Энн Тайлер - Searching for Caleb

“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.

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 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.