Eli’s wife called, sounding lank and dragged out with the heat. “But it’s hotter here,” he told her. “And you ought to see the bugs.” She didn’t care; she wanted him home. What was he doing there, anyhow?
“I’ll be back in another week,” he told her. “In a week I’m going to have this thing wrapped up.”
It was August eighteenth. Although he did not have a single new clue, he was beginning to feel excited.
Now he started shadowing the gaudy, sunglassed tourists, who seemed to know something he did not. They were always in possession of secret addresses: the lodgings of palsied old saxhornists, clarinetists, past employees of the Streckfus Excursion Lines and granddaughters of Buddy Bolden’s girlfriends. (Who was Buddy Bolden?) Eli slipped in behind them through narrow doors, into dingy parlors or taverns or bedrooms. Sometimes he was ushered out again. Sometimes he would pass unnoticed. Then he introduced questions of his own, all of them out of place:
“You wouldn’t know a jazz cellist, by some chance.”
“Any good musicians out of Baltimore?”
“Whereabouts were you in the spring of nineteen twelve?”
Ancient, dusty eyes peered back at him, but never ancient enough. “Nineteen twelve? What kind of memory do you think I got, boy?”
By imperceptible degrees the Pecks had altered Eli. He had begun to ignore the passage of time, as if it were somehow common. He felt irritated that ordinary people could not do the same.
Days were tiresome, yes, and hard on the feet, but nights were worse. The string of clubs, bars, cafés, dance halls, and strip joints went on forever, and all the music sounded the same to him: badly organized. Eli slipped into a place and out again, into the next. He ducked away at any mention of cover charge, waved off waiters and hostesses. When pressed, he ordered Dr. Pepper; mostly he left before things had gone that far. The scent of success discouraged him. He wanted failure, spooky little hole-in-the-wall cafés. For surely, he was thinking now, Caleb himself was a failure. Whatever he had ended up doing, it had not left any mark upon this town.
He entered bars that smelled of mildewed wood, that had names like The High Note or Sportin’ Life, where a few musicians played raggedly and without much interest. A black man sang above a guitar:
My train done left, Lord, done left me by the track,
My train done left, Lord, done left me by the track.
Tell the folks in Whisky Alley
I ain’t never coming back …
Eli shook his head. He slid past a drunkard and returned to the sidewalk, where he milled among the tourists in a greasy, neon-lit, garlic-smelling night.
The following morning, he was up unusually early. He ate breakfast in a coffee shop near where he had been the night before, and he strolled past the same bars, but they were closed now. Farther down, an aproned man was sweeping the entrance of a strip joint that looked cheerful and homely by daylight. “Tell me,” Eli said to him. “You know that little old bar back there? Easy Livin’?”
The man squinted. “What about it?”
“You know what time it opens?”
“Most likely not till evening,” said the man. “You got a wait, fellow.”
“Well, thank you,” Eli said.
This morning he did not delve any further into the archives of jazz. He bought a paper and read it in a park. He had a second cup of coffee and a glazed doughnut. Then when the movies opened, he toured the city catching Jimmy Stewart films. Eli very much admired Jimmy Stewart.
At six o’clock he had a plate of scrambled eggs in a diner, followed by another cup of coffee and apple pie à la mode. Then he set off toward Easy Livin’—on foot, since it wasn’t far. He took his time. He nodded soberly as he walked and he looked about him with a well-meaning expression such as Jimmy Stewart might have worn. When he reached his destination, he straightened his string tie before stepping through the battered door.
Easy Livin’ was dark even now, when it was barely twilight. There was a bar with a brass rail, a few scarred tables, and at the end of the room a raw wooden platform for the entertainers. At the moment, there were no other customers. Only a boy behind the bar, and on the platform the black man who had sung the night before. He was squatting to hitch up some sort of electrical wire. He didn’t even look around when Eli came up behind him.
“Say,” said Eli. “Could I ask about a song?”
The singer grunted and then rose, brushing off his dungarees. He said, “This here is not one of them jazz joints, baby. Go on up the street.”
“Last night you were singing,” Eli said.
“Only the blues.”
“Ah,” said Eli, who did not see the difference. He pondered a moment. The singer looked down at him with his hands on his hips. “Well,” Eli said, “you were singing this here song I was wondering about.”
“Which.”
“Song about a train.”
“All songs got trains,” the singer said patiently.
“Song about Whisky Alley.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You recall it?” Eli asked.
“I sung it, didn’t I?”
“You know who wrote it?”
“Now how would I know that?” the singer said, but then, all of a sudden: “Stringtail Man.”
“Who?”
“The Stringtail Man.”
“Well, who was that?”
“I don’t know. White fellow.”
“But he’s got to have a name,” Eli said.
“Naw. Not that I ever knew of. White fellow with a fiddle.”
“A fiddle,” said Eli. “Well—I mean, ain’t that a little peculiar for jazz?”
“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. Any body 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 dum 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
Caro Mill, Maryland
August 27, 1973
Dear Caleb,
I take pen in hand to
21 Watchmaker Street
Caro 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
Caro 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. I 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 f
ound 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.”