Faith's Reckoning, page 33
“I actually am a mother,” Sylvia said abruptly, “but I don’t know my own child.”
“Tell me,” Louise said, without missing a beat.
“When do we need to leave for Helena?” Sylvia asked, searching Louise’s face.
“Not for a couple of hours. I filled the propane tanks on the Airstream yesterday. She’s all packed and ready to go. Just these bags and the cooler left to load.” Louise waited.
“What about a camping spot? Do we need to leave earlier to get a good spot?”
“Got it covered. Some friends already reserved our spots in Tent City, down by the river. We are in no rush.”
“OK,” Sylvia said, resting back in the chair.
Louise went to the kitchen and returned with the coffeepot and a plate of biscuits with a small jar of honey.
“I’m sorry I assumed you didn’t want to be a mother,” Louise said as she set the coffeepot and plate on the coffee table and eased onto the sofa, “Projection probably. Always gets in the way of listening.”
“Oh, no, you assume correctly,” Sylvia replied, “or, at least, have every reason to assume based on what I said about Joe and me. It’s just that it’s more complicated.”
“Usually is,” Louise said, spreading some honey on a biscuit.
“Truth is, I don’t know if I wanted to be a mom, but I am and I can’t deny or turn away from it anymore.”
Louise nodded, sipping her coffee.
“I never told anyone about this, until I started seeing a therapist last spring. My best friend in college knew because she let me live with her until I gave up Terrell. I finally told Joe, but no one else.”
“Well, I’ll hold it in confidence if you feel like telling the story.”
Sylvia looked at Louise for a long moment, then began.
“I was eighteen years old, fresh out of high school and I felt liberated in Austin. Even now I feel a thrill when I walk the UT campus. Everything was new and possible. I was still a virgin, old fashioned enough to wait for love before I gave myself to someone. And I found it – that love, that someone – in a freshman theater class. His name was Antwan Chatman. It wasn’t just his looks. He possessed a depth, a soulfulness, unlike anyone I had ever met.”
Sylvia stopped, savoring the memory as she poured herself another cup of coffee. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“I’m honored to have your confidence,” Louise replied.
Sylvia continued.
“The first real connection was during an improv exercise where we took turns being a panhandler and a passerby, on the main boulevard next to the U. I was polite but avoidant as the passing stranger. Kind, but detached. He was just the opposite when it was his turn. He was curious, warm, respectful. I think that is when I first fell in love with him.”
“It can happen in a moment, can’t it?” Louise said.
“And I did mention that he was stunningly handsome, didn’t I?”
“You alluded to that.”
“We just started hanging out after class and the attraction proved mutual. Didn’t take long for that to turn physical. It was such a tender introduction to lovemaking. One night we just didn’t bother with protection. That’s all it took, and I was pregnant.”
The morning sun streamed through the window, warming the room.
“How did you feel when you found out?” Louise asked.
“Terrified…and excited,” Sylvia replied.
“So you wanted to have his child?”
“Maybe, but I didn’t see how it was possible.”
“Because you were eighteen?”
“No, because Antwan is Black, and I couldn’t face telling my family. God, I feel so ashamed saying it out loud. But when I do say it, it sounds like the truth.”
“And if it is true?” Louise asked, leaning forward from her perch on the sofa.
“Then what does that say about me? Am I not racist?” Sylvia stood up and turned to look out the window. She didn’t want Louise to see her shame.
“The seeds of racism have been planted in all of us, Sylvia. It’s in the DNA of our country, there since its birth. White entitlement constantly lives in our unconscious.”
Sylvia finally turned around to face Louise.
“To deny it only drives it deeper, makes us less aware,” Louise said. She cleared a spot on the sofa next to her and patted it, inviting Sylvia to sit. “The question is what do we do with that?”
Sylvia nodded as she sat down next to Louise. She recalled something she read in one of the books she had found at Faith’s house. “I remember this question by Thich Nhat Hanh. ‘Do we water the seeds of ignorance and hatred, or do we cultivate those of empathy and curiosity instead?”
“And how do we awaken to our deeper intentions?” Louise added. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Sylvia replied.
“How did you decide to have Antwan’s son? To give birth to Terrell?”
“It was never even a question, really.”
“Because?”
“Because I loved him. I loved them both,” Sylvia said.
“And what does that say about you?” Louise asked.
“Maybe it wasn’t so black and white after all, so to speak,” Sylvia said, “but I wish I had been braver. We could have gotten married.”
“Is that what Antwan wanted?”
“He said so, but I don’t know if it was what he really wanted.” Sylvia squinted as though trying to get a clearer picture.
“But?”
“But I couldn’t face telling my parents. I was the one who called it off. Antwan and I agreed not to see each other after I gave up Terrell. It would have been too painful.”
She started to get up, but Louise patted her knee, coaxing her to stay.
“A little self-forgiveness here, too,” Louise said.
“I know. Just wish I knew how.”
“How often do you think of them?”
“I think about Terrell a lot. Antwan too, but especially Terrell. Sometimes I think that’s why I ended up in juvenile justice. Was I looking for him in the faces of my clients? Like that isn’t an incredibly racist assumption,” Sylvia said.
A male cardinal, in all his crimson glory, perched on the feeder outside the window. He cocked his head as if listening.
“It’s just as likely that he is starting his medical residency somewhere or clerking for a justice. How would I know?” Sylvia continued.
“Have you thought about trying to find him?” Louise asked.
“I wrote a letter to the Home of the Holy Infancy last month requesting that they pass my contact information along to him. It seems so selfish. Will I just hurt him again?”
Louise nodded thoughtfully, then smiled.
“Sounds like the concerns of a loving mother. McLeod might be able to give you a perspective that neither of us possess.”
“Oh, I could never…,” Sylvia said with a slight gasp.
“You could,” Louise replied, “He won’t judge you and he’s wise.”
Louise stood up to clear the cups and plates from the coffee table as a car pulled up into the grass drive, tooting its horn.
“Speaking of McLeod,” Louise said as she waved to him through the front window.
“No, I can’t…,” Sylvia said, jumping up from the couch.
“Don’t worry,” Louise said, “He’s just here to help me hitch the Airstream to the Silverado. You’ll have time to talk to him at the festival. Come say a quick hello then you can wash the dishes and pack up the food while we hook up the trailer.”
“So you two are friends,” Sylvia said.
“Blues buddies, really. Amazing how music, especially the blues, brings people together, no matter their backgrounds. It’s the human thing we all share, love and loneliness, our nobility, and our failings. I feel indebted to the blues. It saved my life when I thought my losses would drown me. And when you think of where the blues came from, the sorrow songs of the slaves…. You begin to understand to whom we are indebted.”
Sylvia went outside with Louise. McLeod met them at the porch.
“Good morning, ladies,” McLeod said, “Ready for some blues?”
“Always,” Louise replied.
Sylvia nodded in agreement. “I can’t wait to hear you play,” she said, “and to meet Nora.”
“I’m looking forward to having some time to talk during the festival. Afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry now though. Nora’s waiting for me at the house, so I better help Louise…”
“Yeah, I need to clean up and finish packing, so see y’all soon.” Sylvia gave a little wave as she turned and reentered the house. She could hear the laughter as McLeod and Louise headed around the back where the Airstream waited.
Sylvia rode shotgun as Louise steered the Silverado north on Highway 49, the twenty-two-foot Airstream gliding behind them. Their friendship deepening with shared stories of the past. Louise took her time driving, meandering slowly while ignoring the shouts and honking, as cars buzzed past on her left.
Sylvia had decided to ride with Louise instead of taking her own car after Louise assured her they didn’t need the extra car. The campground was only a half mile from town and McLeod and Nora would bring their car. The afternoon sun was still a couple of hours above the horizon, disappearing at times behind the billowing clouds rolling up from the Gulf. The flat expanse of farmland stretched before them in all directions. Forty-five minutes into the drive Louise took the left turn toward Lula. The smell of the mighty muddy river greeted them after a few minutes, signaling their arrival in Helena, Arkansas.
It wasn’t until they ascended the Helena bridge that Sylvia got a sense of the scale of the King Biscuit Blues Festival. A line of cars crept across the bridge, over a half mile long. It snaked another three miles into the small town with a population of less than eight thousand. More than ten times that number would descend on the festival over the next three days. It took almost as long to get from the bridge to their campground as it had taken to get from Clarksdale to Lula. They continued to chat as Louise drove through Helena, pointing out the four music stages along Cherry Street. She explained that there were multiple smaller venues around town; bars and clubs, that filled up after the stage performances ended. And that didn’t include the buskers playing for donations on the street. The music would play on until the wee hours of the morning. They passed through the north end of town and looped back on Cunningham Road to the festival campground. Tent city, perched on the east edge of town, teemed with RVs, tents and cars. Music drifted from the stages in town, along with gatherings of musicians in the camp. Blues and gospel, mixed with the strains of Zydeco and Rock-a-billy. A body could hardly stay still.
Louise pulled the trailer under a bank of trees along the side of the campground opposite the river. A maroon sedan, which Sylvia recognized as McLeod’s, sat in the middle of a large parking spot next to another, larger Airstream. Louise tooted the horn and the door to the Airstream opened. McLeod popped his head out and waved to them.
“Give me a second,” he said, disappearing into the trailer and returning with keys in hand. He headed to the sedan.
“McLeod’s friends, Emmett and Maya, are patron saints. They renovated an old Victorian in Helena some time back and for the past five years they are the first in line when the gates open to Tent City. They pay for two spots and park their Airstream for McLeod’s use.”
“Colleagues of his?” Sylvia asked.
“Fans. You’ll find he has quite a few folks here who know him only for his music.”
McLeod parked the sedan in front of his trailer. Louise eased the truck forward until the trailers were alongside each other, then cut the engine.
“You beat us here,” Sylvia said, smiling to McLeod as she dismounted the cab of the Silverado.
“Well, half of Clarksdale passes Louise hauling the old Silver Chalet up to the festival. Personally, I’m glad she takes her time. No need to rush.”
“Isn’t it the truth,” Sylvia replied.
Louise got out of the driver’s seat and disappeared into the Airstream. She emerged carrying a small plate holding a half dozen deviled eggs. She walked over to McLeod and handed it to him.
“You spoil me Mary Louise,” he grinned, popping one of the eggs into his mouth.
“Mary?” Sylvia said.
“Forget it,” Louise replied, with a wave of her hand, “He likes to pester me.”
“And hey, M.T. Walker, those are for Nora, too.
“Hey Boo,” McLeod hollered to Nora, “Louise brought her deviled eggs.”
Nora appeared at the door of the trailer, stepping down carefully to join them. She was tall with a stately beauty, her close-cropped hair sprinkled with silver. She plucked an egg from the plate and delicately took a bite.
“Thank you, Louise, for both of us,” she said, playfully shoving McLeod with her shoulder.
“Making me a better man,” McLeod said, his smile almost boyish as he looked at Nora.
“Where are you playing tonight?” Sylvia asked.
“King Biscuit Lounge,” he replied.
“OK, I have to ask,” Sylvia said, “Who is King Biscuit?”
“None such,” Louise replied, touching Sylvia’s arm.
“Name comes from the KFFA radio show ‘King Biscuit Time’ started back in 1941 by Sonny Boy Williamson,” McLeod explained. “May be the best blues harpist ever. The radio station got the local business, King Biscuit Flour, to sponsor the show. It’s still going but the live band broadcasts are long gone. A couple of the original band members will be on the main stage tonight, Robert Junior Lockwood and Pinetop Perkins.”
“Can we go?” Sylvia asked eagerly.
“Sure. I don’t start my gig until nine o’clock so we can catch them on the way.”
Louise looked west toward Helena.
“Don’t know about you but I’m ready to mosey into town after securing the Airstream. Sun’s gonna dip behind Crowley’s Ridge in another thirty minutes.”
“I’m with you, Louise,” Nora said.
“Me, too,” said McLeod, “Besides, those deviled eggs won’t keep my hunger at bay much longer. The gumbo contest is tonight, right?”
“Sure is,” Louise answered, “You gonna carry the pot for me?”
“Of course,” McLeod said.
“Creole or filé?” Sylvia asked.
“There will be both, I’m sure, but Louise’s specialty is Creole,” McLeod answered.
“Who knows? My entry might just win this year,” she said.
“Are they saving the barbeque contest for Saturday?” Nora asked.
“Last I heard,” McLeod replied.
“Louise, do you need help with the trailer?” Nora asked, nudging McLeod forward.
“OK, OK,” he said, wrapping an arm around Nora’s waist and drawing her closer. He kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“I’ll secure the trailer while you gals freshen up. Shouldn’t take me but fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Nice to finally meet you, Nora,” Sylvia said. The women disappeared into the larger Airstream while McLeod went to lower the tongue jack on the trailer.
The sun was just setting as they took the levee walk into town. The musty smell of fallen leaves was stirred by a cool breeze that had come with evening.
“Smells like rain,” Nora commented.
The plaintive wail of a slide guitar grew louder as they headed down Cherry Street toward Elm. They made their way through town, pausing to listen to Sugar Blue play his blues harp. The gumbo contest was inside the Delta Cultural Center, housed in the renovated 1912 Union Pacific train depot. McLeod placed the large pot of gumbo at one end of a long table. Louise talked to the organizers of the contest who had servers available for the cooks who preferred to attend the rest of the festival. She left a card with her name and phone number next to the pot and returned to the others. They each filled a bowl with a different Creole gumbo, having no taste for the filé variety.
They caught Pinetop Perkins and Robert Junior Lockwood on the main stage before heading to the King Biscuit Lounge. By the time they arrived, the place was packed. People began to settle as McLeod mounted the stage and began a sound check. Two microphones were set up, one for his guitar and one for his voice. Nora, Sylvia, and Louise found the small couch near the stage that had been reserved for McLeod. The venue was an intimate setting with a couch, some wingback chairs and a dozen small tables.
“Check, check,” he said, adjusting the small amplifier next to his stool. The crowd grew quieter, a hushed anticipation building.
“Welcome back, Walker,” said a voice in the dimly lit room.
“Thank you,” McLeod said softly, leaning into the microphone, “Good to be back at the Biscuit.”
“Where’s Jazz?” shouted another fan, used to seeing McLeod’s dog curled up next to him on the stage.
He tuned his Gibson L-00 reissue as he continued.
“She’s fine, staying with a friend back home. Just getting a little old to travel.”
He continued hand tuning, matching the tone of the strings at the fifth fret, his ear pitch perfect.
“I’m gonna start with some old familiars. A little Son House, some Lottie Kimbrough Beaman and Mr. Robert Johnson, of course. I’ve got a couple of my own songs that I will save for the second set. I’ll close out this first set with a run of songs off Keb Mo’s new album “Slow Down”.”
He did one last check, listening to the crystalline ping of harmonics, before slipping the steel slide onto his left ring finger. He closed his eyes and began the first licks of “Pearline.” The slide skated down the strings, smooth as silk on glass. He appeared to shed ten years as his body transformed with the rhythm. The audience joined him in that other realm, transported by his masterful renditions of the slightly syncopated “Terraplane Blues”, the sultry “Come on in My Kitchen”. It was impossible not to bob and sway when he broke into the happy canter of “Rolling Log” by Lottie Beaman.
Waitresses were bringing a second round of drinks to most tables when McLeod paused before the Keb Mo’ medley. He took a long drink of water and cleared his voice.
“I’ve never known a man who could make the blues feel so happy, but that’s what these songs from “Slow Down” do to me. So enjoy.”
