Anne Tyler - Searching for Caleb

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."

"You know," her grandfather said, "my feelings won't be hurt at all if he doesn't ever answer."

Justine turned to look at him.

"Anyhow, what was I thinking of? It would be so tiring, having to bring him up to date on all that's happened. Too much has gone on. I might not know him. He might not know me. I might look old to him. Now I recall we were often short-tempered. Why, we couldn't sit and talk five minutes without one or the other of us losing patience! And he never showed much interest in the children. And I wouldn't know what to say about his music and all. Then look at that place he's living in. Who knows what goes on there? Probably they have this schedule of activities, and special shelves to put your pajamas on and rules and medication and refreshment hours and seating arrangements that I would just have no inkling of. We have nothing in common. Know what I dreamed last night? No, maybe two nights ago. I dreamed that I saw Caleb driving down the street. Looking fine, just as fine as always. But his car! Peculiar little foreign station wagon, with a pinchy face and windows too big for it like one of those durned chihuahua dogs you see around. 'Caleb!' I called to him, 'what are you doing driving that thing?' and all he did was turn and wave. You would think that he belonged in it."

"Grandfather, it will work out," Justine told him. "All week I've had this feeling of change corning. He's going to write any day now. We'll send him a plane ticket and settle him in Meg's old room."

"Then what?"

"What?"

"Then what, I said. Then what will we do? 'Oh, it will work out, it will work out.' You're always so blasted cheerful, Justine. But where is your common sense?"

"Why, Grandfather-"

"Sometimes it gets too much for me," he told Duncan. "You expect me to have the patience of a saint."

"Not at all," Duncan said.

"You think I shouldn't say how I feel. Underneath, you think that."

"Do what you like, I don't care."

"In my childhood I was trained to hold things in, you see. But I thought I was holding them until a certain time. I assumed that someday, somewhere, I would again be given the opportunity to spend all that saved-up feeling. When will that be?"