Author's Note

The song above is Maple Leaf Rag written in 1899 by ragtime great, Scott Joplin.

There were three things Henry thought he'd never see in his lifetime: a World War involving thirty-two countries, men flying in winged contraptions called "airplanes," and a colored female mechanic.

And yet there she was standing in front of him. Dark brown curls escaping from the front of the faded baseball cap. Her youthful face was a tom-boy combination of natural beauty, rugged cheeks matted with grease, and a firm chin smudged with dirt. She wore a gray work outfit frayed at the edges. Above her left breast pocket, Henry eyed a once-white plastic name tag bearing the letters SARAH embossed in black letters.

Sarah quirked an eyebrow. "Sir?" Her eyes fixed on Big Willy but not before glancing at the entrance, as if to see if any other tall black giants might come strolling into the lot. When she noticed Henry, her expression turned serious. "What happened to you?" She maintained her distance.

"It's okay," Henry said. "We're baseball players. This here is Willy."

"Howdy ma'am," Big Willy said.

Sarah nodded, her lips forming a quaint smile.

"My name's Henry. We were playing a white team until I took a ball to the head. Then things got out of control real fast and we ended up here."

Sarah gazed at Henry for a long moment, her cinnamon-brown eyes a pair of question marks. Finally she said, "Well, if you follow me, I'll see that you get patched up."

"Thank you, ma'am," Henry said. "I appreciate that."

"And Henry?" Sarah said, her voice dead flat, and Henry's brows perked up. "Stop calling me, ma'am. The name is Sarah. Sarah Stewart."

Henry nodded, his lips pressed flat. They followed Sarah to the pear-colored house, then up three steps onto the porch. There were two chairs cut from cedar stained a rustic brown. In front of the chairs rested a crate upside-down.

Henry listened for barking but only heard the passing whisper of a light breeze. The police had probably stopped at the border, satisfied they had chased the colored folk back to the black district, and turned back. Henry was surprised by this because he thought for sure they would cross over to track him down. Maybe they were waiting. Judging from the sunbeams angling through nearby tree branches, Henry figured it was around four-thirty. It would be sunset in another couple hours and it would be safe to leave then.

"You'd better sit down," Sarah said, and Henry settled into a chair. "I'll be right back with a medicine box and my needle and thread."

Henry shot her a concerned look. Sarah snickered before entering the house, the screen door banging shut behind her. Henry smiled, shaking his head.

After waiting a few minutes, Willy said, "Henry, you hear that?"

Henry listened. Music?

Willy pointed at the screen door. "It's coming from inside."

Henry imagined a big black circular record spinning on a phonograph machine, a metal arm with a needle point touching that record, and a crank on the side of the phonograph being turned by a hand that belonged to someone. But who? Her husband?

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Henry said.

"What wasn't such a good idea?" Sarah asked, pushing the door open. In one hand, she held a plain wooden box pressed against her hip. In the other hand, she carried a small tin pail of water. A couple of white rags were slung over her right shoulder.

Henry replied, "We just heard music coming from the house." The song must have ended because it was playing again from the beginning.

Sarah's lips pursed. "That's my uncle. He plays that song every day." She set the box on the crate and the pail beside it.

Realization set in Henry's eyes. "Maple Leaf. Scott Joplin." He nodded in approval.

"It's a great song," Sarah said, her eyes shot up, "until you've heard it ten thousand times."

Sarah sat in the other chair and scooted closer. "Now hold still." She carefully placed her hands on Henry's head and he flinched at her touch. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you," she said. "Unless you give me reason to."

Henry felt one corner of his mouth turn up in a half-nervous smile.

Sarah tilted Henry's head. "Oh dear, that ball smacked you just right."

Willy stepped closer and leaned over, scrutinizing. Then his face screwed up. "That looks mighty bad."

"I'll clean it up so we can get a better look." She removed one of the rags from her shoulder, dipped it in the pail of water, and proceeded to wipe away the blood.

As she dabbed the wound, Henry flinched again. This time from pain. He grabbed onto the sides of the hardwood seat.

"Sorry," she said.

"How's it look?" Henry asked.

"You'll live," she said. "Looks like the ball caught the side of your head. Gave you a nasty two inch gash and a walnut-sized knot."

"Is that all?" Henry said with a grin.

Sarah sighed, her expression serious. "You might have a concussion too."

Henry didn't say a word. He only noticed now his head was still pounding. Strange how he had forgotten about it until this moment. Hopefully it was just a headache. He glanced up at Willy and his friend's eyes looked low and sad.

Sarah tossed the blood-blotched rag onto the porch. Then she rinsed her hands in the pail and wiped them on the sides of her uniform pants.

Henry studied Sarah. She had an athletic five-foot-eight frame, and he wondered what other surprises this colored female mechanic might have up her long tattered sleeves. She removed the lid from the medicine box. It was filled with an assortment of medical items, including rolls of gauze, tan tape, scissors, assorted bottles of pills and liquids, and a cluster of cotton balls.

Sarah swabbed the wound with a cotton ball soaked brown with iodine. Henry gritted his teeth and that made Willy cringe. She cut a square piece of gauze and attached it over the wound with three strips of tape. Then she offered Henry aspirin to relieve the pain and a small white bottle of laudanum for later.

"No thank you," Henry said. "I'll be fine without those. I –"

Before he could continue, the door yawned open and a man stepped onto the porch, his shoulders squared as if ready to pick a fight. His face was a weathered map, wizened and jaded, but with a hint of worldliness written in his features. The old man eased the door shut. His brows furrowed in anger.

Finally he said in a voice deep and harsh, "What the hell is going on here?"

Author's Note:

Thanks for all your votes and kind feedback! Your support has been overwhelming and so very much appreciated. If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider leaving a vote or a comment. I add a new chapter, sometimes two, every Sunday. I live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania so that's EST.

This week I wrote this chapter and the next one together so be sure to check them both out.The two chapters go hand-in-hand so it made sense to release them together. The next chapter represents a nice breaking point in the story, and soon Henry will be faced with a very difficult fork in the road.

Here's a picture of Sarah when she's not in her mechanic's uniform: