Highway 61 Resurfaced (v5)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Rick pushed back from his computer and walked over to the window. He looked out toward the river, trying to figure out why F.S. Wolcott’s name seemed so familiar. He saw the lights of a tugboat as it chugged and churned up muddy water it was too dark to see. He took another toke on his pipe and a moment later it hit him. He went to his record collection and pulled The Band’s 1970 album, Stage Fright, and there it was: side two, track two, “The W.S. Walcott Medicine Show.” The last name was “Walcott” instead of “Wolcott,” and it was a “medicine show” instead of “minstrels” and it was “W.S.” instead of “F.S.,” but even with those differences it was too close to be a coincidence.

  Rick slipped the record out of the sleeve and onto the turntable. He dropped the needle into the groove, and a moment later, loping, earthy music carried him inside a faith healer’s tent where the real deal was going on and Garth Hudson was blowing his sax among the losers and winners and saints and sinners.

  The Band was one of Rick’s favorites. As much as anybody, they defined the music of the sixties and early seventies, which made it that much harder to understand why classic rock stations by and large didn’t play them anymore. For a group comprised of four Canadians and one guy from Marvell, Arkansas, The Band was oddly steeped in Americana and exhibited a fondness for romantic images of the American south in songs like “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” and “King Harvest” with its portrayal of Depression-era sharecroppers.

  Rick went back to the computer to look for the connection. He found it quickly. The story went like this: The Band’s drummer, Levon Helm, had seen F. S. Wolcott’s Rabbit Foot Minstrels as a kid in Arkansas and had been particularly struck by a singer billed as the lady with the million-dollar smile. She was known as Diamond Teeth Mary, though in the song she’s referred to (for reasons that went unexplained) as Miss Brer Foxhole, “She’s got diamonds in her teeth.” But the weird thing was that Levon Helm didn’t write “The W.S. Walcott Medicine Show.” That credit belonged to Robbie Robertson, his bandmate from Toronto. Rick figured that since Helm was never much of a songwriter, he told the story about Diamond Teeth Mary to Robertson, who put it to music and didn’t bother to share the publishing rights.

  Rick chuckled when it dawned on him that he’d wandered a bit off subject, a not uncommon thing when he got stoned. So where was he? Oh yeah, Tucker Woolfolk. While it was possible the man had connections to the minstrel productions of the day, it seemed more likely that he’d been involved in the medicine shows that followed minstrelsy and which borrowed the traditional entertainment forms to lure audiences for pitchmen selling alcohol-based “medicine products” as a way to skirt Prohibition.

  Surfing Web sites, he read about the Kickapoo Indian Medicine Company of New Haven, Connecticut; The Clifton Remedy Company; and Hamlin’s Wizard Oil Company. Finally he came across an oral history by an obscure Delta harp player known as Itta Bena Slim. He recounted a story about a medicine show he’d been with in the 1940s that ran into some legal troubles outside Tchula, Mississippi. Itta Bena Slim said the promoter had shorted the local constabulary on his cut of the profits, contrary to the established custom. He said the man who had cheated the sheriff got out of Holmes County by the skin of his teeth. When asked if he remembered the man’s name, Itta Bena Slim said, “Oh, yeah, he was Mr. Robert T. Woolfolk.”

  5

  THE NAME PUT Rick in business. He plugged it into the Social Security Death Master File to check again. As far as he could tell, Mr. Woolfolk was still alive. He plugged the name into another multiengine search and got a few more hits, each yielding some good information.

  Rick searched for a phone number in Mississippi. Once you’ve got a phone number, you’re home free. If you’re trying to find someone who doesn’t want to be found, you simply look the number up in a reverse directory or, in many cases, you can type the number into a search engine and get the name and address you’re looking for. Of course, all that depends on how much the subject is moving around. Rick figured that at Tucker Woolfolk’s age, he was tending toward stationary, so that probably wouldn’t apply. If he got a number that led to an address, he’d call and say he was with the cable company or somebody and needed to confirm his information for their records. Then he’d need to confirm that this was, in fact, the Tucker Woolfolk his client was looking for. He couldn’t just call and be honest about it either; Lollie had asked Rick not to tell her grandfather she wanted to meet him. She wanted it to be a surprise, and Rick didn’t want to ruin that. He could just imagine the old man’s face when this woman showed up and introduced herself: “Grandpa!”

  Rick suddenly had a dark notion though he wasn’t sure what had prompted it. He didn’t think of himself as unnecessarily cynical but he also wasn’t naive. Rick told people he was in the information business. It had a nice, sanitary ring to it, but there was no way around the fact that his livelihood relied on the sordid nature of the human being. He was in the squalid business of providing proof that people were scum. Rick’s career depended on distrust—wives suspicious of their husbands, insurance companies suspicious of claimants, employers suspicious of their employees. Rick had been hired for all these reasons and each time found that the client’s distrust was fully warranted.

  But he knew his clients weren’t the only ones who had reason to be suspicious. Distrust was a two-way street. Just as his clients had reason to be suspicious, Rick had to be wary of his clients. As far as he knew, all his previous clients had been truthful about why they’d wanted the information they did. And though he had no reason to think Lollie had lied, he’d still had this strange thought. What if she hadn’t been honest about why she wanted to find her grandfather? It wasn’t uncommon for people to hire a PI under false pretenses. Was it possible she was interested in something other than a friendly family reunion?

  Only one thing came to mind, and it struck Rick as wildly southern Gothic and clichéd: some sort of multigenerational tragedy steeped in deviance, alcoholism, and repressed memories. What if, he thought, Lollie wanted to take Tucker Woolfolk to court for having sexually abused her as a child or something along those lines?

  Rick shook his head and wondered where that Tennessee Williams moment had come from. Maybe a subconscious reaction to the town’s abundance of Victorian architecture and the constant assault of antebellum imagery on everything from restaurant menus to the Mississippi River flood wall. On the other hand, the idea wasn’t so far-fetched as to be dismissed out of hand. But, in any event, it didn’t matter to Rick. His loyalty was with his client. He’d just take the whole thing at face value and move ahead.

  There was one listing in Mississippi for an R.T. Woolfolk at an address in Belzoni, a small Delta town in Humphreys County about ninety minutes north of Vicksburg. Rick plugged the address into an online map site and found it was just north of the town, near Fisk Bayou and Cemetery Road.

  RICK CALLED THE number the next morning and confirmed that the old man who answered was the Robert Tucker Woolfolk who had once been run out of Tchula, Mississippi. “I told him I was a writer doing an article on the old minstrel and medicine shows in the south,” Rick said into the phone. “He was a little skeptical at first, but once I got him talking, I didn’t think he’d stop.” He gave Lollie the address and phone number he’d found.

  “This is fantastic,” she said. “I am so thrilled, I can’t thank you enough. You’ve got to tell me everything he said. I want to know whatever you found out.”

  “Sure, you want to meet at my office this afternoon?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “This calls for a celebration. I’m taking you out for a fancy dinner, tonight. You can tell me then. How about André’s at the Cedar Grove Inn?”

  “Much as I’d love to, I have to work tonight.”

  “Oh, that’s right. How about tomorrow? You don’t work Saturdays, do you?”

  Rick could hear the excitement in her voice. “No, I don’t do weekends,” he said. “What time?”

  “I’
ll make reservations for seven-thirty.”

  After hanging up, Rick did a little more research. He felt that he needed to give Lollie something other than an address and phone number to justify the five hundred she’d given him. Within an hour he had put together an interesting, if superficial, biography of Robert Tucker Woolfolk. Sometimes the work was so easy, Rick felt guilty. But he was learning to get over that.

  Rick closed the file and went to check on Crusty. He was still lethargic and his tiny nostrils were clogged. Rick had learned that a flat wooden toothpick was the best way to pick Crusty’s nose. The vet said it would be a while before the antibiotics would subdue the bacteria problem. But since that was just a symptom of the underlying viral problem, for which they had no cure, the snot would return after the course of antibiotics. In other words, the vet had said, “You’re going to be picking this cat’s nose for the rest of his life.”

  SATURDAY MORNING AFTER starting coffee, Rick went downstairs and grabbed a copy of the Vicksburg Post. When he got back, Crusty was walking around for the first time since he’d been there. He wandered into a patch of sunlight and stopped as if he’d hit a force field. He rolled around on the warm carpet for a moment then began grooming himself, which seemed like a good sign. Rick sat at the table near the window overlooking the business district and the river beyond. Skies were clear and it seemed like you could see halfway across Louisiana.

  He was looking forward to his evening. Deliver some good news to a customer, get the word of mouth going, have a nice meal at the client’s expense. He’d heard good things about the restaurant at the Cedar Grove, one of the town’s antebellum bed and breakfasts, famous among other things for having a cannonball lodged in the parlor wall.

  He poured a second cup of coffee and picked up the paper, snapping the crease. He glanced down at Crusty. “Says here the river fell from twenty-three feet to eighteen-point-three on the Vicksburg gauge. Forecasters say it’ll be fourteen feet today. What else? The county election commission approved Jerry Dale Lyons to run in the district one supervisor’s race. Seems there was a question of where Mr. Lyons really lived that placed his candidacy as an independent in question.” Rick turned the page. “Hey, the new Super Gorilla class of drill rigs built by LeTourneau was completed at the Sabine Pass facility over in Texas.” Rick read the preseason analysis for the local high school football teams before turning to the obituaries.

  “Well, let’s see who’s gone gently into the good night.” Rick worked his way down the list, pausing to dwell on causes of death and the hobbies of the deceased. But it was a name that really got his attention. “Jesus!” Rick spewed hot coffee all over the place. He’d never seen Crusty move so fast. Rick grabbed a paper towel to wipe the window before reading the particulars: “Local businessman Durden Tate suffered a massive heart attack at the Biscuit Company Café yesterday afternoon. Mr. Tate was having lunch with his wife, Wanda Lee Henshaw Tate, and another man. Paramedics were unable to revive him and he was declared dead at the scene.” Rick lowered the paper and looked around the apartment. Crusty was peeking out from under the sofa. “Sorry,” Rick said.

  BLIND BUDDY COTTON could see a lot better than his name or his dark glasses would lead a stranger to believe. But the way he figured it, if a guy from Tennessee could call himself Mississippi Fred McDowell, Buddy Cotton could call himself blind. At eighty-three, he looked and played the part, always letting someone lead him on and off the stage at blues festivals and clubs. Even kept a cane near his chair on the porch where he spent most of his days, just in case somebody showed up and wanted what they considered authenticity more than the truth.

  Buddy knew that most of the original bluesmen with that nickname had earned it. Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie McTell, and Blind Blake were all born sightless. Blind Boy Fuller’s eyes dried up on him before he was twenty. Blind John Davis stepped on a nail when he was nine. The infection took his sight. And Blind Willie Johnson lost his when his stepmama threw some lye at his daddy but missed and blinded Willie instead. There’s a reason to sing the blues.

  And while it was true he needed glasses for his “stigmatism,” Buddy Cotton called himself blind mostly for marketing purposes.

  He was sitting on the porch of his little house a few miles out of Ruleville, Mississippi. The exterior was rough cypress board with corrugated tin for the roof and the skirting around the bottom, like a prosperous sharecropper’s shack. The inside wasn’t quite as bluesy, what with the big-screen TV and the hot tub and a few other items catering to Buddy’s fondness for creature comforts. He owned it all free and clear plus the land it sat on, surrounded by good cotton that somebody else was farming. He’d done all right for himself playing the blues, and he’d taken care of his money. Bottom rail on top now, and he’d earned every bit of it the hard way.

  It was ninety-six degrees in Sunflower County and Buddy was wearing the same gray porkpie hat he always did. Under the shade of the rusted tin roof, he seemed immune to the swelter. His face betrayed no emotion, like black wax poured into an indifferent mask long ago. He had a 1946 Gibson L-7 in his lap, a guitar he’d owned since it was new. He held a kitchen knife in his left hand. He was dragging it up and down the strings, torturing a cry from the instrument, like it was a safety valve for his own soul.

  It was around noon when Buddy noticed a car turn off Highway 8 and start up the dirt road toward his place. He aimed his sunglasses toward the cloud of dust. His eyes were good enough to see it was Big Walter Johnson’s car, that old Chevy Impala with the busted headlight and bad suspension. Buddy started tapping his heel to a medium tempo that matched the way the car bounced up the rutted road. He plucked a note and slid the knife down the strings and sang, “I gots dust on my mem’ries, can’t seem to ’member a thing.”

  The Impala kept rolling and bouncing toward the house, a brown cumulus in its wake.

  “I gots dust on my mem’ries, can’t seem to ’member a thing.”

  The car pulled up. Big Walter’s round, shiny face behind the dirty windshield.

  “She said we had a honeymoon and now she wants a weddin’ ring.”

  Big Walter waited for the dust to settle before he got out of the car. Buddy hunched over the guitar and attacked the strings, his heel keeping time during the ride. Big Walter got out and took a few steps toward the porch. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the roll of fat on his neck. “Hey, Buddy, ain’t you hot with that hat on?”

  Buddy just slithered the knife up the neck of the guitar in reply.

  Big Walter listened for a moment before he said, “That somethin’ new? Sound a little like ‘Steady Rollin’ Man.’ ”

  Buddy scowled and demonstrated the difference between the songs.

  “Oh yeah,” Big Walter said, pointing at the guitar. “I see what you mean.” He stepped closer and put a foot on the first step. “Listen, I just hert some news,” Big Walter said. “Thought you’d wanna know.”

  Buddy bent a note, then growled, “Yo’ phone busted?”

  When Big Walter smiled, the sun reflected off a gold-rimmed tooth. “I was passin’ by,” he said, dabbing his forehead with the handkerchief.

  Buddy pushed his chin toward the old Impala and said, “Why you still in that raggedy-assed ride?”

  Big Walter looked at the car, then back at Buddy. “Runs okay.”

  “Huh, I ‘spect that’s all you need.” Buddy stopped playing and leaned forward on the guitar. “What’s cookin’ brings you out here?”

  Big Walter waved his hanky toward the Sunflower River, a few miles to the west. “I’s talkin’ to old Cooter and them earlier, over to Cleveland. Hert Clarence’s done got out.”

  Buddy nearly dropped the knife. He shook his head and said, “Can’t be. He still gots some long years to pull, dudn’t he?” He had a different grip on the knife now, not so much for playing.

  Big Walter shrugged. “I’m just sayin’ what I hert, Buddy. Old Cooter swears it’s true. Figure he’s comin’ home.
” The gold-rimmed tooth peeked out again. “Thought you’d wanna know, thas all.”

  Buddy never changed expression. He just watched Big Walter go back to his car and get in. He turned the Impala around, then rolled down his window and looked out at Buddy. “He gets back? Maybe y’all do another show together.” Big Walter waved and laughed as he drove down the dirt road, back toward Highway 8.

  Buddy looked out over the hot-skillet landscape and thought about what might happen if old Cooter was right. If Clarence came home, it was more likely there’d be trouble than a show. He figured the others knew by now or would soon. Lord. They were all too damn old for trouble, Buddy thought, but that wouldn’t keep it from their doors, just not how things worked out here.

  Buddy felt the thing in his chest and he started to cough. After a struggle, he brought something up. He leaned and spit it to the dirt, then sat back in his chair to catch his breath. The end wasn’t far off now. He could see it from where he was. He could taste it every time he coughed. Buddy had always hoped Jesus would call him in his sleep, but now he feared he’d be awake for it. He looked down at his left hand, the pads of his fingers broad from seventy years of playing. He pressed the strings to the wood and began to pick the notes to “Hellhound on My Trail.”

  6

  THE VISITATION FOR Durden Tate was from five to eight. Rick arrived at a quarter to seven, figuring he could pay his respects before going to dinner with Lollie.

  He opened the heavy doors of the funeral home and stepped inside. Two visitations were under way. In the state room to his right, Rick could see a few elderly women slumped in their seats, staring at an urn. Straight ahead, in a larger room, Rick saw a group of potbellied men whom he assumed were members of Durden Tate’s sales force.