Twilight of the Drifter

by Shelly Frome

  Training her eyes straight up at him, she told him exactly what she thought. “Come on, come on, what is this? You’re telling me you’re dumping me here ‘cause we both have to sleep it off and, at the same time, you’re glomming this box? I mean, give me a break.”

  “I’m only saying we can’t just leave it at that.”

  “You got that right. If it was worth so much to that psycho killer, it’s gotta be worth it to somebody else.”

  “And that somebody is Dewey.”

  “Are we talking money, is that it? Is that what’s going on?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what? And what’s he got to do with it anyways?”

  “Everything.”

  “Oh yeah? How come, how come? And what’s that to me?”

  Josh could have reminded her they brought the wolf to his door. But he was not about to link Alice’s run with reopening Dewey’s wounds, not about to darken her memory bank one more jot. Instead he said, “The contents of this cigar box would mean a lot to him right about now. Probably vindicate him and alleviate years of pain. But it’s your call, Alice.”

  “In English. Can’t you for once give it to me in English?”

  Pacing around again, snapping her fingers, she became even more hyper. “Besides, since this box is so freakin’ valuable, how do I know you’re not really gonna go back and snatch that rusty shotgun? It’s registered you know. Bubba said. Registered and hid but still can be traced.”

  Josh tried to cut in, but she was on a rant and kept topping him.

  “Yeah, yeah, right--how do I know you’re not gonna cash in ‘stead of me? Go back, grab that ol’ muzzleloader and sell them both to some other interested party? Or a TV producer or something? How do I know this Dewey-years-of-pain story and cutting me outta my cut is not some kinda trick? And what about LuAnn? ‘Thanks anyway. Got my meal ticket. So long, babe, see ya around.’ And what about us? And that’s just for openers. What about lots of stuff I haven’t even mentioned? What about--?”

  Finally breaking in, Josh shouted, “Listen to yourself! Look at you! What did the doc tell you about trauma?”

  “Oh yeah? Where do you get off? Why don’t you look at yourself, man? Wheelin’ and dealin’ and a freakin’ mess.”

  “Cut it out, Alice. Quit deflecting. The doc warned you about being wired. Blood pressure, insomnia, on overdrive. How it mounts up, what it does to your whole system if you don’t cool it down. You want to come out of this? You want to be able to sleep again? You want to get out of here?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But in the meantime—”

  “In the meantime, let me pick up the pieces.”

  “Oh, that’s cute, that’s it, play the guilt card. None of this would’ve happened if I’d blown the whistle, right? But what was I supposed to do? Busted ladder, up a tree, rotten perch coming apart. Then I got a binocular strap choking me while I try to focus the stupid fogged-up lens. Plus it’s clammy and wet and the whistle slips outta my fingers the second Bubba starts in yelling for me. Try it some time. I dare you, just try it.”

  “Nobody is blaming you, Alice.”

  “Sure sure, tell me another one. Con me ‘cause I’m an easy mark, my head’s spinnin’ and my brain is turning to mush. Look, if you stiff me . . . if you stiff me, man, I swear to God, I’ll . . .”

  She reached out and threw her arms around his waist, her scrawny little arms trembling worse than ever, so distraught she had trouble catching her breath. Thrown for a second, he held her gently, unsure of what to do. For a time, they stayed that way while Alice gasped and kept murmuring something that sounded like “Please . . . please . . . please?”

  Then, just as suddenly, she jumped back almost knocking over the rolling hospital tray and braced herself. “Hey, now don’t get the wrong idea. Lost it there for a second but snapped right out of it, see?”

  “It’s okay, Alice. It’s all right.”

  “Damn straight,” Alice said, straightening herself up, folding her arms, trying to contain herself. “Well, guess what. I am sick unto death of all the bad dreams and guilt trips. And I am sick unto death of getting rescued. I mean, do you know what that does to a person’s self-whachamacallit?”

  “Self-esteem.”

  “You got it.”

  It took her another minute or so before she got her breathing under control. “So, mister Vegas,” Alice said, turning back, still clutching her arms, “let’s lay it on the line. What’re the odds if I take the stupid pill, let ‘em monitor me, hook me up or whatever and knock me out? What’re the odds come daylight I lay eyes on you again and you haven’t stiffed me? I make it one in three.”

  “Guess again,” said Josh, relieved she’d calmed down somewhat and was starting to listen to reason.

  “What? I’m supposed to hope? I’m supposed to count on something?”

  “Come on, kid, will you give it a rest? Let me show the stuff to Dewey and put him out of his misery.”

  Averting his eyes, she began pacing again and then banged her fist on the hospital tray. “Oh, hell, take the freakin’ box. And if and when you see Dewey, leave me out of it.”

  Strutting around this time, she added, “Matter of fact, I’m having second thoughts about the way it all went down. When you think about it, it was pretty lame from start to finish. Like they say, it opened up a whole whachamacallit.”

  “Can of worms.”

  “Exactly. Sometimes it pays to cool it no matter how much you’re dying to split and take your chances. Dealing with strangers and all, I mean. Outta your own territory.”

  “Right. Absolutely.”

  “Especially drunks and weirdos.”

  “I hear you.”

  “And that goes for you too, mister. I mean, talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Take a look in the mirror.”

  “I know, believe me.”

  “Well, all right then. That settles it.”

  “You bet.”

  Josh was about to tell her how glad he was she’d come to her senses and to reassure her it was all for the best. But she immediately got busy ringing for the nurse and telling her to get a move on. Her whacked-out cuz was just leaving and, for the record, let it be known that, as always, Alice was on top of her game.

  With the cigar box tucked under his arm, Josh trudged up the darkened end of Beale Street not really knowing how he made it this far. Though he had the best of intentions, he had begun to falter soon after he headed over to Memphis and had trouble keeping the car on the road. He pulled over once, wanting more than anything to get back in touch with LuAnn. A part of him aching to hear her tell him there was only so much a person can do. In all the confusion at the ER, he’d left a garbled message about having Alice checked out, omitting every single detail about what had happened except that she’d fallen into some ice cold creek and had to be monitored.

  On this second try to reach her, he’d parked on a fogbound stretch of empty road, reached into the glove department for his cell phone, but found there was no signal and the charge had run out. So he just sat there, immobile, hands gripping the wheel, with the rough motor idling, the defroster blowing against the windshield, the wipers thwacking away. At that point, it would have taken nothing to inch closer to the tree line and doze off.

  But as his resolve kept slipping, he found himself taken by Ada Mae’s vision. Beneath the ragged state he was in, he knew. Beyond the mean and sensible warnings he’d known all along. By some quirk of fate or by design, he was a vessel. His final task: to ease Dewey’s sorrows while laying to rest the ghosts of the long ago departed. His work had been cut out for him, the path had been laid. Only after he wended his way back to Memphis would his journey end

  Now, as he approached the entrance to Billy’s Blues Joint and Café, he noticed the neon sign was unlit and there was a note on the door: Sorry. Closed due to illness. The sign was faded and brought into service each time Dewey went into a deep funk. On this particular Friday the timing was especially b
ad because Uncle Billy counted on these weekends before Christmas to recoup his losses.

  Readying himself, Josh set his agenda. If he could hold on and report to Dewey . . . if he could get right back to LuAnn while still keeping any awful details at bay, he could then make his way up the fire escape and crash for the night.

  He tried the front door. It was unlocked. The place was empty except for Ella who was perched on a bar stool nursing what apparently was another in a round of highballs, her painted face more blowsy than ever.

  The second he stepped inside, he was greeted with, “Good God, look what just crawled in. Don’t tell me. Spare me, Ace, I beg you.”

  Oblivious of his muddied clothes and bloodied check, he glanced over at the café.

  “Hold it. If you’re looking for your uncle, forget it. He’s on a toot, checking out how the other half lives. Those happy souls not under the curse of the house of Billy.”

  Keeping his mind strictly on his agenda, he made for the back room.

  “No hope there either, kiddo,” Ella said. “There lies the last of the bluesy gumbo slingers. Bit the dust, bought the farm—words like that.”

  Sloughing her off, he shuffled into the room and closed the door. He swept the empty mason jars off the old steamer trunk into the trash bucket, jostled Dewey’s cot, opened the cigar box and displayed the contents.

  “Here you go, Dewey,” said Josh with as much liveliness as he could muster. “You are finally out of it.”

  But it took a lot more jostling to prod Dewey into even opening his milky, bloodshot eye. It was only when Josh started naming dates that Dewey propped himself up on one elbow.

  Still somewhere between waking and dreaming, Dewey began muttering to himself. “I was no more’n a child. Started in with them jump-up songs, can you believe? . . . ‘Corinna Corinna . . . nickel’s a nickel, dime’s a dime, got a house fulla children, ain’t none of ‘em mine . . .’”

  Starting over, itemizing the most telling particulars, Josh finally succeeded in getting him to be more here than there as Dewey partially opened both his eyes.

  Pushing it, Josh said, “You getting the picture now? This is what Bubba swept up out of the hunting cabin. Swept it up, stuck it in this box and buried it.”

  “Say what? . . . when? . . . where?” Dewey said, barely mouthing the words.

  “That same time back then. Deep in the woods on the bank of a creek.”

  “What cabin, what creek? What you talkin’ about?”

  Fighting off another wave of fatigue, Josh tried even harder to get across to him. “Item: Lamar Dean’s signature cigar box circa his freshman year at Ole Miss. Item: Lamar Dean’s faded photo wearing his pledge cap, said photo ripped in four pieces, signed on the back Yours forever, darlin Caroline. Love, Johnny Reb.”

  Dewey repeated the words “Lamar Dean and Miss Caroline.”

  “Right. You getting it now? Item: A framed photo of the crowned sweetheart of Sigma Chi with the inscription, Yours only, darlin Willie. Love, Caroline.

  “Willie and Miss Caroline.”

  “Yes. Stick with me now. Here we have a framed photo of a handsome black man holding up a Freedom Now! sign. His inscription: Love you being with us, just plain love you. Willie.”

  Grateful that Dewey was too far out of it to wonder how Josh had dug this all up, Josh displayed the rest of the contents in rapid succession. These included a handful of barely legible Valentine cards declaring mutual love; one card expressing Caroline’s frustration. “That Johnny Reb just won’t take no for an answer and can’t hold a candle to you,” and assorted trinkets and moldy Valentine candies that had also been tossed in the mix.

  Dewey turned away, shaking his head.

  “Come on, Dewey,” said Josh, “I know the road you traveled down. I know what brought you to this.”

  Winging it, giving his imagination free rein, Josh went on. He told Dewey that Caroline stole Lamar Dean’s car just for spite. Then had Dewey drive the two of them to Piney Woods Road and leave them off by the water tower. From there they could traipse down under cover of drizzle and darkness, exchange vows and make love in the hallowed empty cabin. A venture much more exciting for devil-may-care Caroline than the Southern Freedom Movement. The twist was the fact that the cabin was miles and miles from the Freedom House in Ripley—that cobbled-together shotgun shack Dewey later turned into a juke joint. That same place Darryl burned down to drive Dewey out for good.

  Finished making his case, too wiped out to go on, Josh slumped down on the steamer trunk and leaned against the wall.

  Moments later, muttering again half to himself, Dewey propped himself up a little higher. “That Willie . . . so tall, so fine . . . Come down from the north, you know . . . to get us young folks all fired up . . . Oh, that Willie, let me tell you . . . And that Miss Caroline . . . honey-colored hair, always shakin’ it loose, sayin’ stuff like, ‘Born to be wild, y’all before the song ever come out . . .”

  Still lost in nostalgia, breaking into a smile, Dewey said, “‘New day is dawnin,’ Willie told me over and over. ‘A new day for sure.’ And Miss Caroline declarin’, ‘We can do anythin’ and take it all back. Anythin’ we want.’ Never forget that, not never.”

  Dewey lost the thread for a second, then suddenly came out with, “But when that lyin’ peckerwood Darryl done for me . . . and I was so riled to get back at him, I never ask whose car and never rightly knew what those two was up to. Just figured on that Freedom House.”

  Getting more and more animated, Dewey sat up straight. “And when they took off in the pitch dark, walked away down that muddy road, I was to stand guard for a spell till they give me the all-clear. Didn’t know where I was, you see. Figured Willie would look out for me. Figured he and that Caroline . . .”

  With his eyes fluttering, Dewey looked straight at Josh this time and said, “He done them in, didn’t he? That’s why nobody heard from ‘em. One they call Bubba, big heavy kid.”

  “No, not Bubba.”

  Dewey went blank until it finally dawned on him. “Then that rawbone kid . . . he must’ve done. Pops outta nowhere while I was lyin’ there, grabbin’ my knee screamin’. He don’t say nothin’, just goes off. Never seen him before . . . Heard tell of him, but never seen him since.”

  Unsteady but on his feet, hovering right over Josh, Dewey said, “Hold on. What you doin’ here lookin’ like this, talkin’ this way?”

  “Doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.”

  “Hell you say. Where you get all this?”

  Waving him off, Josh stayed slumped against the wall.

  “Come on, Joshua, where you been?”

  When Josh still didn’t answer, Dewey’s eyes jerked opened wide. “Oh, I get it, I get it. I damn told you to stay clear but you didn’t listen, did you?”

  “I guess . . . I don’t know.”

  “Now don’t you lie to me, boy. Nobody get hold of all this and look so all torn up unless… You been down there, ain’t you? Diggin’ around, spyin’ till all hell and that rawbone shooter come upon you. Who he butchered this time? Who else he put in the ground? Tell me now, tell me.”

  Dewey kept at him, demanding the truth about what happened until, no longer able to fend him off, Josh let the words spill out. “First he took out Bubba . . . then a razorback hog . . . slipped across the icy creek and gunned down Darryl. Quick draw with an old six-gun—three shots, Darryl didn’t have a chance. Then he turned the gun on . . .”

  Josh started to say “Alice” but cut himself short.

  “Don’t nobody have a chance,” said Dewey, swaying back and forth.

  “However, finally . . . I mean, the last I saw, last I looked—”

  “Don’t matter none. Don’t matter what you saw or think you saw, how quick you run or all the maybes you can cook up. ‘Cause they will catch you and squash you till what you seen ain’t what you seen, and that shooter was no shooter, and what you got here you don’t want no part of.”

  “Not necessar
ily.”

  “What you say?”

  “I said, not necessarily. There’s a possibility that . . . there’s a good chance that —”

  “Don’t you give me that. All of it was squashed, is squashed and will be squashed!” Dewey was so beside himself, he ripped off the bed sheet, threw the cigar box on the floor and covered it over. “Six feet under. You can’t do right by it and ain’t nothin’ ever gonna be put right ever!”

  With the fatigue wearing down on him, Josh got on his feet and went out into the bar as Dewey kept shouting behind him, “Hey, don’t you back out. You been there, know it now, seen for your own self. So let’s hear it! Pour it out for me. Tell it like it is. Come on, come on, lemme hear it, boy!”

  But there was nothing left to say. Josh couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle anything. He reached in his wallet for LuAnn’s card and gave it to Ella. “Make this call for me, will you?”

  Giving him one of her jaded looks, Ella said, “The only call I’m gonna make, pal, is citing you for disturbing the peace.”

  “Look, she’ll be worried. Do me this one favor, okay?”

  Ella glanced at the card and then right back at Josh. “What is this, a joke?”

  “Her name’s LuAnn. She’ll be quiet about it, won’t cause you any trouble. Just tell her Alice and I’ll be back by first light.”

  As he shuffled past her, he barely heard her say she didn’t do favors or crank calls and was deathly allergic to mush.

  Moving on, he said, “Please, Ella? I’m just not going to make it.”

  He approached the shadowy Blues Hall but only got as far as the stage. Feeling light headed, he wavered, stumbled up the little step unit, almost knocked over Dewey’s bottleneck guitar and pulled up a chair. Shaking off the dizziness, unable to take any more, he dug inside his rumpled jacket for his blues harp. Cupping his hand, he let out a few warbles, a couple of slides and drop-offs and then a low moaning wail. It was the lost highway. It was the end of the line.

  Tapping his foot in a weary beat, he did some 2-hole draws and blow-chords. He bent them on the low notes and opened them up till it slowly and gradually grew into a 4-bar intro, something of a 12-bar progression and a break at the turn-around.