We hadn’t said a word yet, and she was already flipping through pages. I plopped down on the small love seat, grinning at the two of them—Papa with a guitar slung across his lap and Mrs. Magnolia like a peacock in her robe. She cleared her throat and did some sort of voice exercises. I could only imagine what was going through my papa’s dusty head.
“Okay, here’s one. Ready?”
Papa only stared, his face like the bug-riddled grill of a big rig truck.
“Okay,” she said again, clearing her throat.
I’ve seen what cannot be fathomed
I’ve roamed the earth in search of love
Yet when it came it passed
Before I could grasp
And so I weep in despair and woe.
A rumbling cloud
Of storms at sea
I hang in the balance
The wet winds of truth—
Papa held up a hand and she stopped mid-sentence. I wish he hadn’t because while I’m no poet, I thought it was all right. He slapped a hand on his leg, and I braced myself for what might come out of his mouth.
“Edith, it sounds like what you got there—in way too many fancy words—is a case of the blues.”
If she was put off with the interruption, she didn’t show it. With her hand lingering at her scarf, her manners never wavered. “Oh?”
Several nods. “Yeah, here, let me show you.”
Papa took a long look down at his worn leather shoes. Chewed his lip. For a second I thought he’d forgotten what he was doing but then he started tapping his foot. And just like I’d done the first time when I was a little boy, Mrs. Magnolia jumped at the sound of the powerful thumps on the floor. He started plucking out some notes on the guitar, deep notes, bending and winding along with his humming.
Seems I can’t find my woman.
Seems my woman won’t come home.
Tap…tap…tap.
Seems I’ve roamed these parts
Seems I’ve roamed and roamed.
Tap…tap…tap.
Now as I sit here waiting
Truth and thunder part the sky
Seems so long gone…truth and thunder part the sky
He brought the chords back down the neck, which I knew from him was called going down the progression. I smiled at Mrs. Magnolia, who sat paralyzed with wonder.
Papa finished up to the rattle of the air conditioning unit, the ticking of the old clock on the mantel. All of us sat there, absorbing her words and his music. Their song. Then Mrs. Magnolia leaped up and burst into applause.
“Oh, my goodness! That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.” She glanced down to her paper, then down to Papa like he was the eighth wonder of the world. “Or heard, I should say. You just, you just put that together, just like that?” She snapped her fingers, a crisp pop with the bracelets.
“Yeah, well, you wrote it. I just put it to a song.”
“Oh, this is—” She stopped. I looked at Papa, because this peacock woman was getting teary eyed on us. Then, without a warning, she flung her arms around my grandpa’s neck. He leaned back to brace himself, looking to me for help.
I was laughing so hard snot came shooting out of my nose.
Mrs. Magnolia had a lifetime of poetry in those books of hers, and it was starting to feel like a lifetime, even with Papa doing all he could to liven things up. I let out a yawn and realized the afternoon was making its way to evening, then I remembered how I’d slacked on those chores. I had to get home.
Besides, Papa was getting tired. His head was falling lower to his chest, and his eyelids were looking and heavier with each new poem. Mrs. Magnolia, eighty-four or not, was a whirl of energy, and while it had kept Papa going this long, I could see he was setting sail on a good night’s sleep.
He set his guitar down and said he was through. Mrs. Magnolia pouted some but said she understood. She went on about next time, writing new verses. All the way to the door she gushed about how she’d been inspired by Papa and his guitar.
She turned to me with a smile. “Well, Caleb, it’s been an absolute pleasure meeting you, darling.” Then she brought me in for a talcum powder hug that stayed under my nose the rest of the night. I wasn’t used to people making a fuss over me, but it was nice at the same time.
She grinned at Papa. “Well, okay, this was fantastic. Let’s rehearse again tomorrow, Clem.”
And again Papa surprised me, giving Mrs. Magnolia a sheepish shrug. “Sure, Edith.”
She squealed with delight, scooping up her things and flitting out the door. I shut the door and looked at my grandpa. “I think she likes you.”
“I think she’s nuts.”
Papa set his guitar down and bent over with a grunt. He was having an awful time with his boots. I came over to help untie them but he brushed me off, yanked the laces tight. “Come on, Caleb. I’ll walk you out.”
Since I’d been coming to Autumn Springs, Papa had never once offered to walk me out. I shot him a look. “I think I know the way.”
Papa wasn’t listening. He snatched his hat and opened the door, ducking his head out and looking left to right, smacking at his leg for me to hurry along and follow. I thought that was rude because I’d come to visit family, and here he was shoving me out.
I started to go right, down the hallway, when he took my arm and whispered, “No, Caleb. This way.”
There’s a feeling I get sometimes. Like a tingling feeling in my hands, maybe when I’m crossing a wooden bridge and I run my palms across the railing and I have to jerk away because I might get a splinter. Well, my whole body felt like it was afraid of a splinter right then. “What way? Why?”
He shushed me, motioning his head toward a door to the right leading outside. A big sign, the letters backward from inside:
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. ALL VISITORS MUST REPORT TO THE FRONT DESK.
“I don’t think that’s an exit.”
“I see sunshine,” he said. Then, with a growl, “And I’ll be durned if anyone’s going to tell me I can’t walk outside.”
Authority issues.
Papa marched for the door and I flinched as flung it open, waiting for alarms to start ringing. Instead I heard the faraway traffic. Lawn mowers. Birds singing. He looked back at me as if to say, freedom.
A rush of humidity hit my face. I stopped and turned back, where an old lady down the hallway inched along in her walker. No way she saw us, but I thought maybe it would be best to go to the front desk.
Too late. Papa was on the move.
I ran after him. Behind me the door clicked shut and I froze. Great. “Well, now you’re locked out, Papa.”
He paid no mind, just kept shuffling down the walkway around the side of the building. Cars pulled in. Visitors got out with bags and boxes. I tried again to talk some sense into the old man. “Hey Papa, I think you need to tell someone—”
He waved me off. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Only five minutes ago he was strumming the blues, charming Mrs. Magnolia with his guitar, grinning like a dog at dinnertime. Now he was an angry old duck again, quacking at anyone who would listen.
The good news was he looked to be headed around back of the building, not out into traffic. I hustled to catch up with him, and we stood at the edge of the parking lot. I tried to steer him for the gazebo near the garden.