Joplin's Ghost

  The lyrics sounded flimsier than Scott remembered. John Stark might have been right when he said his lyrics needed work, he thought, chagrined.

  But Freddie was captivated.

  “A ragtime opera! How delightful. And you sing so nicely,” Freddie said, when he’d finished. She sat beside him on the piano bench like one of his students and tinkled the keys, sounding out the melody of “Patriotic Patrol” with two fingers. She had a good ear, especially given that she’d only heard it once. “It was never published?”

  “I had a thief in my company. He stole our proceeds, and I soon lost it.”

  “You should write it all again! Especially this song.”

  “I will…one day,” he said, although the idea wearied him. The opera had been such a labor, and by now it was inextricable from its awful web of memories. “Old ground is tiresome. Maybe I’ll write a new one.”

  “You see? If you had a gramophone recording…”

  “Don’t expect to find many operas by Negroes in your catalog.”

  “Not yet, but surely soon. We can’t be kept chained back forever.”

  Kept chained back. Scott almost chuckled at her language. Perhaps she had been reading W. E. B. DuBois and his ilk. Scott had found that Negroes with very fair skin either distanced themselves from other Negroes entirely or were quicker to outrage, as if to compensate for their diluted blood. Anyone unfamiliar with the myriad shades of Negroes easily might mistake Freddie for white. Other women in her position might consider passing, or claim to be Mexican, as was common among octoroons. That would bring her an easier life!

  Freddie laughed suddenly. “Papa will have a fit there’s been so much ragtime in the house. You should hear him fret! A group at our church wants to ban it, and Papa’s so eager to earn their respect, he shouts louder than the rest. But what can he say to Scott Joplin?”

  Scott longed for any topic other than himself. He looked at Freddie beside him, and he saw her with fresh eyes. This young lady was a marvel, not merely a beauty. She played piano and knew opera, yet didn’t disdain ragtime? He felt robbed that he had lived so many days, weeks and years without meeting her, nor even knowing of her existence.

  Scott searched the room for clues about her and noticed the tightly packed bookshelves against the wall on the other side of the room, home to dozens of books with gold-gilded spines.

  “Are those books yours, Miss Alexander?” he said.

  “How did you guess? Oh, I told you how much I love books! I’ve read most of them more than once. I only wish I belonged to a proper book club so I could discuss the stories. Do you like reading, Mr. Joplin?”

  “I haven’t read as much as I should,” he said. “If you like, Miss Alexander, you can suggest a book to me, and I’ll read it to discuss with you on some future date.”

  Boldness! Scott regretted the words as soon as he spoke, but Freddie did not recoil from him. Instead, her face came aglow.

  “That means you would have to come back to see us!” she said, leaping to her feet to hurry across the room. At the bookcase, Freddie pulled books out one by one, flipping through the pages, then changing her mind and pulling out the next. “I suppose you’ve read Dr. Washington’s Up from Slavery. Fiction might be the best treat for you. Do you like tragic romance stories? There’s Wuthering Heights. Or Thomas Hardy, if you have a stomach for misery—but you must be strong, I warn you. Hardy’s characters never end well.”

  “There’s enough tragedy in life,” Scott said. “Choose a happy book where everything works out for the best.”

  “A fairy tale, then,” she said, looking at him askance with a wry smile.

  He clucked his tongue. “Like I told a friend of mine, you’re too young to be a cynic.”

  “I don’t believe it’s possible to be too young,” she said, tossing her head in a defiant manner that made him think she must argue with her parents almost constantly. Freddie let out an excited gasp, pulling a thin volume from the shelf. “This is the one! Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I’ve read it a dozen times, and it’s perfect for you. In fact, you can keep it.”

  “I couldn’t do that. It’s poor manners not to return a book.”

  “But worse manners to refuse a gift,” she said, bringing the book to him. True to Freddie’s claim, the Lewis A. Carroll book was scarred as if it had lived both indoors and outdoors over the years. Its pages were dog-eared, many of them folded at the corners. Scott flipped through, noticing a series of odd, clever illustrations. This was a children’s book, obviously. He smiled, amused. Was Freddie more a woman or a child?

  “I hope you don’t mind reading a book about a girl,” Freddie said.

  “Why should I?”

  “Some men would find it silly.”

  Scott tucked the book snugly beneath his armpit. “I don’t mind being silly in private.”

  “I think you’re humoring me,” she said, her face pensive, suddenly. When she scowled, her unhappy eyebrows added years to her features, a chronicle of disappointments. “Are you?”

  “I couldn’t. Not when you’re parting with such a dear possession. You have my word.”

  That put her at ease. Freddie’s expression softened again, a sun’s ray across her eyes.

  “Your father is eager to marry you off,” Scott said, shocked at his insubordinate tongue. Freddie, apparently, had instilled a fearlessness in him.

  “I’m sure he’s already asked if you have marriageable sons,” Freddie said, taking the seat beside him on the piano bench again. She sat with such haste, her flared skirt nearly brushed against him, and he smelled the sweet dampness on her skin, from her neck. Scott glanced in the direction of the kitchen, wondering what her mother would think of their familiarity if she spied them—or worse, her father. “You can set your pocket watch by my dear papa. What was your answer? Am I soon to be a Joplin?”

  Her words froze him, before he remembered her meaning. “I don’t have any children.”

  She smiled, shrugging. “It’s just as well. It would cause a scandal.”

  Scott’s soaring heart tumbled. Did the shame of ragtime reach so deeply that she would hesitate even to marry into his family? “It grieves me if you believe that.”

  “It would be a terrible scandal, wouldn’t it? That I should marry the son and have eyes only for the father?” As Freddie spoke those words, she dipped her chin and magnified her gaze in such a way that Scott rose to his feet, alarmed by their proximity.

  “You flatter me, miss,” was all he could say. His collar felt too tight against his throat.

  Freddie moved to her father’s parlor chair, folding her hands delicately across her lap in an imitation of her father’s sober pose. “Mr. Joplin, from this moment on, I consider us engaged. We’ll appoint a guarantor and make it official. Finally, Papa’s search for my husband is finished.”

  She had no idea of the power of her beauty, he was certain, to make such sport with him. Again, Scott glanced behind him to make sure her mother had not overheard such careless words, which could be easily misconstrued, as if he had toyed with this girl. Mrs. Alexander was not in sight. “You…embarrass me with your jest, Miss Alexander.”

  “I’m nineteen, I know my mind, and I think convention is idiotic. Why should the man always woo and propose?” She clasped her hands beneath her chin, preparing for an ardent recitation: “‘Then Love the Master-Player came / With heaving breast and eyes aflame; / The harp he took all undismayed, / Smote on its strings, still strange to song, / And brought forth music sweet and strong.’”

  Scott felt stunned. “You’re a poet, too?” he said, nearly breathless. All she lacked were the wings, and she could be a genuine seraph.

  “Do you like my poem?” She grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “No, it’s Paul Laurence Dunbar—a Negro, you know. He’s my favorite poet. I think that love poem is about you, Mr. Joplin. Love, the Master-Player.”

  She was cruel, to use the word love so casually. And her boldness! Freddie’s f
ine rearing was obvious, yet she enjoyed a freedom from custom he’d usually only seen of women in brothels without ties or prospects. Girls like Freddie were a new breed, he thought, like the finely dressed women he’d seen smoking cigarettes on public streets without a care. The heavier-than-air flying machine wasn’t the only enthralling innovation of this new century, the twentieth.

  “Any love poem about me would be a great surprise,” Scott said, too low to be heard.

  Freddie ignored his mumbling. “How old are you, my future husband?”

  “I’ll join your joke to be a good sport, miss,” he said. “I’m nearly thirty-six.”

  Her smile faded, and she tapped her chin with mock seriousness. “Oh, no. That won’t do. Papa is thirty-nine, so you see the problem. We’ll have to agree on a fib. You can’t be thirty, so we’ll say you’re twenty-seven. That’s only eight years older. Or should we say twenty-five?”

  “To be credible, say forty,” Scott said.

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “Hardly! You must see yourself with very queer eyes, Mr. Joplin. Or is it really so awful to think of marrying me?” Her voice, for the first time, made him wonder if he’d misjudged her intent. She sounded hurt.

  “My eyes…” he began, but couldn’t finish the sentence. Louis wove magic with his words to young women, wooing two and three at a time, but Scott lacked his friend’s verbal dexterity. How could he tell her what was in his heart without sounding mad? I know I’ve only met you, Miss Alexander, but you are the woman I was dreaming about even when I didn’t know I was dreaming. My very soul knows you on sight. You are now, always have been, and ever shall be, my intended wife.

  “What’s your favorite flower, Miss Alexander?” Scott said instead.

  “What a very hard question. There are so many! I’m very eager for spring. Let me think…” she said, excited to have a challenge. Her talk of engagement seemed to leave her mind the way an infant forgot tears, proving to him that it had, indeed, been a game. Why had he allowed her fanciful talk to speed his heart? “I would choose roses for their heavenly scent…sunflowers for their audacity…orchids for their preciousness. But you know, of all of them, I think I like the fall chrysanthemums best, because they’re beautiful and hardy. And they have a bold scent, sweet to some, offensive to others. Do you like them, too?”

  Scott dampened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. He slid his hands into his pockets so she would not see how her company made his fingers tremble like a smitten boy’s. “I like chrysanthemums very much,” he said. “My eyes are gazing on a beautiful one now.”

  Even Louis, he thought, could not have chosen his words better. He would always have the memory of this creature’s bewildered, flaming face in the wake of his compliment. From the look of her, he might have been the first man to tell Freddie Alexander she was beautiful!

  Tonight, she had heard it in words.

  Soon, she would hear it in song.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sarge’s knock on her door came as usual. Phoenix had asked him not to come today, but she’d still been expecting him. “What’s going on? You OK?” Sarge said, peering over Phoenix’s shoulder, inside her apartment. The midmorning sun behind him blazed into her eyes. “I thought I heard voices.”

  Phoenix shrugged, trying to erase anxiousness from her face. “I’m just trying to get some rest, Daddy. I’ll be fine.”

  Carlos and the two strangers had been good enough to duck into the bedroom to hide, but Phoenix knew there were enough telltale signs of company to stir Sarge’s interest if he took a better look. The video camera mounted on a tripod in a corner, for one thing. At least Phoenix had remembered to throw her covers on top of the futon to make it look like she’d been sick in bed, the excuse she’d given Sarge when he called her that morning.

  Sarge gave her a bag of food from El Pollo Loco, an early lunch. The scent of Mexican grilled chicken reminded Phoenix that she hadn’t eaten yet. “I’ve rescheduled a couple interviews, but you don’t want to come to the dance audition for a while? You should try to show while Ronn is there. He’s trying to bring the buzz for you.”

  That would have seemed very important yesterday morning, but Phoenix’s perspective had changed overnight. “I’m sorry. I really need to take the day off.”

  Sarge felt her forehead; his broad palm still felt large enough to cover her face, as it had when she was a girl. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you and Ronn, does it? You’ll have to get over that, Phee. This is business.”

  “Sarge, you know me better than that. I just don’t feel right.”

  Again, Sarge peeked behind her, and she saw his eyes wander past her kitchen toward the bedroom and its closed door. He didn’t quite believe her, but he didn’t push it. As her manager, it was his job to get her there no matter what; as her father, his job was different. “OK, Peanut, you better take care of yourself,” he said. Suddenly, Sarge grinned, and his worry lines dissolved. “I wanted to wait until it was a hundred percent, but I think we’ve got you booked to do one song on Live at Night. If that pans out, it’ll happen next week, maybe Tuesday. So you rest up.”

  Live at Night was a late-night cable talk show hosted by comedian Alex Campton, whom Phoenix thought of as a cross between Chris Rock and Martin Lawrence, at turns both razor-smart and silly as hell. Campton had co-starred in Paid in Full as the comic relief to Ronn’s hard-ass. He was a funny guy. His show wasn’t MTV’s TRL, but it was her best venue yet.

  “That’s great,” Phoenix said, but she and Sarge both knew that on any other day, she would be shrieking.

  “Phoenix, you must be sick, if that’s all you’ve got to say. Two million people might see that show, or more. Do I need to take you to the emergency room?”

  “I’ll be screaming tomorrow, Sarge, for real.” Phoenix held him tightly, resting her head on Sarge’s shoulder. She hated lying to him, but the truth brought too many complications.

  Once Sarge was gone, Phoenix went to the bedroom and waved her visitors out, apologizing for the interruption. “He wouldn’t understand,” she explained.

  “Many people don’t,” the psychic said.

  Heather Larrabee didn’t look the way Phoenix had expected a psychic to look. She wasn’t the diminutive near dwarf of Poltergeist or the eccentric in Ghost. She was probably Carlos’s age, in her mid- to late-thirties, a businesslike woman with an athletic build, sun-browned skin and hair that was more strawberry blond than golden like Gloria’s, tied in a youthful ponytail. Her nose was long and aquiline, like Phoenix’s mother’s. Instead of a flowing dress and exotic jewelry, she wore black capri slacks and a sleeveless lilac turtleneck. In her “real life,” she’d told Phoenix when she first arrived, she worked as an insurance claims adjuster. (Talking to the dead is a big advantage in my line of work, she’d said with a straight face.)

  Her assistant, Finn, looked like the wannabe actor he was: strong-featured good looks, a flawless complexion, dark hair subdued by generous hair gel. He was wearing tattered denim shorts and a black Matrix Revolutions T-shirt. He looked like any one of thousands of guys in L.A.—except that Finn was a ghost-hunter. He’d come with two suitcases full of equipment.

  “It’s awesome you’re working with your dad,” Finn said, loading a tape into the camera, a plastic wrapper bobbing in his mouth while he spoke. “If my dad was my manager, that would last, like, sixty seconds. What’s your secret?”

  “Respect, I guess,” she said. She’d answered that question a hundred times.

  Heather smiled at her, squeezing her hand. “It’ll be a wonderful memory.”

  “I hear you hang with G-Ronn,” Finn said. “What’s he like? Is he a real gangbanger?”

  “He’s rich,” Phoenix said curtly, and shot a look toward Carlos. Check your friend, man. She hadn’t invited this guy here to discuss Ronn. Carlos, leaning against the bedroom door frame, curled his lips ruefully, a silent apology.

  This psychic thing wasn’t going to work. This was the wrong way. In d
aylight, Phoenix’s apartment looked painfully mundane; her only reminders of last night’s adventure were the take-out carton on the counter and the sheet music to “Bethena” she’d printed out, which Heather now had in her hand. Finn’s video camera was aimed toward her kitchen, but the refrigerator door wasn’t going to do any theatrics again. Not today. The man at the Joplin House, Mr. Milton, had said the ghost only came out when it was quiet.

  Heather clapped her hands together, a coach motivating her team. “Let’s pick up where we left off,” Heather said, taking a seat on the futon. “Can you come sit next to me, Phoenix?”

  Phoenix sat, despite her skepticism. Carlos had told her he’d known Heather for six years, as long as he’d been in L.A., and he believed she had a true psychic calling. Either that, or she’s found a true cash flow telling people what they want to hear, Phoenix thought.

  “What Finn and I do is a hobby,” Heather said, as if she were a mind reader. “I don’t charge for my services because I’ve always been a little superstitious that I might lose my gifts if I did that. Carlos told me you experienced some extraordinary phenomena here last night, and we wanted to move quickly. We’ve never seen anything like what happened to you, so I’m going to admit we’re a little envious. We’ve been doing this a long time.”

  “Friggin’ right,” Finn said, satisfied his camera was ready. His legs folded beneath him until he sat cross-legged on the floor, rifling through his suitcase.

  “What have you seen?” Phoenix said.

  “We saw a child’s face in an attic window in a haunted bed and breakfast in Santa Barbara, and captured it on film,” Heather said. “That was a good day.”