
Jack and Annie ran to a streetcar stop. They stood in line and then climbed aboard. “Oh, wait,” Jack said to Annie. “We can’t! We don’t have money!” He started to leave.
“Hey, sonny, are you coming or going?” said the conductor.
“Sorry. We made a mistake,” said Jack. “We don’t have any money.”
“Don’t worry, there’s no fare today. It’s the eve of All Saints’ Day,” said the conductor.
“Oh! Good,” said Jack. He and Annie chose a wooden seat near the door and sat down.
“Could you tell us when to get out for Jackson Square in the French Quarter?” Annie asked the conductor.
“Sure thing,” the conductor said.
Annie rested their magic trumpet on her lap. “Lucky for us we came here on the eve of All Saints’ Day,” she said to Jack.
“Yeah, but what does that mean?” said Jack. As the streetcar headed along Canal, he looked up All Saints’ Day in their book. He read aloud:
November first is celebrated as All Saints’ Day in New Orleans. It is a day to honor those who have passed away. Sometimes on the eve of All Saints’ Day, people wear costumes and have parties and parades. Considered the spookiest night of the year, the eve of All Saints’ Day is a good time for ghost sightings.
“The eve of All Saints’ Day sounds like Halloween,” said Annie. “It’s the same day, too: October thirty-first.”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “But what do they mean, ‘a good time for ghost sightings’?” He kept reading:
The city of New Orleans is often called the most haunted city in America. According to legend, the old blacksmith shop on Bourbon Street is haunted by the ghost of the famous pirate Jean Lafitte. Some say that Saint Louis Cathedral is haunted by a Spanish priest, and that a hotel on Chartres Street is haunted by Confederate soldiers. There have been ghost sightings in many other places throughout the city as well.
“Ooh, sounds scary,” said Annie.
“Huh,” said Jack. “Well!” He slammed the book shut. “Forget ghosts. We didn’t come to New Orleans to look for ghosts. We came here to look for Louis Armstrong, the King of Jazz.”
The streetcar turned onto a crowded, busy street. Lively music blared from restaurants and dance halls.
“We’re in the French Quarter now, and you’re the next stop,” the conductor said to Jack and Annie. “Head down St. Peter Street toward the Mississippi River. You’ll run right into Jackson Square.”
“Thanks!” Jack put the research book back in his bag. Annie tucked the trumpet under her arm. When the streetcar came to a stop, they hopped off.
“Good luck playing that horn, missy!” said the conductor.
“Thanks, I’ll need it!” said Annie.
As the streetcar pulled away, Jack and Annie looked around. “Hey, this is Bourbon Street,” said Annie, pointing to a street sign. “Isn’t that the street with the haunted blacksmith shop?”
“Don’t think about that,” said Jack. “Let’s head down St. Peter.”
Jack and Annie left Bourbon Street and started down St. Peter Street. They passed tall, narrow houses painted pale green, yellow, and pink. Vines grew up walls and twined around iron balconies. Alleys led to courtyards with trickling fountains.
“I like the buildings in New Orleans,” said Annie.
“Yeah, and it smells good, too,” said Jack.
Delicious food smells filled the air. From a mule-drawn cart, an old woman cried out, “Waffles! Get your waffles here! Yes sir, fresh, hot waffles!”
Jack was getting hungry. Outside a restaurant was a sign that read:
Special! Dinner 10 cents.
“Gosh, things are cheap in 1915,” said Jack. “Too bad we don’t even have a dime.”
“Yeah,” said Annie. “Oh, look!” She pointed to a grand cathedral with soaring spires. “A cathedral! That must be the place with the ghost of the Spanish priest.”
“Why do you like ghosts so much?” said Jack.
“I don’t like ghosts so much,” said Annie.
“Well, you keep talking about them,” said Jack.
“I’m just pointing things out,” said Annie. “You’re the one who brought up ghosts in the first place.”
“Well, let’s forget them,” said Jack. He didn’t like ghosts. He didn’t even like thinking about them.
Soon Jack and Annie came to a huge green park with an iron fence around it. A sign at the entrance read: JACKSON SQUARE.
“We found it!” said Jack.
Outside the iron fence, in the hot afternoon sunlight, small bands of barefoot kids were playing music. Some strummed banjos. Others played harmonicas or long tin horns. Three boys sang in harmony. A couple of the smallest kids passed around hats, collecting money for the different bands.
“Where’s Louis Armstrong?” Annie asked Jack. “No one here looks like the picture in our book.”
“Of course not,” said Jack. “The picture shows him as a grown-up. He wouldn’t look the same when he’s fourteen.”
“I’ll ask,” said Annie. She went up to a small girl passing a hat. “Excuse me, is there a musician here named Louis Armstrong?”
“Louis Armstrong? You mean Dipper?” asked the girl.
“I guess…,” said Annie.
“Hey, Little Mack!” the girl shouted to the biggest kid in the singing trio. “Where’s Dipper Armstrong?”
“Just saw him—he’s at the River Café!” shouted Little Mack.
“Where’s that?” Annie asked.
“Down by the river,” said the small girl. She pointed beyond the square. “Walk down Decatur Street and you’ll see it.” The girl held up the hat, as if asking for a donation.
“Sorry, no money,” said Jack.
“But thanks for your help,” said Annie. She and Jack left the square. They hurried along Decatur Street.
“So Dipper must be a nickname for Louis Armstrong,” said Jack.
“Yeah,” said Annie. “And Dipper must be playing music at the café.”
“There it is,” said Jack. He pointed to a red sign on a slanted rooftop.
“Doughnuts, yum,” said Annie.
Jack and Annie walked under a striped red awning. Waiters in white jackets were running around with trays of coffee and delicious-smelling doughnuts. Jack’s mouth watered.
“That’s funny. There’s no music here,” said Annie. “Excuse us,” she called to one of the waiters. “Have you seen Louis Armstrong? Or Dip—”
“Did you come here to buy something, kids?” the waiter interrupted rudely.
“No, we don’t have any money—” started Jack.
“Then out, boy!” the waiter shouted. “No begging in here!”
“He’s not begging!” said Annie. “We’re looking for—”
“I know beggars when I see them! Out!” said the waiter.
“Let’s go. I don’t think Dipper’s in here, anyway,” said Jack.
“Wait a minute, I have to tell them that we’re not beggars!” Annie said.
“It’s not worth it, come on,” said Jack.
Jack was mad, too, but he pulled Annie out from under the awning. “I think it’s the way we look,” he said. “Our clothes make us look poor. And we don’t have shoes on.”
“It’s not fair,” said Annie.
“Forget it. We’ll ask someone else where to find Dipper,” said Jack.
On the street by the café was a mule cart filled with coal. A young teenager was putting a bucket and shovel into the back of the cart. He was barefoot and wore clothes like Jack and Annie’s.
“Excuse me!” Jack called. “Do you know Louis Armstrong? Or Dipper?”
The boy turned. When he saw Jack and Annie, he grinned. He had the friendliest smile Jack had ever seen. “Louis Armstrong?” he said. “That’s me. How can I help you, man?”
Jack was at a loss for words. He hadn’t thought about what to say to Louis Armstrong when they found him.
“Hi, Dipper!” said Annie, walking up to the boy. “We’re Jack and Annie from Frog Creek, Pennsylvania. Friends of ours told us to find you when we came to New Orleans.”
“What friends?” asked Dipper.
“Teddy and Kathleen,” said Annie.
The boy looked puzzled. But then his gaze fell on Annie’s trumpet. “Hey, nice horn. Can you play that thing?”
“Only when the time is right,” said Annie.
“And when’s that?” asked Dipper.
“I won’t know till I feel it,” said Annie.
Dipper smiled his radiant smile again. “Ha! I know just what you mean!” he said. He wiped his hand on his pants and held it out to shake. “Any friends of Teddy and Kathleen’s are friends of mine.”
As Jack shook Dipper’s hand, he sputtered, “You—you know Teddy and Kathleen?”
“No, man, never heard of them,” said Dipper. “But I consider everybody my friend.”
“Oh. Oh!” said Annie. She and Jack laughed.
“Only problem is I can’t hang out with y’all right now,” said Dipper. He climbed onto the mule cart.
“Where—where you going, man?” asked Jack.
“I’m making my rounds with this coal cart,” said Dipper. “And I have lots more work to do today. But be sure to look me up the next time you come to town. And say hi to my pals, Teddy and Kathleen.” Dipper waved at them and then shook the reins. “Go ’long, mule,” he said.
The mule clopped over the brick street, pulling the coal cart away from the River Café.
Louis Armstrong was gone.
“Wat now?” Jack said.
“We have to follow him,” said Annie. “We can’t let him out of our sight.”
Jack and Annie walked quickly after the mule cart. The hot brick road burned their feet. “Ow, ow, ow,” they both whispered.
“So let’s figure out—ow—what we’re going to say to him,” said Jack.
“Simple,” said Annie. “We’ll tell him we’d like to work with him. And then while we’re working, we’ll start talking to him about music. And put him on the right path to becoming the King of Jazz.”
“Hmm,” said Jack. It wasn’t much of a plan, but he couldn’t think of anything better.
Up ahead, Dipper’s mule cart stopped near the back of a candy shop.
“Hey, Dipper!” yelled Annie.
Dipper looked over his shoulder. He smiled. “What’s going on? Y’all are sticking to me like glue,” he said.
“Well, actually, we were wondering—” started Jack.
“If we could work with you?” finished Annie.
“Work with me?” said Dipper. “I’m just delivering coal.”
“Yeah, we know. We think it might be fun,” said Annie.
Dipper laughed. “Y’all are crazy,” he said.
“No, we’re not. We just like to work,” said Annie.
“Yeah, yeah, we really do,” said Jack.
Dipper laughed again. “Okay. I reckon there’s enough work to go around today,” he said. “There’s extra shovels and buckets in the cart.”
“Cool. Just tell us what to do, Dipper,” said Annie.
“Fill your buckets with coal and toss each bucket load into the bin,” said Dipper. He pointed to a large wooden box at the back of the small candy shop. “Twelve bucket loads should do it.”
“Got it,” said Annie.
Annie carefully set the magic trumpet on the ground near Dipper’s cart. Jack left his cloth bag beside it. Dipper handed each of them a heavy shovel and a tin bucket from the back of the cart. Then all three of them started shoveling coal.
Dipper whistled and worked quickly. But Jack and Annie had a hard time handling their heavy shovels. Whenever the shovels tipped to the side, all the coal fell off. Finally they both just grabbed pieces of coal with their hands and tossed them into their buckets.
The afternoon sun beat down on Jack’s back as he worked. He was sweaty and short of breath. His hands were black from picking up the coal, and his clothes were covered with coal dust. This is a terrible job, he thought. He wondered how Dipper could be so cheerful.
“So, Dipper,” said Annie, “do you like music?”
Dipper’s answer was drowned out as he dumped a load of coal into the bin.
“What’d you say?” Jack called to Dipper.
Dipper answered again, but Jack didn’t hear him because a buggy rumbled by. This is a bad time for a serious discussion, Jack thought. He could hardly think in the burning sun.
As Dipper shoveled more coal, he started singing a song that seemed to give words to how Jack felt:
I’ve got those coal cart blues.
I’m really all confused—
I’m about to lose my very mind.
But Dipper didn’t seem confused at all, or about to lose his mind. He had a warm, raspy voice, and his song had a lively beat.
“Dipper! Dipper! Dipper!” some kids called.
Dipper stopped singing. Three boys were running toward the coal cart. They were the singing trio Jack and Annie had seen on Jackson Square.
“I know you’re working,” said one of the kids. “But quit early today, Dipper! We just got a gig to sing in the parade.”
“Sorry, can’t do it, Little Mack,” said Dipper.
Little Mack wasn’t exactly little, Jack noticed. He looked like he weighed over two hundred pounds.
“Come on, Dipper,” said another boy.
“Gotta work, Happy,” said Dipper.
“Aww, Dipper,” said Happy. He
didn’t look happy at all.
“Come on, Dipper!” said the third boy.
“Can’t do it, Big Nose,” said Dipper.
Jack looked at Big Nose’s nose. It was really quite small.
“Aww,” said Happy again.
“Go on now. Y’all sound just fine by yourselves,” said Dipper. “Go on to the parade and have fun.”
“But—” Big Nose began.
“Listen,” said Dipper. “Since sunup, I’ve delivered five cartloads of coal. I get paid fifteen cents a load. That makes seventy-five cents I’m going to take home to my family tonight. How much did you fellas make on the square today? How much you going to make in the parade?”
The three boys were silent.
“I’ve got a steady job now,” said Dipper. “You don’t need me. Go on to the parade and have a good time.”
The three boys stared at Dipper for a long moment. “Come on, fellas,” Little Mack said finally. “Let him be. Ever since he got back from the Waif’s Home, he’s turned into a mama’s boy.”
Jack wondered what the Waif’s Home was.
Dipper watched the three boys walk off. Then he looked at Jack and Annie. “Little Mack, Happy, and Big Nose Sidney are old buddies of mine,” he explained with a sigh. “We used to have a quartet. We sang everywhere together.”
“Dipper, can’t you take just a little time off and go with your buddies to sing in the parade?” asked Annie.
“Nope,” said Dipper. “That’s just the way it has to be.”
Dipper went back to shoveling coal. Jack wanted to ask him about the Waif’s Home, but Dipper didn’t look like he wanted to talk. He didn’t sing anymore as he filled up his coal bucket.
If Dipper doesn’t perform, he’ll never grow up to be the King of Jazz, Jack thought. He’ll never give his gifts to the world.
Finally Annie broke the silence. “Dipper, do you have to support your family all by yourself? You’re pretty young for that, aren’t you?”
“I’m not young. I’m fourteen,” said Dipper. “Mama Lucy, Mayann, and baby Clarence are all depending on me.”
“Is that your family?” asked Jack.
“Yep, and I love them a lot,” said Dipper.
“I understand,” said Annie.
A Good Night for Ghosts Page 2