Caleb turned out to be big and thick and tall, all the things Esley wasn’t. There was a family resemblance though, in his eyes and easy manner.
“Back for more songs?” he asked, holding open the screen door.
“Got any?” said Esley.
“I don’t, but George does. That’s my neighbor, George McGhee. He got a job down at the factory, if you can believe it. He should be off pretty soon.”
We trooped inside and followed A.P. down the hall to a bedroom. Obviously he had been there before. He flopped down on the bed. With A.P., it seemed that he was either exhausted or lit up like a red-hot coal. I told Esley I’d sleep in the car again, so he claimed a couch next to the bed and put his things there.
Caleb led us to the main part of the house, a combination kitchen, dining room, and living room. He cut up some cornbread, and he, Esley, and I visited for while at a rickety wooden table. Caleb and Esley caught up on family business, and Esley tried to explain how anybody, let alone three people, could make a living by collecting songs.
At four o’clock, a distant whistle sounded.
“Shift’s over at the factory,” said Caleb. “George is coming home.”
Esley grabbed his guitar and woke A.P., then we headed down the street to the McGhee house. It was a modest place, painted and fixed up possibly when George got his job. There was a porch with steps, and something else too—a ramp to the front door.
As we approached, the door opened and a cart appeared. In it was a young Negro man who looked a little younger than me. Another young man came into view, pushing the cart. There was a strong family resemblance between them, with just a couple of differences—the one pushing was younger and thinner, and the one in the cart had a leg that was withered and folded under him.
“Hey, there, Brownie,” called Caleb.
“Hey, Mr. Caleb,” the one in the cart called back. “Hey, Esley.”
Caleb said in a low voice, “That’s George’s son Walter. They call him Brownie. He had polio and can’t walk. His little brother, Granville, pushes him everywhere in that wooden cart, so he’s called Sticks.”
As the brothers reached the bottom of the ramp, a car pulled up and a man got out. He was thin, with muscular arms and close-cropped hair. He wore a brown shirt that had a word stitched above the pocket: Maintenance.
“Hey there, George,” said Esley.
The man saw me looking at his shirt and grinned. “Maintenance—funny word for a janitor, ain’t it? Then again, maybe not. That’s what I do. They holler at me, and I maintain.”
Esley got up from the steps, hobbled over, and gave the man a hug, then turned to me. “Nate, this is George McGhee. Sings a mean blues. You got one for us, George?”
“Got twenty,” said McGhee. “Which one you want?”
“The good one,” said Esley.
McGhee went inside and came out wearing a different shirt—blue, with no words on it. He was carrying a tray that had a pitcher of sweet tea and some glasses. Sticks poured us some tea while his father disappeared again. When he came back, he was holding a guitar.
McGhee didn’t sit. He just stood and sang like he was on a stage, and maybe he was. I noticed he was facing A.P., who had pulled out some paper and was scribbling on it. Next to A.P., Esley watched McGhee’s fingers and tried to copy the chords.
McGhee sang us the good one, all right, then sang some more: “Stackolee,” then something called “Frankie.” I had never heard the songs before, but somehow, they sounded familiar. Maybe good songs are like that. Then he spun out some blues he made up on the spot, about women who cheated, men who loved them anyway, and factory jobs that paid the bills and not much else.
When he finished, we didn’t clap. We didn’t have to. The songs had grabbed us and squeezed. They were painful but also beautiful. After they ended, the sound floated in the air between us, shimmering like silver.
“Your daddy’s good,” I told Sticks.
“Yes, he is,” the young man answered.
McGhee smiled. “Nothin’ to it.”
“Here’s a song,” said Esley, nodding to me. “We’re trying to track it down.”
So I sang. The words and music had lived inside my head, and now they were in the world, bobbing around, looking for a place to land.
McGhee cocked his head and smiled vaguely. “It’s a pretty thing. Sorry though. Never heard it before.”
“Hey,” said Brownie, “you all want to stay for supper? Sticks and I can make biscuits and gravy.”
A.P., hands trembling, stuffed the paper into his pocket and got to his feet.
“Thanks for asking,” he warbled, “but we’d best be going. Gotta work on these songs—that is, with your permission.”
“Honored,” said McGhee. “Caleb told us about the Carter Family.”
We walked back to Caleb’s house, where he served us more cornbread and some black-eyed peas. Afterward, A.P. pulled out his paper and pencil to work on the songs.
“So,” I said to Esley, “we leave in the morning?”
“Not quite yet. We got one more stop, right here in Kingsport.”
“Another singer?” I asked.
Esley smiled. “You might say that. We’re going to church.”