Searching for Caleb (33 page)

   "Blues," said the singer.

   "Blues, then."

   '"Now I don't know a thing more than what I told you," said the singer.

   But he hunkered down, anyway, getting closer to Eli's level. "This fellow was away back, long before my time. He was lead man for White-Eye, old colored guitar man that used to play the streets. Now White-Eye was blind and the fiddler would lead him around. But whenever he fiddled, looked like the music just got into him somewhat and he would commence to dancing. Old White-Eye would hear the notes hopping to one side and then to the other and sometimes roaming off entirely if the music was fast and the fiddler dancing fast to match. So White-Eye hitched his self to the fiddler's belt by means of a string, which is how we come by the Stringtail Man. Anybody roundabouts can tell you that much."

   "I see," said Eli.

   "How come you to ask?"

   "Well, there used to be this tavern in Baltimore, Maryland, called Whisky Alley," Eli said. "Close by the waterfront."

   "So?"

   "You don't recollect where this Stringtail fellow was from, by any chance."

   "Naw."

   "Well, how about White-Eye?"

   "Him neither."

   "No, his name. Didn't he have a name?"

   "White-Eye. White-Eye. White-Eye-Ramford!" said the singer, snapping his fingers. "Didn't know I could do it."

   "I'm very much obliged," Eli said. He dug down in his trousers pocket.

   "Can I buy you a Dr. Pepper?"

   The singer looked at him for a moment. "Naw, baby," he said finally.

   "Well, thanks, then."

   "Nothing to it."

   By noon the following day, Eli had contacted every Ramford in the telephone book. He had located White-Eye Ramford's great-granddaughter, a waitress; from there he had gone to see a Mrs. Clarine Ramford Tucker, who was residing in the Lydia Lockford Nursing Home for the Colored and Indigent; and from there to a Baptist cemetery in a swampy-smelling section outside the city. The sight of Abel Ramford's crumbling headstone, a small Gothic arch over a sunken grave obviously neglected for years, smothered by Queen Anne's lace and chicory, brought Eli up short, and for a long time he stood silent with his hat in his hands, wondering if this were the end of his road. Then he took heart and went to see the caretaker. He learned that Mr. Ramford's site had no visitors at all, so far as was known; but that every year on All Saints' Day a bouquet of white carnations was brought by Altona Florists, a very high-class flower shop with lavender delivery trucks.

   And Altona Florists said yes, they did have a standing order for that date: a dozen white carnations delivered to this little colored cemetery way the hell and gone; and the bill was sent to Box Hill, Louisiana, to a Mr. Caleb Peck.

   That was Saturday, August twenty-fifth. It had taken Eli exactly eighty-one days to complete his search. Because he had been warned not to approach Caleb in person ("I want to do that much myself," Mr. Peck had said), Eli came home without that final satisfaction. But it was almost enough just to tell his story in Justine's kitchen and watch the old man's astonishment. "What? What?"

   he said, even when he had clearly heard. He started circling the table again, kneading his hands as if they were cold. "I don't understand."

   "He's in Louisiana, Grandfather."

   "But-we never did go anywhere near there. Did we, Justine?"

   "We didn't know."

   "We never thought of it," said Mr. Peck. "Louisiana is one you forget when you're trying to name all the states in the Union. What would he be doing there?"

   "Eli says-"

   "I always suspected that Sulie was no durn good."

   "Now Grandfather, you didn't either, you know how you used to rely on her."

   "She took advantage," he said. "Why, if we somehow missed asking her-and I don't believe for a minute that we did-it was an oversight. Just chance! How long are we going to be held accountable for every little slip and error?" He frowned at Eli. "And you say Caleb is a-"

   "Fiddler."

   "I don't understand."

   "Fiddler."

   "Yes, but I don't-" He turned to Justine. "That doesn't make sense," he told her.

   "You always did say he was a musical man," she said.

   "It's the wrong Caleb."

   "No sir!" said Eli, lifting his head sharply. "No indeed, Mr. Peck."

   "Bound to be."

   "Would I come to you if I wasn't sure yet?" Eli fumbled in his breast pocket, brought out his notebook, and turned the curly, gray-rimmed pages. "Here. I checked this man out, listen here. Caleb Justin Peck, born February fourteenth, eighteen eighty-five, Baltimore, Maryland. Who else could it be?"

   "How'd you learn all that? I told you not to go near him."

   "I called and spoke to a nurse at the Home."

   "Home?"

   Eli flipped back one page in his notebook. "Evergreen County Home for the Elderly, two fourteen Hamilton Street, Box Hill, Louisiana."

   Mr. Peck felt behind him for a chair and sat down very slowly.

   "If you say a word," Justine whispered to Duncan, "I'll kill you. I'll kill you."

   "I wasn't going to say anything."

   Eli looked from one face to the other, confused.

   "But of course he's not in the Home," said Mr. Peck.

   "Why, yes."

   "He just lives nearby. Or visits some acquaintance there."

   "He's a resident."

   "He is?"

   "Room nineteen."

   Mr. Peck rubbed his chin.

   "I'm sorry," said Eli, although previously he hadn't felt one way or the other about it.

   "My brother is in a Home."

   "Well now, I'm sure it's-"

   "My own brother in a Home." His eyes flashed suddenly over to Duncan, spiky blue eyes like burs. "You will want your bottle of bourbon or whatever."

   "Forget it," said Duncan. He looked somehow tired, not himself at all.

   "Why!" said Mr. Peck. "Why, Caleb must be old!"

   Nobody spoke.

   Mr. Peck thought a moment. "He is eighty-eight years old," he said at last.

   Telling the news was not as much fun as Eli had expected it would be.

   14

   21 Watchmaker Street Caw Mill, Maryland August 27, 1973 Dear Caleb, I take pen in hand to

   21 Watchmaker Street Can Mill, Maryland August 27, 1973 Dear Caleb, When I heard you were alive, Caleb, my heart

   21 Watchmaker Street Caro Mill, Maryland August 27, 1973

   Dear Caleb, This is your brother writing. My name, in the very likely event that you have forgotten, is

   21 Watchmaker Street Cam Mill, Maryland August 27, 1973 Dear Caleb, I take pen in hand to express my hope that you are in good health and spirits.

   Originally I had planned to visit unannounced, extending personally an invitation to stay with us here in Caro Mill. However my grandson reminded me that perhaps you had no wish to see your family again. 1 told him that of course this would not be the case. Is it?

   A great deal of water has flowed under the bridge. Altogether now I have seven grandchildren and one great-grandchild. I regret to inform you that both of our parents passed on some time ago, as well as the baby, Caroline. My sons and two grandsons are running the firm etc.-but it is difficult to impart all this via the post. I am hoping that soon we shall be speaking face to face instead.

   My grandchildren Duncan and Justine, who live at the above address and with whom I often visit, second my invitation and look forward to making your acquaintance. Should you find yourself short of cash at the moment I would be willing to provide the airplane ticket. I understand that one may fly from New Orleans, journeying from Box Hill by Greyhound bus which if I am correct is the only recourse in those parts.

   I have flown by airplane myself on several occasions. Airplanes are now quite a common occurrence and what the Ford has developed into will be difficult for you to believe.

   Of course it is no disgrace to find oneself residing in a Home, if alternatives are lacking and one's family has all passed on. In your case I do not know about the alternatives, but I do know that your family has not all passed on. They are mostly alive and would never consider allowing one of their number to enter a Home for any reason whatsoever.

   You must surely have guessed this and yet, by some manner of logic which utterly confounds me, chose not to call upon your own flesh and blood in an hour of need.

   But we will let bygones be bygones.

   But in what way did the family ever injure you? If our father was, perhaps, overmuch involved in business, our mother a trifle strict, was that so important that you must ruin your life for it and then, having completed the ruin, fail to turn to us for aid?

   But there is no point in dwelling upon such things.

   I neglected to mention that I was made a Judge, though now of course retired. It is my understanding that you entered the musical world in some capacity, which is not quite clear to me though I hope to hear more about it when we meet.

   My grandson says that you have a right to be left alone, and that surely you would have contacted us long ago if you had any desire to see us. Of course it is not my intention to intrude where I am not wanted.

   You could have sent us a telegram collect from anywhere in the country and we would have come immediately, yet you chose not to. This to me, Caleb, speaks of some spitefulness, for surely you knew that it would pain us to think of a Peck in any such Institution. You were always contrary, even as a child, and caused our mother much worry, due to your stubborn nature which, as I gather, you never managed to overcome.

   But enough of that. It is all over now.

   My grandson says that your whereabouts is your own secret, to keep or not as you see fit, and consequently I must not let the rest of the family know without your permission. He has instructed the friend who found you not to notify my sons until you allow it. He says we had no right to run you to the ground this way. I told my grandson that I did not believe you would view it in such a light. Surely you understand that my only desire was to see you once more and perhaps have a little talk, not about anything in particular, which there never seemed to be enough time for back in 1912.

   To tell the truth, Caleb, it appears that my ties to the present have weakened. I cannot feel that what happens today is of any real importance to me. I am not overly connected to my own descendants, not even to my granddaughter. She means well of course but is so different from me and so unlike my earlier recollections of her, perhaps I would not know her if I came upon her unexpectedly in the street. Consequently it is my hope that you will answer this letter, and that you and I may soon meet to talk over those years which once seemed so long ago but now appear clearer than they were even while we lived them.

   I remain

   Your brother, Daniel J. Peck, Sr.

   15

   Justine stood on her front walk, ignoring a shower that was more mist than rain, talking to Red Emma. "Say you mailed a letter August twenty-seventh," she said. "Or I don't know, it was afternoon; maybe it went out the twenty-eighth. No, because he sent it direct from the post office. He has stopped trusting the corner boxes ever since they changed to red and blue. Say you mailed a letter August twenty-seventh, and it was going to a little town in Louisiana. How long would it take?"

   "Airmail?" asked Red Emma.

   "He doesn't trust airmail."

   "He doesn't trust anything!"

   "There've been so many plane crashes lately."

   "Well, I would give it three days," said Red Emma. "And considering he didn't mail early in the day and it's going to a little town, make it four."

   "So it got there August thirtieth," Justine said.

   Red Emma nodded. Tiny droplets clung to her curls like the dew on a cobweb, and her face was shiny and her mail pouch was growing speckled.

   "Then how long back again?" Justine asked. "Four more?"

   "I would say so."

   "Plus a day in between for the answer to be written."

   "Well, if it would take a whole day."

   "September fourth," said Justine. "A week ago. I don't think Grandfather can stand to wait much longer."

   "Really he ought to develop some other interest," Red Emma told her.

   "Join the Golden Age Club."

   "Oh, I don't think he'd like it."

   "But he would be so popular! With his fine head of hair and all his teeth."

   "Maybe so," said Justine, "but I don't picture it."

   She waved goodbye and went back to the house with her mail- a sample packet of salad dressing mix and a postcard from Meg. "Here," she said to Duncan. He was playing solitaire on the living room floor. When she tossed him the postcard he picked it up and squinted at the picture, which showed thousands of people stretched out nearly naked on a strip of sand. He turned the card over. " 'Dear Mama and Daddy and Grandfather,' " he read. " 'Here we are with the Young Marrieds Fellowship having just a wonderful time and wish you were . . .' "

   He passed the card to his grandfather, who was sitting on the couch doing nothing at all.

   "What's this?" said his grandfather.

   "Card from Meg."

   "Oh, I see."

   He set the card very carefully on the couch beside him and went back to staring into space.

   "Grandfather, would you like to play cribbage?" Justine asked him.

   "Cribbage? No."

   "It's just as well, you always forget the rules," Duncan told her.

   "Would you like a game of chess, Grandfather?"

   He looked at her blankly.

   "Or a trip in the car. You don't want to just sit."

   "Why not?" he asked her.

   Duncan laughed.

   "It isn't funny," Justine told him. "Oh, when is this rain going to stop?" She swept tangles of plant vines aside in order to peer through the window. "I wish we had somewhere to go. I wish we could just get in the car and drive, or catch a train somewhere."