Searching for Caleb

By noon the following day, Eli had contacted every Ramford in the telephone book. He had located White-Eye Ramford's great-granddaughter, a waitress; from there he had gone to see a Mrs. Clarine Ramford Tucker, who was residing in the Lydia Lockford Nursing Home for the Colored and Indigent; and from there to a Baptist cemetery in a swampy-smelling section outside the city. The sight of Abel Ramford's crumbling headstone, a small Gothic arch over a sunken grave obviously neglected for years, smothered by Queen Anne's lace and chicory, brought Eli up short, and for a long time he stood silent with his hat in his hands, wondering if this were the end of his road. Then he took heart and went to see the caretaker. He learned that Mr. Ramford's site had no visitors at all, so far as was known; but that every year on All Saints' Day a bouquet of white carnations was brought by Altona Florists, a very high-class flower shop with lavender delivery trucks.

And Altona Florists said yes, they did have a standing order for that date: a dozen white carnations delivered to this little colored cemetery way the hell and gone; and the bill was sent to Box Hill, Louisiana, to a Mr. Caleb Peck.

That was Saturday, August twenty-fifth. It had taken Eli exactly eighty-one days to complete his search. Because he had been warned not to approach Caleb in person ("I want to do that much myself," Mr. Peck had said), Eli came home without that final satisfaction. But it was almost enough just to tell his story in Justine's kitchen and watch the old man's astonishment. "What? What?"

he said, even when he had clearly heard. He started circling the table again, kneading his hands as if they were cold. "I don't understand."

"He's in Louisiana, Grandfather."

"But-we never did go anywhere near there. Did we, Justine?"

"We didn't know."

"We never thought of it," said Mr. Peck. "Louisiana is one you forget when you're trying to name all the states in the Union. What would he be doing there?"

"Eli says-"

"I always suspected that Sulie was no durn good."

"Now Grandfather, you didn't either, you know how you used to rely on her."

"She took advantage," he said. "Why, if we somehow missed asking her-and I don't believe for a minute that we did-it was an oversight. Just chance! How long are we going to be held accountable for every little slip and error?" He frowned at Eli. "And you say Caleb is a-"

"Fiddler."

"I don't understand."

"Fiddler."

"Yes, but I don't-" He turned to Justine. "That doesn't make sense," he told her.

"You always did say he was a musical man," she said.

"It's the wrong Caleb."

"No sir!" said Eli, lifting his head sharply. "No indeed, Mr. Peck."

"Bound to be."

"Would I come to you if I wasn't sure yet?" Eli fumbled in his breast pocket, brought out his notebook, and turned the curly, gray-rimmed pages. "Here. I checked this man out, listen here. Caleb Justin Peck, born February fourteenth, eighteen eighty-five, Baltimore, Maryland. Who else could it be?"

"How'd you learn all that? I told you not to go near him."

"I called and spoke to a nurse at the Home."

"Home?"

Eli flipped back one page in his notebook. "Evergreen County Home for the Elderly, two fourteen Hamilton Street, Box Hill, Louisiana."

Mr. Peck felt behind him for a chair and sat down very slowly.

"If you say a word," Justine whispered to Duncan, "I'll kill you. I'll kill you."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

Eli looked from one face to the other, confused.

"But of course he's not in the Home," said Mr. Peck.

"Why, yes."

"He just lives nearby. Or visits some acquaintance there."

"He's a resident."

"He is?"

"Room nineteen."

Mr. Peck rubbed his chin.

"I'm sorry," said Eli, although previously he hadn't felt one way or the other about it.

"My brother is in a Home."

"Well now, I'm sure it's-"

"My own brother in a Home." His eyes flashed suddenly over to Duncan, spiky blue eyes like burs. "You will want your bottle of bourbon or whatever."

"Forget it," said Duncan. He looked somehow tired, not himself at all.

"Why!" said Mr. Peck. "Why, Caleb must be old!"

Nobody spoke.

Mr. Peck thought a moment. "He is eighty-eight years old," he said at last.

Telling the news was not as much fun as Eli had expected it would be.

14

21 Watchmaker Street Caw Mill, Maryland August 27, 1973 Dear Caleb, I take pen in hand to

21 Watchmaker Street Can Mill, Maryland August 27, 1973 Dear Caleb, When I heard you were alive, Caleb, my heart

21 Watchmaker Street Caro Mill, Maryland August 27, 1973

Dear Caleb, This is your brother writing. My name, in the very likely event that you have forgotten, is

21 Watchmaker Street Cam Mill, Maryland August 27, 1973 Dear Caleb, I take pen in hand to express my hope that you are in good health and spirits.

Originally I had planned to visit unannounced, extending personally an invitation to stay with us here in Caro Mill. However my grandson reminded me that perhaps you had no wish to see your family again. 1 told him that of course this would not be the case. Is it?