Anne Tyler - Searching for Caleb

"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.