Fresh cut oak was stacked behind the restaurant, a scent thickened by rain. He recalled Miss Tracee liked the way it burned in a stove but complained about the stink. Hiccuped out of pig mud, she said. She wouldn’t keep it in her house, she had him bring it in from the woodshed whenever a fire was required. He carried it wobbly over stone ground, and the bark sometimes poked holes in his shirts. She fussed at him for not using the wheelbarrow. Or carry it with your hands, she said, not your arms, I can’t keep repairing your clothes. Lord, child. Spelman heard those words enough, every time he stepped inside, came in from the rain, had not bothered to scrape his boots with equal vigor on the outside doormat. Lord, child.
Distant, he noticed a torn restaurant bill taped to the door, something written with blue ink in a spidery hand. A woman watched him from the cash counter and shook her head. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles, couldn’t read what was written, but he saw the expression on her face. He pushed on the door, but it was locked firmly enough not to rattle. The woman frowned and turned away. Spelman wished he had a smoke, something to keep his hands busy, to root for matches, or hold between his fingers. He didn’t want to think about Miss Tracee any more. She finally went blind, he heard, sometime during his first year in prison. He couldn’t remember who told him that. Her vision was always poor, even with strong bifocals. That was the last thing he heard about her. He couldn’t recall who told him that, or if it was even real.
No seats? said Albert Tine.
Don’t know for sure, said Spelman. Place is locked. I can’t read the sign on account of no spectacles.
No? Let me take a look. He leaned into the note and squinted hard.
It says, We are closed to the public tonight on account of paying our respects to Brother Jonny Wine of Ashwagandha Baptist Church. There will be a Bible study after the meal. Thank you and come back tomorrow. Albert Tine cleared his throat. So I guess that means we’re out of luck for a meal.
We can’t just go in? They don’t know we’re not here to pay respects.
Yeah they do. It ain’t worth it. I’ll pick us up a couple of cokes and candy bars to get us the rest of the way. If you have to use the toilet, there’s some bushes behind the kiosk.
I wouldn’t go in there even if it was free food, Spelman said. He spat on the pavement. The hell with them. Didn’t care for the way she looked at me.
She who?
The one behind the cash register. Like I was nothing. No one.
Don’t take it personal. You are no one. And so am I. These people keep to their own, don’t care for strangers.
Doesn’t give them the right.
Yes. It does. This is their place, that’s all. You and me, we don’t have a place, but we will, once we land where someone will have us. Do you have a sweet tooth or a salt one?
Spelman grinned. I can eat sugar by the pound, but it don’t always agree with me.
Maybe tonight it will, he said, and steered Spelman, reluctant to leave, towards the car.
I just want to get away from here, he said. I don’t have any good thoughts about anyplace lately.
City lights and music, that’s what you need, said Albert Tine. He pulled out his wallet and fumbled with a few bills. The wallet was old and thin. You go on over and get us something while I unlatch my fiddle and play something for you. I told you I would, and so I will.
What, here?
Yessir. Right here in the parking lot, under the stars and before God and the righteous and dead pastor from Ashwagandha Baptist Church, may he rest in peace above these continental clouds.
Alright, said Spelman. And amen, if he’s deserving of it.
The boy there wasn’t much more than eighteen. He looked like a girl trying to look like a boy, but he was polite and looked at Spelman with rightful suspicion. Inside the kiosk the lights were soft and colorful with Christmas bulbs draped over cigarette ads and Coca-Cola signs. A brighter 100-watt burned above the cash register and the countertop and part way on the crossword puzzle the boy was attempting. Spelman saw at least twenty types of gum and candy bars, different sizes and flavors of coke, shiny potato chip bags, a rack of cigarette brands he’d never heard of. I only got nine dollars, he said. What’s your name, son?
Ed, said the boy.
Well, Ed, tell me what I can get for nine dollars. And I’d like some change back, because it doesn’t seem fair to spend all my friend’s money. I’d like two cokes and whatever else.
I don’t understand you, said Ed.
I am asking for suggestions, Ed. I’ve been away a long time and I don’t know what this cash will buy me. Fill up a bag and I’ll be fine with whatever you choose. Otherwise, we’ll be here all night, me trying to decide, and neither of us wants that.
Umm, okay, said Ed.
There’s no need to be scared of me.
Oh, I ain’t scared. You’re the second person who’s talked to me tonight, the first being your friend. I make two-fifty-five an hour, and they won’t even let me use the toilet in the restaurant because I’m not staff, and I’ve been here longer than some of those waitresses. Hell, you can have the whole goddamn place if you want, and I will gladly give you change.
I ain’t robbing you, Ed. Don’t want that, I’m an honest man. You can do whatever you want with the money, but don’t be calling me a thief.
Wouldn’t do that. I just want out of this shithole.
Yessir, said Spelman. I can understand wanting that.
Ed started to fill up a bag. Do you smoke, mister? We got fresh packs of Marlboros yesterday.
I thank you, no. Keep a pack for yourself if you want.
I’ll save them for yonder Baptists and waitresses.
That’s fine. You about done? My friend over there is wanting to play me a song or two on his fiddle.
Does he play loud? I’d sure like to hear it.
I’ll mention it. I’m sure he’d be agreeable.
Ed held up a sagging plastic bag and he only took eight dollars for it. Appreciate the conversation, mister, he said. I don’t get much of that here.
Go find something you like to do, Ed. Make some money, be fair to others as you’ve been to me. I can’t guarantee you’ll go anywhere, but you will be thought of kindly.
Yessir, I will, said Ed, and he poked a pack of Marlboros into his shirt pocket. Thank your friend for the music even if I can’t hear it.
Spelman said he would, and he walked back to the car where Albert Tine had already unlatched his fiddle from its case. He was passing the bow across a rosin cake. Haven’t played her in a long time, he said. Spelman watched Tine’s hands and saw a kind of tenderness he hadn’t expected. The man cleared his throat theatrically and nestled the fiddle below cheek and chin, shifting it just so. This one, he said, is called Drowsy Maggie. I learned it before I married Maybellene the first time.
And he played with no pauses or hesitation or shyness, just played it clean out of the box, and Spelman thought it was the most profound thing he’d ever heard. He closed his eyes about the middle of the song, and an image came to mind of taking a slow train trip across a flat countryside, soft hills a soul could walk on for miles. He was both inside that train, watching himself walk, and outside that train, watching himself ride past. He held his breath until he thought he might fade away to such a place. When Albert Tine stopped, he grinned a little shyly. Not too bad for an old man, he said, though I’m not as smooth as I once was. Grit gives it a different flavor, I’d say.
Play it once more, said Spelman. That was –, he said and he could not find a proper word for how it was. That was fine, he said. More than fine, that was better than fine. Play it once more.
No sir, that’s a special one I only play once every thirty years or so, in between marriages. But I do have another. It’s a sad song, something I picked up in Virginia a long time ago under suspicious circumstances in an inauspicious saloon. Elk River Blues it’s called.
And he played it, slow and simmering with a lonesomeness that flowed from his fingers and into the air, a sound that rose above the black cypresses and sank into the crevices of the oak pile behind the restaurant. Some folks were peering at them from inside, their faces shiny from their own reflections, set in candlelight. Some were pointing, but most just watched. Spelman turned and saw that Ed had stepped out of his kiosk and was moving both feet on the pavement in a kind of clumsy dance, and he wore a big smile on his face, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. If Albert Tine noticed them at all, he did not show it; his own face was lost to something older than him, older than all of them. Then he stopped and the sound vibrated a little longer, bound for somewhere else.
Lord, said Spelman, and he lowered his head and coughed out some phlegm. I don’t want you to drive away without me, he said.
Albert Tine set a hand on Spelman’s shoulder, and then started to put the fiddle away, and it was like watching him put a baby in its crib. A single pole shone varnished yellow light upon them, and he decided he wanted to go to Hendersonville after all. He walked over to Ed and borrowed a smoke, and together they smoked for a while, watching Albert Tine pack things up. The cigarette smoke made his eyes water up a little, which was, in that particular moment, a good reason for his eyes to be a little shiny.