Even stranger was how Papa let it happen. Didn’t bat an eye when she touched him. Mrs. Magnolia got back on track, like nothing happened. “So, yes, what was I saying? Oh, the poetry. Perhaps we could work on an arrangement.” She tossed a hand his way. “I know it’s a lot to take on, so if you’d rather consider it and get back to me, well, that’s just fine. I completely understand.”
I was floored. This mannerly woman had just tamed my feisty old grandpa. He worked his jaw. Mrs. Magnolia sipped her tea, touched her throat, and continued. “It’s just the thought of no one showing up is unbearable,” she said, looking to me with a grin.
Papa wiped his face, finished chewing, and sucked down half of his root beer. I couldn’t tell what was banging around in his clunky old head, not until he grimaced, then smacked his lips. “I’ll tell you what, Edith. I was just fixing to get up and walk out of this place. Too many rules and regulations for my taste. But you’ve managed to keep my interest for the time being. Let me get to my room, clean up some, then we can see what we got. Sound all right?”
Amazing. Only a half hour ago he was mad at the world. Now he was agreeing to…poetry?
Mrs. Magnolia perked up, her eyes batting and her hand landing on his. “That sounds wonderful, Clem. Just wonderful.”
She rose, clasped her hands again. “Well, let me go get my things together. I’ll meet you at your room in a few.” More hand wringing. “Oh, this is going to be just fabulous.”
Then she was off, a fluttering social butterfly drifting across the cafeteria.
“Wonderful,” he muttered, taking another stab at his green beans.
I looked over at Papa and smiled. The guy had a date.
We shuffled back to his room, across the thick carpet and past the identical doors. Beside each door were pictures of families and adventures, mostly black and white photographs of better times, military guys and the planes they’d flown. Women with long dresses and bright smiles.
Autumn Springs was no dump, mind you, always clean with the smell of new paint in the air, but there was a twinge of hopelessness behind it. As I said, I made a habit of keeping my face straight ahead, but every so often I’d pass an open door and catch a peek of nothing more than a lump in a chair.
Edith Magnolia, however, with her energy, her face so full of life, had re-energized the place. She’d given me hope. She’d made me smile. Maybe she exactly what my grandpa needed in his life.
We’d just reached Papa’s door when something clicked in his eyes. He took my shoulders, smiling like a kid at a carnival. “Caleb, you see that?”
“A door?” I said, getting it now. I knew where this was going, but what the heck, I’d let him go there anyway.
He shook his head. “Yes, a door. But the room number? 414. Do you know what it means?”
I did. It meant Robert Johnson once stayed in some hotel room by the same number a million years ago. I’d only heard about it once a week since he’d been here. But Papa didn’t let me answer. He shook the keys in his fist at the number on the door. “414 was Robert Johnson’s room at the Gunter Hotel, where he recorded his first sessions for Brunswick.”
I searched his wobbly eyes. He was all over the place today. Maybe Mrs. Magnolia’s passion for “the arts” had him scrambled up good. “That’s pretty neat, Papa,” I said, still playing along.
“Neat. You durned right it’s neat.” He leaned down, inches from my face, peppermint stinging my eyes as he thrust one finger up in the air. “It’s a sign.”
I blinked to focus. Since I had him talking music, maybe it was a good time to ask about those lessons. “Well, let’s get inside, get your guitar and all.”
He nodded like it was a great idea. Papa was allowed visitors until seven p.m. every day. Autumn Springs, nice as it was, had what Miss Cheryl called a regimented schedule—lunch from 11 to 2, dinner between 4 and 6. Each room had a small kitchen with a fridge he could stock with drinks. Well, certain kinds of drinks. Not the kind Papa was after.
Nurse Vickie and Papa had waged war over Papa’s fridge. She liked to make rules, and Papa liked to break them. Early on, when Papa had moved in and was still getting settled, he’d packed some beers and wasted no time draining his customary evening can of suds. Nurse Vickie wasn’t having it. Papa was outraged, but Nurse Vickie held firm. Under no such circumstances was he to have beer in his room. Papa—wearing a bib, if I recall—had let it be known that he was a grown man. A wrestling match ensued.
Papa had trouble with authority. I’d learned all the stories about how he’d marched for civil rights in Washington and even been arrested once at a sit-in at the old diner. Today his causes weren’t so ambitious, but I didn’t tell him that. He wasn’t about to let anyone tell him he couldn’t have his evening brew or afternoon candy bar.
He found his guitar and plopped into his chair. I could tell by his fiery stare he was still worked up good about Room 414. Miss Cheryl said it was good to feed his interests and keep his brain working. So it’s what I did, but I was also looking for an angle.
“So, Robert Johnson recorded an album in a hotel room?”
“Yes, he did,” Papa said, his spindly fingers finding a song within the strings, something a little mischievous. He plucked out a few chords, and the temperature seemed to drop as a chill wiggled down my spine. Then he started singing.
I went to the crossroad
Fell down on my knees
I went to the crossroad
Fell down on my knees
Asked the Lord above have mercy, now
Save poor Bob, if you please
He lay an arm over the guitar. I rubbed my arms.
“What was song was that?”
“Crossroad Blues.” His voice was low and scratchy. “It’s about Robert Johnson and how he sold his soul to the devil.”
Yeah, I’d just turned twelve and all, but my scalp wriggled some. I straightened my shoulders. “Come on, Papa. Aren’t you a little old for tales?”
“I reckon I am. But a lot of people think it’s true.”
The way he said it, his voice low and his gaze far away, wasn’t helping my chill bumps, and by the time I was about to tell him about my guitar, someone tapped on the door and I just about screamed.
The door was cracked some and a wedge of red hair poked inside. “Knock, knock.”
Mrs. Magnolia swept in and chased out the spooky vibe that had come over the room. Papa looked up and smiled, a spark still burning in his eyes. So much for my lessons.
“Well, I see you are all ready for me.” She nodded to his guitar. Her hands went up to her face, the papers under her arms fluttering with the movement. “Oh, this is so fun. I’ve been waiting for another artisan to come along.”
Calling Papa an artisan was like calling a mule a show horse. Sure, he was a musician, but the way he played was like laying bricks. It was a hard-working, grinding style of music. But Mrs. Magnolia didn’t seem to care or notice. I think she was smitten with the old man.
She pulled her robe tight. “Brrr, it’s like a meat locker in here. No matter. Okay, I’ll read, and you see what you think you could put behind it. Ready?”