NOW
Webb jumped out of the back of a pickup truck with his guitar case strapped to his back, and gave a big thumbs-up to the farmer who had given him a ride down the highway.
The old farmer gave a slight dignified nod, and left Webb at the only traffic light in the town of Eagleville, Tennessee.
Five days had passed since he’d been at Devil’s Pass. When Webb had flown out of Toronto the day before, it had been a soggy, chilly day, wet leaves falling to the ground and sticking, unmoved by gusts of wind.
In Tennessee, the sky was cloudless and the air pressed warmth upon him.
Webb took in his surroundings, thinking of the beautiful, harsh desolation of the Northwest Arctic and comparing it to the comfort of the old buildings around him.
There was a post office across the street. And a town hall, built with logs, with rocking chairs on the front porch. More importantly, there was a cafe called the Main Street Cafe, right beside a barbershop.
Webb was hungry.
He stepped inside, and the smile on the face of the waitress was as warm as the air outside. “Honey, git you a tea?”
“I’d like something a little cooler than that,” Webb said. “I’m thirsty.”
She stared at him, puzzled for a moment, Then grinned. “Honey, I kin tell you ain’t from around here. Minnesota?”
“Canada.”
“Same thing, honey,” she said. “Any tea you git here is nice and cool. You want hot tea, you have to order hot tea.”
“Thanks,” Webb said. He looked at the menu. It said Meat and three.
“Meat and three what?” he asked.
“You order a meat, honey. Then you get your choice of three sides.”
She pointed to the menu. “See there. Grits, maybe. Okra. But I’ll tell you what. That creamed corn? Today people bin telling me it’s like the cook put his foot in it.”
“Probably won’t order it then,” Webb said.
She laughed. “That means he done a good job. Gave it everything he got. If you haven’t eaten at a meat and three, I’d go with pulled pork, then creamed corn, sweet potato pie and taters.”
“Sure,” Webb said. On his return to Toronto from Devil’s Pass, Webb had called the lawyer, John Devine, to report what had happened. Webb had learned from Devine that he was to make his way to Eagleville, a small town south and east of Nashville.
“Honey,” the waitress said, pointing at the guitar, “you planning on making it big here?”
“I just travel with it,” Webb said, thinking the waitress would never believe where the Gibson had been a few days earlier. “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Ruby Gavin.”
“You kin?”
“I’m glad I can,” Webb said. “Thanks. Just need directions.”
More laughter from the waitress. “What I mean is, are you Ruby’s kin? Kinfolk?”
“Just delivering something,” Webb said.