corners long gone. The barber moved his glasses into reading position. “Certificate of Birth,” he mumbled. “State of Missoura. Louise Bess Joplin. Mother, Belle Jones. Father, Scott Joplin. Date of Birth, December 14, 1902. Hmmm.” He refolded the paper, passed it to Bess; she slid it back into her pocketbook. “How come you never wrote anything about your father, or talked to people about him?”
“What could I say about a father I never knew? And why should I tarnish the reputations of the good man and woman who brought me up. Besides, the person who helped my mother and father get me adopted is still alive. She could go to jail.”
Brun coughed. “You make a fair point. But I still don’t even start to know how I’m ever gonna find five thousand dollars.”
“I’ve got to leave that to you,” said Bess. “But I do hope you can. We’ve got somewhere between one and two weeks.” She pulled out a little pad and a pen from her pocketbook, scribbled on a page, then tore it out. “Here.” She pressed the paper into Brun’s hand. “My phone number. Well, actually, it’s the drug store downstairs. I can’t afford a phone, but they’ll take a message for me. Why don’t you give me your number?”
“Can’t give you something I ain’t got,” said Brun. “I’ll have to call you when I have something to say.”
Bess smiled. “I’m so pleased to meet you, after all I’ve read about you. I do hope you’ll be able to publish my father’s journals.”
Brun sighed. “Can’t do more than try.”
***
Midway through dinner that evening, Brun worked up his nerve, then cleared his throat. May set down her fork and knife. When her husband broke a silence by hawking, he usually had something to say that he knew she wouldn’t appreciate. “Something funny happened at the shop today,” the barber said.
“Oh, really?” May tried to keep her voice level.
“Yes indeed. I had me an interesting visitor. The colored lady who came by here, looking for me.”
While he told the story of Bess and her proposition, May drummed a finger on the table top. Then she said, “Well, I guess that is pretty funny, isn’t it? Asking you for five thousand dollars? She might as well ask for the moon.”
And for what she’s got, I’d
give
her the moon, Brun thought. “May, listen. This ain’t no lark. A whole journal written in Scott Joplin’s own hand? I been thinking, it’s nice they’re going to put a plaque in the high school for him, but that ain’t near good enough. If I had that journal, I bet when I could go out there for the ceremony, I could talk to the mayor and some of the big businessmen—”
“Brun Campbell, what ever are you saying? If I thought you were serious, I’d be calling Dr. Gervais.”
Brun reached to his pocket, then stopped. No point even showing her the page copied from the journal. “Come on, now, May,” a plea. “You got it all wrong. I just want to get Mr. Joplin the reputation he deserves to have. This Rudi Blesh is a johnny-come-lately, but now, all of a sudden he’s the world’s biggest expert on ragtime. He’d take Mr. Joplin’s journal and mess it all up with his big-shot ‘commentary.’”
“Oh, Brun, you try my patience! Playing that awful music in bars at night, writing articles for silly little newsletters, planning schemes, every one of them more foolish than the last. Scott Joplin, Scott Joplin, Scott Joplin. And what’s ever come of it? Only that you’ve got people convinced you’re soft in the head. How do you even know this Bess woman really is who she said she was?”
“She showed me her birth certificate. ‘Louise Bess Joplin’.”
“People can get phony birth certificates these days.”
“Well, it sure looked real to me. Old. And it had Scott Joplin down as father, and Belle Jones, that was his wife’s name before she married him, as mother.”
May sighed extravagantly. “Brun, I’ve given up trying to make you see the light and use
“What could I say about a father I never knew? And why should I tarnish the reputations of the good man and woman who brought me up. Besides, the person who helped my mother and father get me adopted is still alive. She could go to jail.”
Brun coughed. “You make a fair point. But I still don’t even start to know how I’m ever gonna find five thousand dollars.”
“I’ve got to leave that to you,” said Bess. “But I do hope you can. We’ve got somewhere between one and two weeks.” She pulled out a little pad and a pen from her pocketbook, scribbled on a page, then tore it out. “Here.” She pressed the paper into Brun’s hand. “My phone number. Well, actually, it’s the drug store downstairs. I can’t afford a phone, but they’ll take a message for me. Why don’t you give me your number?”
“Can’t give you something I ain’t got,” said Brun. “I’ll have to call you when I have something to say.”
Bess smiled. “I’m so pleased to meet you, after all I’ve read about you. I do hope you’ll be able to publish my father’s journals.”
Brun sighed. “Can’t do more than try.”
***
Midway through dinner that evening, Brun worked up his nerve, then cleared his throat. May set down her fork and knife. When her husband broke a silence by hawking, he usually had something to say that he knew she wouldn’t appreciate. “Something funny happened at the shop today,” the barber said.
“Oh, really?” May tried to keep her voice level.
“Yes indeed. I had me an interesting visitor. The colored lady who came by here, looking for me.”
While he told the story of Bess and her proposition, May drummed a finger on the table top. Then she said, “Well, I guess that is pretty funny, isn’t it? Asking you for five thousand dollars? She might as well ask for the moon.”
And for what she’s got, I’d
give
her the moon, Brun thought. “May, listen. This ain’t no lark. A whole journal written in Scott Joplin’s own hand? I been thinking, it’s nice they’re going to put a plaque in the high school for him, but that ain’t near good enough. If I had that journal, I bet when I could go out there for the ceremony, I could talk to the mayor and some of the big businessmen—”
“Brun Campbell, what ever are you saying? If I thought you were serious, I’d be calling Dr. Gervais.”
Brun reached to his pocket, then stopped. No point even showing her the page copied from the journal. “Come on, now, May,” a plea. “You got it all wrong. I just want to get Mr. Joplin the reputation he deserves to have. This Rudi Blesh is a johnny-come-lately, but now, all of a sudden he’s the world’s biggest expert on ragtime. He’d take Mr. Joplin’s journal and mess it all up with his big-shot ‘commentary.’”
“Oh, Brun, you try my patience! Playing that awful music in bars at night, writing articles for silly little newsletters, planning schemes, every one of them more foolish than the last. Scott Joplin, Scott Joplin, Scott Joplin. And what’s ever come of it? Only that you’ve got people convinced you’re soft in the head. How do you even know this Bess woman really is who she said she was?”
“She showed me her birth certificate. ‘Louise Bess Joplin’.”
“People can get phony birth certificates these days.”
“Well, it sure looked real to me. Old. And it had Scott Joplin down as father, and Belle Jones, that was his wife’s name before she married him, as mother.”
May sighed extravagantly. “Brun, I’ve given up trying to make you see the light and use
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