“I’m taking Pops to Memphis,” I said, struggling to hold it together.
“He’ll love that.” When she began to cry, I wrapped my arms around her.
“I know. Thank you for helping me do this,” I whispered.
“Helping you do what?” she said, dumbfounded.
“Thank you for helping me mourn… live… find myself, and thank you for loving me.”
“Oh, sweetie, like your father, you’re easy to love.” I smiled at the idea of being like him.
“Thank you. I love you.”
Back at my apartment, I opened my father’s metal urn, relieved to find his ashes packed nicely in a velvet bag. It was going to make flying with Pops a lot easier. I packed light, bringing only a few necessities inside the hemp backpack Martha had given me.
I arrived in Memphis in the late afternoon. It started getting dark, so I took a cab straight to Beale Street. I walked to the end and stared out at the Mississippi until the sky darkened and I could no longer see the ripples in the water. It became a black void. The only light came from a tugboat slowly disappearing in the distance. I wondered what sort of magic that dark river had swallowed in its day.
Okay, Pops, time to find the music.
I turned and followed the poignant sound of a Southern blues guitar floating through the thick, spring air. The music lured me to a dive bar right off Beale. The poster read:
Tonight: The Legendary Tommy Ray Booker
When I got inside I looked up to the stage to find a man dressed in a bright red suit, complete with a red fedora and red harmony guitar. He was playing fast blues; everyone in the place was moving to the beat. When he lifted the guitar to his mouth and began plucking the strings with his teeth, the bar went crazy with applause. The saxist got on his knees, belting out the riffs while Tommy Ray continued shredding his vintage guitar. I felt alive, letting the pulse of the town, the patrons of that bar, and Tommy Ray Booker course through my veins.
My father would love it… Will would love it.
“We’re gonna take a little break. Be back in five,” Tommy said to the crowd.
I slowly made my way toward the stage. When it looked like the musicians were getting ready to go back on, I approached the drummer. He was a John-Goodman-looking character, an overweight and disheveled middle-aged man wearing faded jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.
“Excuse me.” I caught his attention right as he was about to climb the first step up to the stage.
“What can I do you for, poppet?”
I giggled at the nickname and then pointed to a very old upright piano sitting to one side of the drum kit. “Is she tuned?”
He appraised me for a long beat. Tommy came into my view at the top of the stairs. Without taking his eyes off me, the drummer said, “Hey Tommy, I think Poppet here wants to play.”
I looked up at Tommy and he smiled and then adjusted the feather in his bright red fedora before speaking. “You got the blues, baby?”
“Just the good kind,” I yelled up to him.
“Well let’s hear it, little girl.”
I climbed the steps and then looked out at the eager crowd. It was the first time I stood on a stage without feeling even slightly nervous. I had Pops with me and I didn’t know a single soul in that bar; it was freeing. That was what Will had talked about so much, playing music for the sake of the music. I turned the piano bench perpendicular and then set my backpack on the space behind me. Tommy started right away with a typical one, four, five blues chord progression; the rest of the musicians joined in, so I followed suit. I kept the tune going while Tommy and the sax player soloed. On the next round I looked back at the drummer and he winked; that was my cue. I played my heart out, fingers swirling and fluttering. I even played with my elbows. When I kicked my foot up on the high keys and played like Will had at the wedding, the bassist yelled out, “Get it, girl!” I knew it wasn’t the most ladylike thing to do, but man, the audience loved it.
When the song ended, Tommy went to the microphone. He stretched his arm out in my direction. “That’s our little girl, Poppet, over there on the ivories. Everybody give her a hand.” The crowd clapped and cheered and I smiled from ear to ear. I bowed and then grabbed my backpack and headed offstage. As I passed Tommy I quietly said, “Thank you.”
He gave me a one-armed hug around the shoulders and said, “Anytime. You did great.”
The neon lights from Beale Street glowed in my dark hotel room that night as I dozed off, feeling fulfilled for the first time in a long time.
The next day I found a street fair and browsed the artisan craft stands. I came across a young, homeless man. He had a hiking pack and sleep roll propped against a small folding table with several pieces of silver jewelry laid out. When I got closer I realized the bracelets and rings were all made from bent antique spoon stems.
“Where do you get all the spoons?” I sorted through the bracelets.
“Thrift stores, estate sales, stuff like that,” he said, smiling. He wasn’t bad-looking, but he was very dirty, which made his eyes seem like the brightest green color imaginable. I pulled my hotel key from my pocket and handed it to him. “I have to take off, but I have this room until one p.m. if you want to use it.”
“Really?” he said, eyebrows arched. I nodded. “Wow, thank you so much.”
“Sure.” My eyes were instantly drawn to a bracelet that had the same silver-plate pattern as the spoons from Kell’s. I picked it up. “This is beautiful. How much?”