Searching for Caleb

She acted as if she thought Caleb had grown weak in the head. She sent him up to tend the babies. Caleb had never been good with children. The sight of them made him wretched; he was so sorry for humans in the state of childhood that he couldn't stand to be near them. When one of the babies cried his insides knotted up and he felt bleak and hopeless. So he tended them as if from a distance, holding himself aloof, and as soon as it was nap time he hurried downstairs to socialize with the customers. He sat turning on a stool, talking and laughing, a little silly with relief, plunking down money from his own pocket to pay for a cup of coffee so Luray wouldn't send him off. He would fish out his harmonica with stiff, thickened fingers and give the men "Shut House" or

"Whisky Alley." Till Luray stopped in front of him with her hands on her hips and her head cocked. "Hear that? Hear what I hear? Hear them babies crying?" Then Caleb put away his harmonica and went back upstairs on slow, heavy feet.

In the fall of 1966, Luray found out she was pregnant again. She was not very happy about it. Money seemed scarcer than ever, the twins were getting to be a handful, and already the apartment was cramped. Caleb slept on the couch now, and the babies were in his old room. When he got up in the night he stumbled over blocks and wheeled toys and cold soggy diapers all the way to the bathroom, where likely as not Luray had shut herself in ahead of him. "Go away!" she would shout. "Go back to bed, you old skunk!"

One morning she went out all dressed up, leaving Roy to tend the cafe and Caleb to mind the babies. When she came back she told Caleb she had found him a place to move into. "Oh! Well," Caleb said.

He had thought a couple of times himself about moving, but not so concretely. And then there was the money. "This cafe just can't support two apartments, Luray," he said.

"It's not an apartment."

"Oh, a room? Well, fine, that'll be-"

"This is a place the county helps out with."

Then she flashed Roy a sudden look, and Roy hung his head in that bashful way he had and his face got red. But still Caleb didn't understand.

He understood only when they deposited him in the gray brick building with the concrete yard, with attendants squeaking in their rubber-soled shoes down the corridors. "But-Luray?" he said. Roy wandered off and looked at a bulletin board. The back of his neck was splotchy. Only Luray was willing to face Caleb. "Now you know they'll take good care of you," she told him. "Well, after all. It's not like you were any real relation or anything." She was balancing a baby on each arm, standing sway-backed against their weight-a thin, enormously pregnant woman with washed-out hair and cloudy skin. What could he say to her? There was no way he could even be angry, she was so dismal and pathetic. "Well," he said. "Never mind."

Though later, when the nurse told him he couldn't keep his harmonica here, he did feel one flash of rage that shook him from head to foot and he wondered if he would be able to stand it after all.

Now, he had to hum to make his music. Unfortunately he had a rather flat, toneless voice, and a tendency to hit the notes smack dab instead of slithering around on them as White-Eye Ramford used to. Still, it was better than nothing. And as time went by he made a few acquaintances, discovered a dogwood tree in the concrete yard, and began to enjoy the steady rhythm of bed, meals, social hour, nap. He had always liked to think that he could get along anywhere. Also he did have visitors. Some of these old men had no one. He had Roy and Luray coming by once a month or more with their four little tow-headed boys-Roy as young as ever, somehow, Luray dried and hollowed out. But she was very kind now. When the clock struck four and the matron shooed them from the visitors' parlor Luray would reach forward to touch Caleb's hand, or sometimes peck his cheek. "Now we'll be coming back, you hear?" she said. She always said, "Don't see us out, you sit right where you're at and stay comfortable." But he came anyway, out the steel door and across the concrete yard, to where the gate would clang shut in his face. He would wave through the grille, and Luray would tell her boys to wave back. And maybe halfway up the street, heading toward the bus stop, she would turn to smile and her chin would lift just as it used to, as if she were letting him know that underneath, she was still that sweet perky Luray Spivey and she felt just as bewildered as he did by the way things had worked out.

In his patched vinyl chair in the social room he hummed old snatches of song, joyous mournful chants for St. Louis and East St. Louis, Memphis and Beale Street, Pratt City and Parchman Farm, But it was a fact that he never hummed the "Stringtail Blues" at all, though White-Eye Ramford sang it continually in the echoing streets of his mind:

Once I walk proud, once I prance up and down, Now I holds to a string and they leads me around . . .