A STELLA HARMONY

Taking charge, Essie led me around back. She knocked on the door of a freestanding building no bigger than a two-car garage.

“Who is it?” asked a deep voice from within.

“Essie.”

The door opened immediately. I looked down at Vernon and Vernon looked up at me. He was standing on the stumps of his legs. And clearly not happy to see me. But before he could complain, Essie chimed in.

“He’s a musician,” she said, referring to me, “and him and me were both guessing that somewhere in your soul there’s music waiting to come out.”

As she said that, I spotted a Stella Harmony guitar leaning against a mattress in the back of the room.

“Hey, I got one of those,” I said, pointing to the instrument. “Was my first. Fresh out of the Sears catalogue. Wouldn’t part with it for the world.”

“There are a lot of Stella guitars around,” said Vernon.

“Those damn things are indestructible,” I said. “They mellow with age.”

“Well, while you boys go on talking about guitars,” said Essie, “I’ve got a kitchen to clean up.” And with that, she was gone.

“So you managed to chase me down,” said Vernon.

“Chalk it up to coincidence,” I said. “I was over at Big Bill’s, who mentioned that you live here. Then the chili rice called to me. Blame it on the chili rice. Chester and Essie say you’re the man behind its magic.”

“No magic,” he said. “Just an old recipe.”

“They said it was Grandma’s.”

“Yup, she was the woman who raised me.”

“Funny,” I said. “I was raised by my grandmother. Where was your mom?”

“Where was yours?” he asked.

“Sowing her wild oats. Not ready to raise kids.”

Vernon nodded his head. I waited to hear about his mom, but he wasn’t talking. As he turned his back to me, I had a few seconds to look around his apartment. The setup was simple. Not far from the door, a low-to-the-floor armchair faced a battered Emerson television set. Behind the TV was a long table that held his supply of papers, pencils, ribbons and notepads, all neatly arranged. Next to the table was his four-wheeled board. On one side of the room was a small stepladder, a sink and stovetop. Over the stovetop was a cabinet and, just beyond that, a door that I presumed led to a bathroom. Although sparse, the place was spotless—no dust, no dirty dishes in the sink.

With his arms, Vernon lifted his body off the ground and, in a series of short quick maneuvers, propelled himself to the back of the room where his guitar was resting. He picked it up and started to strum. I took that as the first positive sign he’d given me since I first set eyes on him in front of Leonards. As he played, though, his eyes weren’t on me. His eyes were far off in the distance.

From the first few notes, I could hear that he was a serious guitarist. He wasn’t playing any particular song, just a slow-moving deep-feeling blues. But unlike a lot of blues guitarists who fall on clichés, Vernon chose his notes carefully and creatively. His phrasing came from his heart, not his head. I heard him crying through his music.

“Where’d you learn to play like that?” I asked.

“I had a teacher when I was a kid.”

“He ever record?”

“Nope. He’d say to me, ‘For every Robert Johnson and Django Reinhardt, there are a dozen guys just as good that you never heard of. Well, Vernon, I’m one of ’em.’”

Saying that, Vernon, for the first time in my presence, broke into a small smile. The smile, though, didn’t last long. Focused on the guitar, he dug deeper into his blues.

“What was your teacher’s name?” I asked.

“Skeeter. Skeeter Jarvis.”

“He still around?”

“Died years ago.”

“Looks like he did a helluva job with you. Whatever he taught seems to have stuck.”

“Compared to him, I ain’t shit. Skeeter could play the thing over his head, behind his back, even with his teeth. Played it right-handed or left-handed, didn’t make him no difference. He liked to say that he played so pretty, women would leave their husband’s bed in the middle of the night, just to hear him.”

“Sounds like a song,” I said.

“He lived his life like a song.”

“A black man, I presume.”

“No. White man. But he said he’d learned to play from black men like Lightnin’ Hopkins and Mance Lipscomb. His main man was Bukka ‘Bottleneck’ Dupree. Skeeter told me a story about Bottleneck I’ll never forget. One day when Bottleneck was showing Skeeter how to work the slide, a friend of Bottleneck’s passed by and said, ‘You’re wasting your time. That white boy ain’t ever gonna get it.’ ‘If you don’t think white boys get the blues,’ Bottleneck shouted, ‘you’re as stupid as you look!’ To prove his point, a couple of months later Bottleneck put Skeeter in his little band that played in roadhouses for blacks only. But Skeeter didn’t stay long ’cause it turned out he was afraid of playing in front of big crowds. That was his downfall, the reason he never made it big.”

“But Skeeter could really play the blues.”

“The man could play anything—Western swing, jazz, you name it. But the blues, he said, was the truth.”

“And that’s how this whole music thing started for you?” I asked.

Rather than answer my question, Vernon went back to playing, his head hanging down over the guitar, his eyes shut. He played a little Robert Johnson, a little Lightnin’ Hopkins, a little Leadbelly. He played a snippet of a Mance Lipscomb song called “Mother Had a Sick Child.” He played Elmore James’s “Dust My Broom.”

“What about Hank Williams?” I asked. “You must have grown up on Hank.”

“Skeeter claimed to have played with Hank. Said they both came up in Alabama. Skeeter swore that Hank wanted to make him one of the Drifting Cowboys, but a woman got in the way. Apparently him and Hank were after the same lady. You should have heard Skeeter sing ‘Lovesick Blues.’ I love to sing it myself.”

I’ve heard “Lovesick Blues” a thousand times. Hank owned that song. His version is a thing of beauty. But hearing Vernon do it, I have to confess that I forgot about Hank. Vernon reinvented it. He put so much of himself in his singing that I, a guy who doesn’t cry easily, felt myself tearing up. Inside his voice I heard a lifetime of hurt. God only knows what this man had gone through to sound this way. There had to be an epic story behind his suffering.

When he was through, all I could say was “That was really something.”

Vernon didn’t say a word. His eyes were still shut. His guitar remained cradled in his arms. No motion at all. I let a few seconds tick by and then said, “With a voice as good as yours, I can’t believe you never made a record.”

“Who said I never made a record?” he said, now opening his eyes and staring right at me.

“I presumed . . .”

“You presumed wrong.”

“Tell me about it. You have a copy for me to hear?”

“Nothing to tell. No copy. No record player. Ancient history.” And with that, Vernon retreated back in his shell.

“But surely copies exist,” I said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Just guessing.”

“Look, buddy, I’m tired of your guessing and I’m tired of your questions. I know Miss Essie meant well by bringing you in here. I appreciate how Miss Essie worries after me. But mostly I appreciate my privacy. So if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

“Don’t mind at all,” I said. “I’ll be on my way. But if you ever feel the need for company, just holler. I could come over with my guitar and we could—”

“Thanks but no thanks.”

“Or if you wanna hear a little of my music, I’ll be down at Big Bill’s on weekends.”

Rather than reply, Vernon leaned his guitar against the mattress and, with those long, strong arms of his, moved across the room and saw me to the door.

“Good night,” I said.

He nodded and said nothing.

I drove home, thinking that was the end of that. I guessed wrong again.