by Larry Karp
Tom took the card from his grandfather, traced notes with his fingers. “It’s for a cakewalk, isn’t it? It’s got that cakewalk rhythm, anyway.” He started humming.
Alan watched him with a smile. Knows more about the music than he thinks he does. Just needs a bit of self-confidence.
After a few seconds, Alan tapped Tom’s shoulder. “Hey, Thomas. Come back.”
The boy blinked, looked sheepish.
“I’m glad you came along,” Alan said. “I do feel better, not being alone all this way from home. And the chance for you to look into a music find like this one, at this point in your education?” He shook his head in amazement. “I think you’ll be a big help to me—and you’re going to learn a hell of a lot.” He took the paper back from Tom. “I’d better call your grandmother, let her know we’re all right, and then let’s sack out. Get a good night’s sleep and hit the ground running in the morning.”
Tom gave his grandfather a quick hug. “Thanks, Alan.”
***
Sunlight poured around the edges of the window curtain as Tom rolled out bed and slapped Alan’s annoying travel alarm. Just past eight. That’s what, six in Seattle? Ugh. Good thing Alan set a late meeting time with Mickey.
The boy stretched and shoved his feet into slippers. “Hey, Alan—” he began, but cut himself short when he saw the empty bed beside his. He blinked once, twice, rubbed his eyes. The bed was still empty. Sheets and blankets thrown off toward the foot of the bed, a depression at the center of the pillow. Over on the night table, the invitation sat front and center, music side up, as though demanding to be studied.
“Alan!” Tom called. He checked: no Alan in the bathroom either. “Oh, shit!”
He reached for his iPhone, but stopped short of picking it up. No, I can’t call Gramma! We haven’t even been here a whole day and I’ve lost track of Alan already. She’d kill me.
Chapter Three
Alan woke a few minutes after four, his back screaming, and Joplin’s newly discovered music playing over and over in his mind. He glanced at Tom, curled in a ball under the covers of the other bed, snoring softly.
The old man threw off the covers and eased himself up to sit on the side of the bed, then grabbed the Vicodin he’d left handy on the bedside table. Quick swallow, then he stretched and got to his feet. Sometimes it helped to move around while he waited for the painkiller to take effect. He straightened slowly and shuffled to the bathroom, took care of necessary business, then returned to the bedroom.
Alan knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. With a sigh, he dressed in the dark, moving slowly so as not to aggravate his spine or disturb Tom’s sleep. Then he walked to the bedside table, picked up the pile of music, extracted the invitational card, and dropped the rest back onto the table. The multiply-revised musical passage, short though it was, enticed him with its suggestion of a window into Joplin’s creative process. He set the card down on the edge of the table, clicked the bedside light onto its lowest setting, and bent over the card, trying to define the evolution of the music. After a couple of minutes, he completely forgot the ache in his back.
A twinge brought him up short as he started to stand up and stretch. He glanced at the clock and shook his head at his own impulsiveness. Only 6:13. Much too soon to go back to Mickey’s. Too early even to wake Tom for breakfast. Alan finished his interrupted motion, and stretched cautiously. The Vicodin was working. Good. For the moment, standing was better than sitting; he leaned on the table and returned his attention to the music. In his head, he played his best guess at the earliest version of the passage on the invitation, then switched to the last. It was Joplin, he had no doubt about that. But a strain that had never found its way into any of Joplin’s known pieces.
While he mentally played the final version again, he pictured the Maple Leaf Club as it would have been in Joplin’s time. Gas chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A massive walnut bar on one wall, a sign behind it touting the products of the Capital Brewing Company. On the opposite wall, a scattering of card and dice tables and a few pool tables. In between, heavy wooden chairs placed around large, square tables for drinkers. Against the wall between the bar and the gaming tables sat an upright piano, a very dark-skinned black man on the bench.
Alan grimaced. That wasn’t right. Joplin wouldn’t have been alone; the scene would have been more like a pianist’s jam session at one of the ragtime festivals. He added a few more men to his mental picture. Joplin’s students, Scott Hayden and Arthur Marshall, of course. His closest friend, Otis Saunders. Anyone else? Perhaps not. Joplin’s face tightened as one of the standing men leaned over his shoulder and played a few notes; the composer shook his head and played a longer passage. Not quite the final version of the strain on the invitation, but close. He crossed out a few notes on a card resting on the piano’s music rack, wrote a correction, and played it again. Closer, but still not quite there.
Alan stepped away from a table in the back of the bar and walked to the side of the piano bench. “I think you want an F-sharp minor run in the third bar, Mr. Joplin.”
There was a moment of silence. Alan froze. What in hell is going on? Am I dreaming? Or, my God, is this a dying experience? Am I dying in my sleep in that hotel room? Oh, please, no—that’d be something Tom and Miriam would never get over.
Joplin broke the silence. “You were saying, Sir? An F-sharp minor run in the third bar?”
Alan glanced around the room. No question, he was in the Maple Leaf Club. The bar was as unmistakable as the man at the piano, who shot an accusing glare at Alan, even as his fingers played the phrase with the minor run. The glare modulated into a frown, apparently a habitual expression, as Joplin added another correction to the card and set down his pencil.
Hayden, Marshall, and Saunders studied Alan for a moment, then looked a question at each other. Saunders shrugged. No wonder, Alan thought. An old white guy in a blue-and-white-striped shirt and light-colored slacks who interrupts their late-late get-together is hardly going to get an open-armed welcome.
“You appear to know my music better than I do myself, Sir,” said Joplin, a thick coat of ice covering every word. The “Sir” came across as an accusation.
Alan took a deep breath. Worry about the hows and whys later. “Hardly that, Mr. Joplin. Just a feeling. The result of listening to—and playing—ragtime for longer than you would believe.” He stepped to the side and turned the closest chair to face the piano. “Please excuse me. I can’t stand up for very long these days.” He sat, cautious of his back in the unpadded chair, and leaned forward.
“Mr. Campbell told me you were often here at all hours, working on your music, but I never expected to meet you myself.”
Joplin turned his eyes heavenward as his companions exchanged whispers. “Brun Campbell, that would be?”
Alan nodded.
Joplin’s face tightened. “You’re a friend of Brun’s?”
“I don’t know that I could go that far…well, maybe.” Alan quickly thought better of saying that he’d gone out to the coast some sixty years before to take ragtime piano lessons from Brun Campbell. “I enjoyed talking with him and listening to him play. He’s quite a…character.”
Joplin’s expression didn’t change, but slim, light-skinned Saunders, dressed to the nines even in the early morning hours, grinned and stage-whispered to Joplin, “It look like maybe you gots yourself another white disciple on your doorstep, Scott. Way this be goin’, you gonna have a full set of twelve by next Christmas.”
Joplin turned his frown on his friend. “As I recall, Crackerjack, you were the one responsible for unleashing Brun on us. Is this gentleman also one of your converts?”
Alan almost laughed out loud. Right! That’s what they called Saunders then. Crackerjack.
“Never once saw him before.”
Joplin looked toward Marshall and Hayden. Marshall shrugg
ed; Hayden shook his head, no.
Joplin’s cheek twitched. “Perhaps you’d like to explain a little, Mr…”
“Chandler. Alan Chandler.”
“Mr. Chandler. How is it that all of a sudden, out of nowhere, you’re here? Not to be rude, but the fact is, we don’t see too many white folks in the Maple Leaf after hours. Just what is it that brings you to Sedalia? You say you’ve been listening to Brun Campbell play ragtime. Are you following in Mr. Campbell’s footsteps? Seeking lessons in playing ragtime?”
“I didn’t have any firm goal in coming here, but if I had, that wouldn’t have been it. I’m content with my own style, particularly at my age, at least as much as any musician ever can be. I would be more interested in discussing composition with you.” Alan nodded at the invitational card. “What, for example, do you intend for that little theme?”
Joplin ignored the question, and rose. “Let’s not go quite so fast. You play, Sir? And compose? Then perhaps you could demonstrate.”
Alan’s thoughts churned. It wouldn’t do to play something too modern, too distant from Joplin’s first efforts with classical forms. As he sat, an idea struck him. “I’m sure you’ll recognize the theme these variations are based on. Mr. Campbell told me you use it as a negative example—you gave him holy hell for playing “Maple Leaf Rag” like a funeral march. It seemed like an interesting challenge.”
Alan had written his variations on Chopin’s “Funeral March” for his own amusement, back when he was in his twenties. Now he omitted the initial statement of the theme, and jumped straight into the first melodic variation, heavy on passing tones and ragged enough to shake Chopin right out of his coffin.
As he worked his way through a series of harmonic variations, Marshall and Hayden nodded agreement, and Otis Saunders grinned and murmured a quiet “Yeah.” Alan brought the piece to a close with a syncopated rendition of the theme, which set everyone but Joplin to chuckling.
“Perhaps not the most original notion, Mr. Chandler,” Joplin said with a grudging nod, “but competently executed.”
Alan’s energy was beginning to run out, and his back began to escalate its complaints. “I’d be honored to share something more original, but another time might be better.” He stood and tried to coax his spine to fully vertical. “It’s still early morning, but I’ve already had a remarkably long day. I think an hour or two of rest is in order. Maybe I could come back another time and talk some.”
Joplin nodded. “I’d be interested. For now, I think I’ll do just what you have in mind.” He pointed a thumb at his students. “And it wouldn’t hurt these two young men to visit their pillows either. Crackerjack, well, he’ll do what he wishes.”
“Crackerjack gonna stay a little longer. Enough for one more drink, anyways.”
Alan made his way down the stairs, then headed south on Ohio Avenue. He shivered. If I’d known I was going outside, I would have worn my jacket. He’d have to stop for a rest, but even so, he was sure he could make it to the hotel by 8:30. Then he’d worry about getting back to the twenty-first century. With luck, he might get there before Tom woke up.
***
Alan dodged past a large man in front of the Blocher Feed Store, then walked the half-block to Ohio Avenue, and turned south. I can’t really believe I’m in 1899. But a dying vision—no, anything but that! It can’t be that! Maybe…a hallucination? That would be far better. Would I see the dust in the street in a hallucination? So many places I’ve read about over the last fifty years of research. There’s the St. Louis Clothing Store. Long gone, but it was a big-time operation in 1899. The sight of a store advertising “Pianos, Organs, and Music” distracted him, and he smiled briefly. A few steps closer to Third, he nodded. Right, the Ilgenfritz Block, all those small shops and offices. And Sicher’s Hotel at the corner of Third.
Shortly before nine, the old pianist stood on the corner of Ohio and East Fourth. The Bothwell Hotel, however, wasn’t there. In its place was a row of small businesses anchored on the corner by the Bryant-Tewmey Dry Goods Company. A small sign in the window offered lodgings on the third floor.
Alan glared at the sign, but his concern wasn’t the staircase the sign implied. Tom would almost certainly be awake, and that meant trouble. God help us if he’s called Miriam to tell her I’ve gone AWOL.
After a few minutes, Alan shrugged. For want of a better idea, he opened the Bryant-Tewmey door, stepped inside, and blinked in surprise. He was standing in the dimly lit Oak Room Lounge, off the lobby of the Bothwell.
Chapter Four
Tom drew a deep breath. He tried to focus his mind by silently running through a few bars of “Maple Leaf Rag.” Alan wouldn’t leave without me. He probably went for a walk or something.
The boy grabbed his phone and called Alan’s cell number. Across the room, Alan’s phone, permanently set on “vibrate,” buzzed. He plugged it in last night and forgot it this morning. Figures. Tom scribbled a quick note—“Out looking for you. Call me.”—and set it on the table next to the invitation card. Then he threw his clothes on and started for the door, but quickly doubled back. Can’t leave the music just sitting out in plain view. He emptied his backpack, slid the manuscript pages and card into Mickey’s envelope, carefully zipped the bundle into his pack, and headed out, leaving the Do Not Disturb Sign in place.
Alan wasn’t eating breakfast in the Palm Room. He wasn’t in the Fitness Center either. Tom circled back to the reception desk, described his grandfather, and asked if the clerk had seen him. No luck.
A thought occurred to him. “Is there a piano in the hotel?”
“There’s one on the balcony.” The clerk pointed straight up. “But nobody’s…” The clerk’s voice trailed off when he realized he was talking to Tom’s back.
If he was at the piano, I’d’ve heard it. Tom trotted toward the door. Could he have gone over to Mickey’s on his own? We weren’t supposed to be there until ten, but could he not have been able to wait any longer? Don’t really think so, but…
The car was still in the lot, two spaces away from the street. “Damn it, Alan! Where are you?” It didn’t seem likely that Alan would have walked to Mickey’s. On the other hand, it was only four or five blocks, and Alan’s doctors had been trying to get him to exercise more.
Tom checked his phone. 9:10. No messages. He called Mickey, but got no response. Nothing for it but to walk. He cut diagonally through the lot and set off along East Third.
***
Alan glanced around the lounge and dropped into the nearest chair. Does feeling this crappy mean I’m alive? If it does, I can’t be dying. Chemo fatigue’s bad enough by itself, but add an adrenaline crash and it’s like staying up all night before doing matinee, evening, and midnight shows. I guess the real proof will be when I get back to the room. If I find myself in that bed—He interrupted the thought, leaned left to look toward the elevator. No, I can’t handle it yet. Ten minutes to catch my breath and find some energy.
Twenty minutes later, he pried his eyes open and reached for his phone to call Tom. It wasn’t until his hand touched his belt that he realized the phone was still up in the room. With a groan, he dragged himself to his feet and into the hotel lobby.
As he passed the front desk, the clerk called him. “Mr. Chandler?”
Alan braced himself against the counter. “Yes?”
“Did you meet up with your grandson?”
“No. Where did he go?”
The clerk gestured toward the door. “He went out, oh, ten or fifteen minutes ago.”
Alan sighed and suppressed a curse. He must not have seen me sitting there. He nodded thanks. “If he comes back, please tell him I’m up in the room.”
“You got it, sir.”
***
Tom stopped short of the front steps. Huh? Leaving the door unlocked is one thing. But leaving it open? Tom listened, expecting to hear Al
an and Mickey talking or, more likely, playing some of the music from Mickey’s duffel bag. All he heard, though, was silence and the occasional passing car.
He climbed the creaking stairs and called “Hey, Mickey! Alan? Anyone home?”
No answer.
Tom pushed the door wide open and called again. He was about to go inside when he heard the opening passage of Alan’s “Tomatillo Rag” behind him. He spun around, then realized the music was coming from his phone—his ringtone for a call from Alan.
He answered, shouting “Where are you? What did you think you were doing, going off without me? Gramma is going to kill me!”
Alan managed a chuckle. “I’m back at the hotel. Alive, thank God, and well enough, all things considered. You’ll have trouble believing where I’ve been, but now that I’m back, I’m glad I went. No harm done, but I need a rest. And we will not tell Miriam about this.”
Tom groaned. “She’ll know. She always knows everything we do.”
“She’s good, Tom, but she’s not quite clairvoyant. Listen, where’s the music?”
“Don’t worry, I brought it with me. Didn’t want to tempt a maid by leaving it sitting around.”
“Smart boy! I was worried for a second there. Okay, why don’t you come on back here? Soon as I wake up, I’ll tell you where I’ve been, and we can get our stories straight. Oh, and please call Mickey and let him know we’ll be late.”
“I’m at Mickey’s house. Came here looking for you, but doesn’t seem like he’s home.”
“That’s odd. He knew we were coming over. Where would he have gone?”
Tom shrugged reflexively. “I don’t know either, but he didn’t even close the door. Look, I’m worried about the rest of the music. He hadda be joking about his deal with the thieves about stuff in his house, but there’s those slimy-sounding antique dealers from K.C. I’m gonna go inside, look around a little, keep an eye on things. Take your nap and then come over.”