It was a damp summer night, and the rains, at least for the evening, had subsided. And the majority of the girls had taken advantage of the nearly clear night. ‘'A girls’ night on the town,’' they called it, heading for the nearest crap game or pub or poker game or whatever other trouble they could find and merrily get themselves into. Breathless McQueen, however, chose to remain sitting solitaire on the front steps of the Lodging House, smoking calmly, and reviewed her life thus far.
Somewhere a few blocks away, the muted sounds of a solo piano playing a calm rag resonated through the Harlem streets, the syncopated melody breaking the silence of the evening. Breathless smiled. That was the best thing about America. Ragtime.
Mam hated ragtime. Said it was the music of whores. But Mam, Breathless would counter, Can’t whores listen to Bach and Beethoven and all that if they wished? Oh, how angry that would make her! Margaret McQueen, even being compared to whores! And by her beloved Bach and Beethoven, no less.
Breathless never told her mother, but sometimes after work, right before the sun went down, she’d sit outside the brothels and pubs, just to hear that wonderful American thing called ragtime.
She really didn’t know what she loved so much about it. Mr. Joplin had a talent to write so many songs sound all alike. But it was so infectious. It got in you and you started tapping your feet and moving with the music and smiling and laughing… or maybe Breathless liked just loved it because Mam and Pop didn’t.
Breathless sighed, something she had been doing all too much lately. Ireland… she missed it. Another thing she was doing much too often. Missing things. But she did. The land and the people and the hills and the music… and Pop? Mam, no, but Pop? Breathless paused for a moment at the thought, and stubbed out her cigarette. She missed Pop. And Seamus. The girl fought with herself for another good moment, then struck a match and lit another cigarette.
Seamus liked the ragtime. He wouldn’t let on, of course. No, never, not the good son of the prominent Dubliner. But Breathless knew. Seamus’d say, So, Shivs, what kind of trouble you get yourself into taday? with that wily smile in his dark eyes, really asking What kind of music you hear taday? or They learn anything other than ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ yet, Shivs?
Shivs… it’d been a while since she’d heard anyone say that either…
Where you going, Shivs?
Siobhan stared at her half-awake, half-asleep brother through the moonlight that poured in through their window.
…Away, Seamus.
Away where?
Somewhere.
Alright… hurry back.
…Yeah.
“The game’s up, McQueen!”
Breathless had heard the footsteps, but until now had thought nothing of them. To her chagrin. She sprang to her feet, ready to bolt if need be.
A cheaply Irish-accented voice spoke up. “We got’cha, McQueen! No use runnin’!”
And to Breathless’ wonder, the two previously masculine voices diminished into a fit of rather feminine, rather childish giggles. “You shoulda’ seen yer face!” Two girls stepped from the shadows as Breathless sat herself back down, making an effort to regain her composure, and pride. Makin’ a fool o’ yourself on the second day…
More to come... Stay tuned!
