Out of the Blues (24 page)

Y
ou look good,” Salt said when Pearl got in the passenger seat. Pearl had shed some layers.

“You look good.”

“I smell better, too. Don't have to try to cover up my stink. I got a shower at the Gateway.” The scent cloud that usually followed her had been reduced to a slight mist, a welcome change especially in the close confines of the Taurus. They were meeting Leeksha Johnson at the Martin Luther King Jr. Center. The HOPE Team had found a placement in a group home near there where Pearl could live and receive treatment. Pearl was jittery, turning her head looking at things they drove past, then jerking her head to catch something else, as if she might miss something important.

The morning was fresh from the night before's deluge. Pearl held Salt's hand as they walked from the parking lot past the statue of Gandhi and a civil rights mural in primary colors. Spring field trips for schoolkids had begun and there were lines of kids, some holding
ropes to keep them in together, some in uniforms. One elementary class wearing khaki pants and skirts and yellow and blue uniform shirts, quiet, eyes wide open and curious, held hands while they waited to go in the King Center. Abruptly, Pearl dropped Salt's hand and darted in through the entranceway past the groups of children, their chaperones lecturing them on respect and silence.

Pearl grabbed Salt's arm, pulling her through one of the travel-back-in-time exhibits of iconic people and places of the struggle—Selma, Birmingham, Washington, D.C., Atlanta, and Memphis. The life-sized figures had been depicted mid-stride on an uphill path through which visitors were encouraged to walk—alongside Rosa Parks, John Lewis, Medgar Evers, Dr. King, and others on the road to justice.

At the south end of the room where, in the far corner, behind velvet ropes, was the antique wagon that had been pulled by two mules carrying Dr. King's coffin through the streets of Atlanta. Its green-gray weathered boards were loosely fastened with thin, vertical wood strips halfway down the sides of the wagon bed. Three-foot-high wheels were connected by heavy axles underneath. The end of the wagon was open, a spray of white roses where Dr. King's coffin had lain on the bed of the simple farm wagon. Salt could almost smell the soapy-hide sweat off the mules, hear the jangle of the harnesses and the sound of Dr. King's coffin as it slid into the wagon amid silent mourners. Pearl touched her arm. “See?”

Throughout the exhibition, overhead speakers projected Dr. King's voice, recordings of the most famous passages from his sermons and speeches. “Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see.” Pearl pointed up at the ceiling, cupping her hand to one ear below her Braves cap.

Pearl put her hands out, hovering them along the sides of the
caisson. She lifted her eyes toward the ceiling and started to hum, then quietly sang,

I went to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.

I went to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.

Teachers touched their students' shoulders, the children in their lines turned toward Pearl. Other visitors stopped where they were and turned.

Standin' at the crossroad, risin' sun goin' down.

Pearl lowered her head, silence all around. Dr. King's voice came from overhead. “Discrimination is a hellhound that . . .”

“Pearl.” Salt leaned down and whispered. “Pearl, our meeting, across the street.”

Pearl scooped up the hem of her skirt and stood, straightening the Christmas vest she wore over a sweater and blouse.

“That was beautiful,” Salt said.

“Your voice sounds funny,” Pearl said, and took Salt's hand again as they walked out to the sidewalk to cross Auburn.

Pearl glanced at the eternal flame and the crypts of Martin and Coretta, surrounded by a reflecting pool, but didn't stop until they entered the museum, climbed the stairs, and turned left into one of the rooms filled with tall, lighted, glass-enclosed cabinets. Behind the glass, on shelves or attached to the sides and top, were items that had belonged to Dr. King: awards, mementos, photographs, honorary degrees. Pearl stopped at one and stood looking at it.

Inside the cabinet was a small pasteboard overnight suitcase that a placard identified as the one Dr. King carried on all his trips, the bag
he had taken to Memphis. It was open and packed, as if waiting for him to close the cover—a pair of light blue pajamas with dark blue piping, a white dress shirt, an alarm clock, a shaving kit, and a Bible.

Salt quickly turned around, went out to the hall, and found the nearby restroom.

“You the police.” Pearl peered up at her from under the stall door.

Salt laughed and tried to blow into the balled-up tissues in her fist. “Damn, Pearl! Come on, let me open the door. The boys won't let me stay in the club if I cry.”

“I won't tell,” Pearl said, waiting while Salt washed the pieces of tissue off at the sink. “The wagon and his suitcase always get me, too. But I have to see them.”

“There you are.” Leeksha came around the corner from the restroom door. “I thought I saw you. I'm Leeksha Johnson with the HOPE Team. You must be Pearl. Salt told me you sing.”

“Sometimes,” said Pearl. “Sometimes.”

—

O
N
HER
WAY
HOME
, on the last stretch of highway, the trees grew closer to the ditches and the texture of the road changed, creating a whine-and-thump rhythm as the wheels met each patched concrete section,
ka plump
,
ka plump
,
ka plump
. The beat slowed as she got near her drive. Like a scene in a child's picture book, across the front acre, light from behind the white curtain of the front room glowed and light from a high half-moon sparked off the nicks of mica in the gravel of the long drive. Salt parked in the usual place under the trees in back beside the paddock fence. As soon as she got out of the car, she heard him and looked up. Wonder's bright beady eyes glowed down on her, his tail thumping as loud as a drum as it hit on either side of the gable where he straddled the peak over the second-floor sleeping porch.

“Stay,” Salt ordered, giving him the hand signal as she hurried to the porch, fumbling the key in the kitchen door lock, at the same time registering a new pile of branches beside the porch steps. Inside the door she dropped her bag, grabbed Wonder's leash from the hook beside the door, made it through the hall in yard-long strides, and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. She had no idea how Wonder had gotten up on the roof. It wasn't his first time. He seemed to be forever discovering things about the old house—crawl spaces, hollow walls—that she'd never known about. Her only immediate access to the gable was through the attic. Little bits of gray insulation spilled down when she tugged at a cord for the pull-down door on the upstairs hall ceiling and unfolded the ladder. Salt climbed the ladder stairs into the still-warm attic, getting sweatier at every rung. She tugged the string pull for the overhead light. Balancing on the beams, she crossed the unfinished space, made her way to the latticed dormer, and carefully unlatched and pushed on the hinged shutter. Wonder looked back over his shoulder up at her and gave one of his quick barks that meant “Let's play!”

“No, sir,” she admonished him. “Stay.” She stepped out and put the leash over his head. With the leash wrapped around her wrist she pulled the dog by his haunches and lifted him up through the dormer to the safety of the attic and hoisted herself back inside. “How in the world do you do that?” she said to the dog as she scooped him up under his front and back legs and carried him over the beams, an awkward load but mostly because of his gangly physique rather than his weight. He knew to be compliant when she held him totally off his feet.

The open-space attic began under the eaves, angling in over most of the third level. There was only one bare, hanging bulb for the entire floor, and its dim light allowed only partial visibility of a portion of the south side of the space. Salt sat with Wonder on her lap at
the top of the ladder. He was docile and easy to hold until he tried to lift his hind leg to get at a flea. It had been a while since Salt had been up there—the last time the dog had gone up to the roof. It was empty except for a few boxes pushed back to the dark corners that contained old books and family ledgers, things she'd been meaning to sort. There were also some battered trunks that she remembered as being empty and a rolling hanger rack with old formal clothes that were misshapen, faded, and drab.

Salt turned to face the ladder. With Wonder between herself and the rungs, she brought him down step by step. When they got to the bottom and she put him down, he looked back up as if to say “What next? Up?”

“No.” She held up one finger to him, then lifted the ladder back to the ceiling, the door folding as the ladder retracted. Amid a scattering of insulation that lay on the floral hall rug was a small jagged piece of lead, a spent armor-piercing slug. She picked up the deadly, heavy-lead mushroom that still gave off heat from the attic, held it in the soft center of her palm, then pocketed it. She let Wonder off the leash and they went downstairs.

After changing into jeans and work boots, Salt went out to tend the sheep with the miscreant dog. After they had corralled the flock, fed and watered them, she and Wonder went to the pile of branches, black walnut, new leaves beginning to fold inward from having been cut. They had to be another gift from Mr. Gooden. She'd briefly mentioned to him that Wonder had brought a few fleas into the house, and he'd recommended the walnut branches as a natural insecticide. Wonder “helped” her by tugging at the ends of the branches as she stood them in the corners of all the downstairs rooms. She got four more for upstairs, their slightly lemony smell beginning to override the cedar that gave most of the house its characteristic scent.

The dojo was the last room to get the walnut treatment. Leaving her shoes at the entrance, she arranged some small branches in a woven-grass basket and placed it beside the altar. She lit the candle and put the spent slug she'd found between the candle and the picture of her father.

Outside, the wind picked up, limbs and branches scratching against the sides of the house. Pepper and Ann were on her mind—Pearl, Dr. King's packed bag, the caisson, Wonder on the roof, sheep chores. Salt transitioned from seiza to child's pose, touching her forehead to the mat, arms lengthened toward the altar. Maybe Wonder, who lay in the doorway behind her, was scratching himself again, or sometimes the house trembled in a strong wind. She was too tired.

“That's armor-piercing,” said her father, who sat beside her wearing a black gi.

She sat up. “I know, Pops.”

“I didn't have the blues, Sarah. The blues had me rather than me having The Blues. Ain't nothing but a hound dog.”

“Wonder?” she asked.

“The hound, you and the hound. The hound and the hounded. You're hounding and hounded.” The black gi grew fur. His voice grew growly. “Voodoo, woo oo. Woo oo. Woo oo. From The Bluesman.” Her father took a knife and cut off his pointer finger, placed it on the altar as it turned to gold.

—

I
T
WAS
somewhat disconcerting to keep waking in various locations in the house, almost like she was trying on each of the rooms. But she never seemed any worse or better for having slept in places other than her bed. Actually, waking on the dojo mat felt fine, allowing her to move through various stretches and poses to begin the day.

Somewhere downstairs her mobile phone began ringing. She went down, found Wonder lazing against the bottom step, and called Wills back while she dripped a cup of coffee.

“Huff wants you to call him. Get a good night's sleep?” Wills sounded like he was moving around, walking.

“Where are you? I'm just getting going—had a strange dream.” She rubbed at her forehead where it had been touching the mat and tried to pull back the pieces of the dream.

“Salt?”

“I can't remember much of it.”

“Oh no. Not dreams. Please. Nooooo, noooo.” He made ghost-like sounds.

“Funny, Wills, very funny. So what? I do it like I do.” She sniffed the lemony air. Down the hall toward the front rooms Wonder's nails clicked on the hardwood floors along with a rattling sound. “This dog is driving me nuts,” she said to Wills. “I came home last night and found him on the gable above the back porch.”

“What?”

“He's done it a couple of times, and I have no idea how he gets there or why he does it.” She looked out back and saw Wonder at his usual spot at the paddock fence and remembered she'd already let him out—the sounds weren't coming from him. “I've got to go, Wills. I'll call you back.” She punched the off key and quietly put the phone on the kitchen counter. Still barefoot, she turned toward the hall, listening hard. Now it sounded like a marble rolling on the floor. The sun shone in a gleam down the hall from the transom above the front door. Except for a dust ball or two there was nothing in the hallway. Past the dining room and bedroom Salt went, not quite in tactical mode, but cautious. It was too strange to go all stealth due to the sound of rolling marbles. The old house was like most old places, floors sometimes uneven from one side to the other and from room to
room. Salt listened, standing in the hall between the library and living room. As she shifted her weight on one of the wide floor planks, a black walnut that she presumed had loosened from a branch rolled from the living room at the bottom of the stairs across the hall into the library, stopping at the edge of the woven rug. “Ah-ha.” She bent down, picked it up, then saw that the shell was polished, not newly shed of its green husk. “What in the world?” She rolled the nut in her palm.

“Ghosts on the move. I'm remembering more, Pops.” The books, the case of blues tapes, the carpet, the drapes, one light, and the ledger. She turned it to the year of her father's death. Beginning in January he'd listed one or two books a week. By May he'd begun to list the books on mental illnesses, depression, along with classics and the Bible. By June it was only “THE BIBLE,” in tall, hard lettering. Until recently Salt hadn't looked at the ledger in years. Now she picked up the eleven-by-seventeen gray-covered accounting book and shook it. Nothing. She put it back on the shelf, letting it fall open, and began thumbing through the decades. He'd been an omnivorous reader: contemporary fiction, history, philosophy, Georgia politics, photography books of Atlanta, anything on blues music, jazz, and gospel, psychology, and one on raising a “well-adjusted child.”