The RagTime Traveler

by Larry Karp

Alan raised his hands and face heavenward. “Oh, Lord, give me patience with my muse. She knows not what frustration she brings upon me, yet I dare not tell her how I feel, for fear of reaping her eternal scorn.”

  The corner of Joplin’s mouth twitched upward. “Amen. But tell me, Mr. Chandler, what brings you to this glorious venue at such an auspicious moment?” The sarcasm in Joplin’s voice hinted that his opinion of the Maple Leaf Club was lower than that of future generations.

  Auspicious? Good God, that’s right! If this is September 1899, “Maple Leaf Rag” has either just been published, or will be any time now. Alan forced himself to look relaxed. “In a way, I suppose I could say it was your music. It’s a long story, and I’m afraid if I stay long enough to tell it, my grandson will get himself into trouble. May I defer the tale for another time?”

  “A cruel request, to leave me unsure whether I’ve been complimented or condemned, but family must take precedence. And I’ll admit, my own time is limited this afternoon as well.”

  “Then a discussion we can set aside at any moment.” Alan thought for a second. “The philosophy of music, perhaps? What do you consider to be the purpose, the reason for music?”

  “Beyond the purely commercial? A subject best suited to a late night with friends, Mr. Chandler. But why not?”

  Joplin returned to the bar, snagged a pair of bottles, poured, and brought the glasses to the table. “Capital Ginger Ale. Nearly as good as beer for philosophical disputation.” Although his face was sober, a hint of humor lurked in the corners of his eyes. “And much cheaper than alcohol. Until recently, the bottler was housed in this very building. I believe our host receives a special price in exchange for displaying their sign.”

  Alan gave the brew a dubious look. He’d always considered ginger ale an insipid beverage, ill-suited for any purpose beyond soothing an upset stomach, but he took a polite sip—and coughed when the strong, spicy drink hit the back of his throat and tickled his sinuses.

  He took another, more cautious sip. That’s…actually quite good. A glance at his watch. No more than an hour, then back to the hotel and Detective Parks, Alan promised himself, shifting uncomfortably in the hard chair. But next time I visit, I’ll bring a cushion.

  Chapter Seven

  Tom wiped his eyes as he walked away from Alan. He shot a glance backward at his grandfather, hunched over the table, studying God-knew-what as he chewed a mouthful of burger. Trying to keep up his energy and his weight, even though he knew it would ultimately be a losing battle.

  Time was, and not that long ago, Alan Chandler was a living, breathing energy source in the world of ragtime. It was nothing for him to play a concert, instigate an after-hours jam till three or four in the morning, and be wide awake after a few hours’ sleep, putting down on paper the tune that had entered his mind in embryonic form during the night. Now he needed an hour or two of—as he put it—going horizontal to get through a concert. He could still go directly from bed into composition, but not for anything like the uninterrupted day that used to be his standard. Half that at best, and only with a rest period in the middle. Tom felt a good deal of satisfaction at having given the old man a chance to go back to the hotel room and take it easy for a while.

  We’d better get our hands on the music in that duffel bag quickly. The longer it takes, the harder it’s gonna be to keep Alan from overdoing so much the effin’ chemo knocks him on his ass.

  But how was he going to find Jackson? Mickey had said he lived in Lincolnville with his granny. Not exactly specific information, but a start. Tom had come to Sedalia for the Scott Joplin Festival with Alan every year since he was eight, and he knew the layout of the central city as well as he knew Seattle—but that wouldn’t help with Lincolnville, the neighborhood north of the railroad tracks. Until the late 1950s, when integration finally spread through Sedalia, it was the black section of town. Now most of Lincolnville was wide swatches of tall weeds where abandoned, century-old houses had collapsed and the rubble cleared. Even the old Hubbard High School had been bashed into nonexistence, replaced by a housing project for the elderly. Most remaining individual homes were small, but well-kept-up, statements of resistance by old folks.

  But only an idiot would try to go door-to-door in Lincolnville. Lots of streets to cover, with strong odds that a white boy knocking at doors and asking about a black kid would be lucky to just get those doors slammed in his face.

  Start with something simple, logical, and convenient.

  Tom walked to the hostess at the little welcoming station inside the door, and asked for a phone book. The young woman smiled, reached behind the lecturn, and handed the boy a regional telephone directory. He murmured thanks, then dropped into the nearest empty chair and flipped to “Ja”.

  Great. The list goes on for-freaking-ever. Tom checked the obvious possibility quickly. No Jackson Jackson. Only one J. Jackson, and he’s not even in Sedalia, let alone Lincolnville. Screw it. No point wading through all this.

  Tom drummed fingers on the page. He thought back to their meeting with Mickey the night before. Mickey had introduced him and Alan to Jackson, they shook hands…hang on! His fingernails were stained black. Maybe he’s not just a delivery boy; maybe he actually works on the paper.

  Tom jumped up, ready to run. What was the address of the Sedalia Democrat? If they’d moved out of Town Center, like so many businesses, he’d need a car, but at sixteen he was too young to drive the rental car.

  He flipped to the Yellow Pages, Newspapers, Sedalia Democrat…700 South Massachusetts Avenue, corner of Massachusetts and Seventh, just two blocks down Ohio, then two blocks east on Seventh. Score! Tom slammed the phone book shut, returned it to the hostess with a “Thanks” and a quick salute, and tore out the door.

  ***

  Tom looked around the lobby of the Democrat. No printed directory on the wall. He shrugged and approached the security guard sitting at a small desk just inside the door. The guard looked old enough to have been on the job since the paper was founded; he blinked several times when Tom stopped in front of the desk, then said, “He’p you, Sonny?”

  Tom flashed his best smile. “Can you please tell me where I could find Jackson Jackson?”

  That drew a phlegmy laugh and a cough. The guard shot a glance at a brass spittoon beside his chair, but then swallowed and wiped his hand across his mouth. “That boy…He works the night shift, so I couldn’t begin to tell you where he’d be right now. But I’d bet the farm he’d be into some sorta devilment.”

  “Could you tell me his address?” Tom asked. “Or at least his phone number?”

  “No sirree, cain’t do that. I’m a security guard. Givin’ out personal information, that ain’t so secure, now is it?”

  “I’ve got to find him, though,” Tom said. “It’s very important—really.”

  “That’s what they all say, Sonny. But I still cain’t he’p you.”

  “I know he lives with his gramma, in Lincolnville. Can you tell me her name?”

  The old man’s face registered annoyance. “You’re a persistent li’l cuss, ain’t you? But you’re wasting your time and mine. I cain’t give you no personal information, none, nothing. Now git on your way, hear?”

  Tom stifled an urge to brain the old fart with the phone on the desk. “Okay, can you call his house for me? Tell Jackson or his grandmother that Tom Chandler needs to talk to him, it’s very important and it’s got to do with Mickey Potash. That way, you won’t be giving me any personal information.”

  The guard gave Tom a long stare. “I do that, you promise you’ll go ’way? No more foolishness?”

  “Yep. Promise.”

  The old man sighed extravagantly, opened a directory, ran his finger down the page, then began to punch keys on the phone. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Hello, Elvira? Yeah, this here’s Calvin, down at the Democrat. I got a kid here, a Tom Chandler.
He say he’s gotta talk to Jackson, it’s real important…oh, okay, then. I’ll tell him.”

  He replaced the receiver in the cradle and looked back to Tom. “She say Jackson’s sleepin’ now, and she don’t know you and ain’t got no truck with you. So…” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “On your way now. Scram.”

  “Well, thanks anyway.” Tom turned, walked back through the lobby and outside. Once on the sidewalk, he flipped his middle finger at the wall between him and the security station, and immediately felt foolish. He looked around, didn’t see anyone who might have noticed his gesture, and took a step into the street.

  A hand fell on his shoulder. He jumped and spun around—Who…?—and found himself looking at a slim, light-skinned black girl, about his own age, a huge leather purse slung casually over her left shoulder. A single braid hung down to her lower back. She flashed Tom a smile featuring a luminous double row of shining teeth.

  The girl grinned at Tom and flipped her own middle finger in the general direction of the security desk. “That Calvin, he one nasty ol’ asshole. I don’t like him a bit. You lookin’ for JJ, right?”

  It took a moment for Tom to catch on to the change of subject. “Yeah…Jackson Jackson…” The cartoon-balloon lightbulb went on over his head. “I saw you inside there, didn’t I? Over by the elevator?”

  “Yep. My daddy work up in the City Room, so I stops by ’most every day on my way home from school. I heard you two arguin’. Thought I’d offer you a friendly hand, but you done better’n I expected. Never thought anyone get the ol’ bastard to do somethin’ as hard as dialin’ the phone.” She changed the subject again. “What’s it worth if I takes ya right to JJ’s door?”

  Tom squinted, shaded his eyes against the sun. “You mean money?”

  The girl laughed. “’Less you got something better’n that.”

  Now Tom chuckled. “Sorry, but I don’t think I need your help. I read the numbers while Old Mr. Get-Off-My-Lawn was dialing.” He pulled out his iPhone. “Bet a quick search’ll give me the address that goes with it. And I know my way around town—once I have the address, I can walk right over there, all by myself.”

  The girl put a hand on her hip, extended it to the side, and gave Tom an amused look. “Well, now, I thought you was cute, but I never woulda guessed you was clever, too. But maybe you ain’t quite so clever as all that. Yeah, maybe you could walk over there by yourself, but walkin’ back, that might be a bit tougher. See, Granny Elvira don’t take too kindly to strangers—’specially white ones—and she pack some mean heat. But Granny know me. If I tell her you be all right, well, then you be all right. So how ’bout it? What’s it worth to you?”

  Tom sighed. “How about ten bucks?”

  “You think I come pretty cheap, don’t you? I was thinking more like fifty.”

  “Fifty? Forget it. Look at me. What do you think, I walk around with a wallet full of bills? No way. I’ll give you ten…” He paused for a split second, thinking about “cute” and how close to him the girl was standing, and decided to risk it. “And if there’s anything else you like…” He let his voice trail off.

  The girl guffawed. “Why, Mr. Chandler, you offerin’ your body ’steada cash? You got bigger balls than I give you credit for.” She giggled, went on. “Well, what the heck. I ain’t got no plans, and it might be kinda fun.”

  She leaned forward, planted her lips onto Tom’s, and wiggled her body against his. After a long moment, she pulled back. “Not half bad; I’ve had a lot worse. Figure that’s a down payment. Now, where’s the tenner?”

  Tom dug into his pocket, pulled out a worn black leather wallet, removed two fives, and passed them to the girl, who smirked, and started to slip them inside her blouse. When Tom’s eyes widened, she giggled again and dropped them into her purse. “Okay, Tom, I’m Saramae. C’mon, let’s go.”

  ***

  Alan snuck another glance at his watch. He suspected that it was out of place in 1899, though probably no more so than any of his clothes. At least it’s a wind-up model, not one of those annoying digital monstrosities. He and Joplin had been talking for a bit over an hour, moving from musical philosophy, through composition for the musical theater, to Joplin’s intent to answer Dvořák’s call for a truly American musical style.

  “I know you compose at the keyboard,” Alan said. “Do you also work away from it?”

  “At times.” Joplin tapped a pocket in his jacket. “I always carry some paper and a pencil in case the muse chooses to pay me a visit while I am out and about town. Nor am I likely to leave a warm bed on a cold night to search out a piano.”

  Alan grinned. “A sensible philosophy.”

  Joplin went on. “I find, however, that while I can imagine the music well enough, once I hear it through my ears instead of my mind, there is always something I wish to change. And you?”

  “Much the same. I can put down an idea, even a draft, anywhere, but music can’t be complete until it’s heard. Sometimes the necessary changes may be small, but there are always some.” He smiled at his host and picked up his ginger ale. The glass was nearly empty, and a trace of guilt poked his conscience.

  I promised myself no more than an hour, but here I am still, while Tom’s chasing around town.

  “Mr. Joplin, I’m afraid I do need to leave.” Alan rose to his feet. “My ability to visit is not entirely under my control, but I’ll return as soon as I can—perhaps even without catching you by surprise.”

  “Well then, until our next meeting. Which will be, I hope, long enough for you to tell the tale of how I’m responsible for your visit to Sedalia.” Joplin glanced at Alan’s wrist, then swung his eyes to the backpack the old man had dropped on the floor beside his chair. “And perhaps a few other tales as well?”

  “Long and unbelievable tales. But I hope so as well.” He worked hard not to grimace as an intense cramp worked its way through his gut. Damn you, chemo!” He shook an Imodium out of his little pocket container and downed it with the last mouthful of soda. Then he shook Joplin’s hand, and turned to the stairs.

  ***

  Alan stared in puzzlement around the Bryant-Tewmey store. The last time he had stepped through its door, he had found himself in the Hotel Bothwell, and had expected the same this time. Instead, he found himself before a display of brightly colored fabric. He blinked a couple of times, said “Sorry, wrong door,” to the approaching clerk, and stepped outside again to think.

  It took only a moment to recognize a significant difference between his visits to 1899: his departure point. When he had left from the Hotel Bothwell, returning there to end his trip made sense.

  So this time I need to go to where Fitter’s will be in another century.

  He crossed East Fourth and started down Ohio. He couldn’t resist studying the businesses he passed. Almost every storefront between Fourth and Fifth housed either a grocery, a druggist, or a dry goods store. Alan made a mental bet with himself that the future location of Fitter’s would now be harboring a grocer. As he approached the corner, he found he was half right: the space was shared by a grocer and a millinery. Beyond them, a dry goods shop, a druggist, and a piano and organ specialist. The area in front of the grocer, where Alan was used to seeing Fitter’s patio seating, was occupied by a number of sturdy tables holding baskets of produce.

  As he crossed the street, a burst of swearing rose behind him. Startled, he stumbled over the curb and bumped into a teenaged girl, her nose buried in an iPhone. They mumbled apologies at each other, and Alan leaned against the wall to catch his breath. He took two steps back toward the hotel, stopped, and slapped his forehead. The card!

  He wheeled around and walked into Fitter’s. “Excuse me,” he said to the hostess. “I was here earlier, and I think I left some music on my table.”

  “Musician, are you?” She eyed him suspiciously. “Chicken wrap, onion rings, plain burger and fries
, hold the mayo?”

  Alan nodded. “That’s right. You remember?”

  “I remember everyone who leaves without paying.”

  “Did I really?” Alan gave her his best innocent look. “I’m very sorry. I’ve been forgetting things lately because of the chemo I’m getting for my cancer treatment.” He pulled out his wallet. “Can we settle up now? And can I get my music back?”

  “Chemo? Oh gee, sorry to hear it. My mother had breast cancer, and she had the same problem with her memory. Just a sec.” She took Alan’s credit card to the register at the end of the bar. Much to his disappointment, she didn’t show any intention of looking for the invitation in a lost and found box.

  The hostess returned to the front of the restaurant and handed Alan his card and the slip. While he calculated a larger than usual tip as an apology for skipping out, she pulled the invitational card from a box inside the lectern. Alan sighed with relief and upped the tip further.

  “You musicians leave music behind during festival season. We’re used to it. Still have some from this summer. Any of it yours?”

  Alan made a show of thinking about it. “I doubt it. Best I can remember, I brought everything home with me this year.”

  He signed the slip and handed it back, then carefully tucked the invitation into the envelope in Tom’s backpack before he put his credit card and the receipt into his wallet. “Of course, with my memory the way it is, who knows what I might have left? You don’t have my grandson in that box, by any chance?”

  The hostess laughed. “’Fraid not. But good luck with your chemo.”

  Alan nodded his thanks, and headed toward the hotel, hoping for a chance to rest a little before talking to the police.

  ***

  Saramae led the way up Ohio, past Main Street, across the railroad tracks, and into Lincolnville. They crossed Jefferson and Pettis, turned right on Cooper, then right again onto Lamine. A short way down the block, Saramae took Tom’s arm and pointed at a small, well-kept house. “There ya go. You just make sure you let me do the talkin’ at first, huh?”