Thin Blue Smoke: A Novel About Music, Food, and Love

by Doug Worgul

  *

  Ferguson got to Memphis at about ten o’clock on Monday morning, and found his way to General Bar-B-Q, which had not yet opened for the day. The neon “BBQ & Whisky” sign was gone. And the Coca-Cola sign, over the front door, now said, “General Bar-B-Q Ribs Wet N Dry Number 1”. In most every other way, the building looked the same.

  He was exhausted and sore from the drive. He knew that if he waited in his car for the restaurant to open he’d fall asleep. He drove back out to the interstate and got a room at a Motel 6, where he slept for nine hours.

  By the time he showered, shaved, and drove back to the restaurant, General Bar-B-Q was closed.

  He got out of his car and peered in the front window. It looked like a light might be on in the kitchen, but he didn’t see anyone. He turned to go back to the car, thinking maybe he should just go back to Kansas City, when he sensed something move off to his left. He turned and there was Periwinkle Brown.

  She didn’t recognize him. “May I help you?” she asked.

  She was small, and bright-eyed, and deep cherry-brown, just as he remembered, though her hair was now gray and she wore it in medium-length dreadlocks.

  He stood silent, smiling.

  Peri looked at him hard. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed here. Our other place is open late, in East Memphis. It’s a bit of a drive though. There’re other barbecue places closer, if you were wanting some place to eat.”

  Ferguson shook his head. “No. I’m fine.”

  Peri continued to look at him. Ferguson thought maybe he saw a flutter of recognition in her eyes. But she said nothing.

  “Thank you,” said Ferguson. He turned, got into his car, closed the door, closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. He had hoped to see her, and he had. He turned on the ignition. Then Periwinkle Brown knocked on the car window. He rolled it down.

  “Ferguson Glen,” she said. “Ferguson Glen.”

  He nodded.

  “Get out the car,” she said, firmly.

  He complied immediately. They stood beside the car looking at one another. Periwinkle shook her head.

  “Cast your bread upon the water,” she said, under her breath.

  She unlocked the restaurant. They went inside and she started a pot of coffee.

  “I didn’t think you’d recognize me,” he said, leaning back on the kitchen worktable, as they waited for the coffee. “It’s been thirty-seven years.”

  Peri smiled. “Well, Rev. Mr. Famous Author, your picture is on the back of a few books which I happen to have on my shelves. And I’ve Googled you more than once.”

  Ferguson was instantly ashamed that he had never thought to Google Periwinkle Brown.

  “The thirty-seven years have been much kinder to you than they have to me,” he said.

  “I’m looking at you and thinking you’re right about that,” said Peri. “But I’m happy to see you anyway. What brings you to Memphis? Conference at the seminary?”

  Ferguson looked at Peri and thought about the question. “No.”

  Peri thought about his answer. “I see.”

  The coffee was ready. Peri poured two cups and they went out into the dining room and sat in a booth.

  “You hungry? I could heat up some ribs or some sausage.” Peri stirred cream into her coffee.

  “I’m fine,” said Ferguson. “How’s Wren?”

  “She’s wonderful,” Peri laughed. “She’s got her own record label, here in Memphis. Bluebird Records. Mostly old school R&B and blues. She and her husband, Tyrell, have two girls; my grandbabies Ruby and Violet. Tyrell is a good man. He runs our East Memphis place. If I ever get up enough nerve to do something else with my life, the business would be in good hands with Tyrell.”

  Ferguson sipped his coffee and stared at a chipped place on the table. There was additional information he was waiting for.

  Peri watched Ferguson’s hands rotate his coffee cup in a small circle. “What about you, Ferguson?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a story,” he said, not looking up. “No family. Not much to show for the life I’ve lived. Mostly I’ve been looking for something. But I haven’t found it. Probably because I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

  Peri scowled. “What about your books? Your writing has touched people. God gave you a gift. Why would you look for anything else?”

  Ferguson said nothing.

  “Why are you here, Reverend?” Peri asked.

  “To see you,” Ferguson said, finally allowing his eyes to meet hers.

  “You think I’m what you been looking for?”

  Ferguson shook his head, then shrugged. “No. I don’t know what I think.”

  Peri persisted. “You think maybe I can tell you where to find whatever it is you’re looking for?”

  Ferguson again shook his head.

  Peri sighed and leaned in toward Ferguson. “You came all the way here to see me because of two nights in 1968? What makes you think that’s all right? Did you consider that I might be married maybe?”

  Ferguson nodded. “I did come all the way here to see you because of two nights in 1968. And I don’t assume it’s all right. I hope it is. But I think it may not be. And I did consider that you might be married.”

  Peri leaned back in the booth. “Well, I’m not.”

  Ferguson wanted to breathe a big sigh of relief, but resisted. “I don’t expect anything. I was on my way back to Kansas City, where I live now. I was visiting my father in Michigan, and when I got to Chicago I just turned south and here I am. I just wanted to see you. I don’t expect anything. This, having coffee with you, is more than I could have hoped for. I don’t know. That’s all there is to it, really. Nothing more than that.”

  Peri smiled, just a little. “Well, that seems like quite a bit to me. I must have made quite an impression on you, Reverend Glen. I think I’m flattered.”

  Ferguson nodded. “You did.”

  They were quiet again, until Peri spoke.

  “You made quite an impression on me, too, Ferguson. It was just one day when you think about it. One day. But I’ve thought about you in these years. And you being here now, out of the blue, is maybe the biggest surprise of my life. I really don’t know what to do or say. I really don’t. But I’m willing to consider that maybe God has something in mind. I should probably pay close attention to what’s going on right about now. I should probably keep my eyes open.”

  She took a napkin from the dispenser and wiped a spot on the table. “Thirty-seven years is a long time between dates.”

  Ferguson nodded. “It is.”

  Peri looked him in the eyes. “I may not even like you once I get to know you better.”

  Ferguson nodded. “You probably won’t.”

  Peri nodded. “Truth is, I’ve read all your books, and some of your writing online. And I’ve thought about you a lot. I feel like I know you pretty well already.”

  Ferguson shrugged. “Well, then maybe you can provide me with some clues.”

  Peri tilted her head slightly and squinted. “The black and white thing doesn’t bother you?”

  Ferguson gently shook his head. “The black and white thing is what made me semi-famous. That’s not an issue.”

  Peri looked back down at the table and thought about things, then looked back up at Ferguson.

  “Thirty-seven years,” she said in a whisper. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “Not me,” said Ferguson.

  Ferguson felt warm and remembered that he had remembered the yellow walls of General Bar-B-Q’s dining room hundreds of times since April 1968.

  He smiled. “If you hadn’t held my hand that night, none of this would be happening.”

  31

  Bob-Stones

  About a half-block from Smoke Meat, up 17th Street, is a telephone p
ole that looks like it’s melting into the sidewalk. Puddled around its base is a congealed pool of sealing tar that an over-industrious utility worker applied to the pole with too heavy a hand, resulting in its sliding off and hardening at the bottom like so much candle wax. A.B. passes this pole once or twice a week when he walks up to the convenience store at 17th and Grand to buy cigarettes. He always makes a mental note to say something about the pole to Leon or Vicki, but by the time he gets back to the restaurant he always forgets.

  Late one night after closing, as he was getting into his car, A.B. checked his pockets for cigarettes and, finding none, drove up to the store to get a pack for on the way home. On the way up 17th Street, he glanced over at the telephone pole and saw a man working on the pole with tools. Thinking that it was late for someone from the telephone company to be out making repairs, A.B. slowed his car to check it out. The man looked up from his work and watched A.B. watching him.

  He had a long thin face, long stringy dark hair, and large dark-rimmed glasses with lenses so thick they made his eyes look big and round. He glared at A.B.

  A.B. swallowed hard and made a mental note to ask Pug, or maybe Bob Dunleavy, if they’d ever heard of the telephone company sending someone out to work on a telephone pole so late. But by the time he saw Pug and Bob next he’d forgotten.

  About a week later, walking back to the restaurant from the store, with a Mountain Dew and a fresh pack of cigarettes, A.B. noticed that a steel plate about 18-inches high, 10-inches wide, and about a quarter-inch thick had been attached to the pole at about eye-level. The plate was curved to conform to the shape of the pole and was fastened to the pole with two big bolts — one on the top and one on the bottom — that went all the way through the pole. Lock nuts were snugged down tight on the bolts on the other side. Welded onto the plate were raised steel letters arranged in four lines:

  INLE

  HRAIR

  elil

  OWSLAFA

  A.B. decided the letters must be some kind of telephone company code. He lit a cigarette and stood there looking at the letters trying to think of what they might mean. His deliberation was interrupted by the horn of LaVerne’s truck, which was stopped in the middle of 17th Street. LaVerne yelled at A.B from the truck.

  “Boy, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing there. But you look stupid. In the future, when you’re out in public gawkin’ at telephone poles, kindly remove your official LaVerne Williams’ Genuine BBQ and City Grocery T-shirt. I don’t want you representing our establishment when you look stupid.”

  LaVerne drove off. A.B. looked down at his T-shirt, flicked his cigarette onto the sidewalk, stepped on it, and hurried back to the restaurant.

  Several weeks later, A.B. was helping Jen unload her drums at Blaney’s in Westport when he saw the man who’d been working on the 17th Street telephone pole. He was standing across the street, gripping a telephone pole as if he were strangling it. He was wearing a heavily insulated black parka, camouflage pants, and red Chuck Taylors. A.B. guessed the man was about his age. It was hard to tell. He appeared to be evaluating the sturdiness of the pole, a process interrupted when a beer truck pulled into the loading zone in front of the pole. When the beer delivery man got out of the cab and went around to open the truck’s back door, the phone pole man looked both ways, pulled the hood of his coat up over his head and walked away, his shoulders hunched up around his ears. A.B. concluded that the man was not an employee of the telephone company.

  The next day, after the lunch rush, A.B. walked up to the telephone pole on 17th Street to take another look at the steel plate with the mysterious inscription. He traced the letters with his finger. The welds were bumpy and rough. He tried pronouncing the words, but the odd combinations of vowels and consonants were awkward. He thought maybe Ferguson would know if the words were from some foreign language, but he knew he’d never remember them, so he copied them on the back of an order slip from the pad he kept in his back pocket.

  INLE

  HRAIR

  elil

  OWSLAFA

  Ferguson didn’t come in to Smoke Meat that day, so as they were cleaning up after closing, A.B. took the order slip from his pocket and asked Vicki Fuentes if she knew what the letters meant. He knew better than to ask Leon. Vicki went to college. She knew stuff. Plus she was Mexican. She looked at the four lines of letters and tried pronouncing them as words. She shook her head.

  “I have no idea what they mean, A.B.,” she said. “They’re not Spanish.”

  A few days later, Ferguson, Pug, and Bob Dunleavy all came in for lunch at about the same time. He went out, sat down next to Ferguson, and showed him the strange words on the order slip.

  Ferguson put on his reading glasses and looked at the paper. He pronounced them out loud, slowly. Then again. Then once more, faster.

  He snorted a small laugh. “Sounds like I’m speaking in tongues. Except we Episcopalians don’t speak in tongues, so I’m not really sure what that would sound like.”

  A.B. looked at Ferguson. Pug fidgeted in his seat. Bob Dunleavy looked over at Pug and shook his head.

  Ferguson frowned and cleared his throat. “Where did you see these words, A.B.?”

  “On a telephone pole up the street. I think I saw a guy put ‘em there. They’re on a metal thing. I thought maybe the guy worked for the phone company or something. But I saw him again down in Westport, and he didn’t look like a phone company worker. It’s kind of a mystery, don’t you think? I wonder what it means.”

  LaVerne arrived tableside. “It means we could use a little help managing the restaurant. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Sorry, boss,” A.B. said. “I just thought, since Rev. Glen is a professor and all, he might know what these words mean. Like what language they are.”

  “It’s the Lapine language.”

  It was Bob Dunleavy who offered the explanation.

  LaVerne, Ferguson, and A.B. all turned to look at Bob, who was wiping his mouth with his napkin, having just finished his pulled pork.

  “It’s the Lapine language,” he said. “The language of rabbits.”

  LaVerne shook his head and went back to the kitchen.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Dunleavy?” asked A.B. “I’m pretty sure rabbits don’t have a language.”

  Ferguson nodded in slow recognition. “I remember now. It’s from Watership Down, right, Bob? The book.”

  Bob nodded.

  Ferguson turned to A.B. “Watership Down is a novel about a community of rabbits. I read it years ago.”

  He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a class to teach.”

  He left without elaborating on rabbit communities.

  Bob finished his Diet Coke and also got up to leave.

  “So, this book about rabbits must be a pretty good book,” said A.B. “Did you read it, Bob? Is that how you knew the words on the phone pole were in rabbit language?”

  Bob Dunleavy put on his jacket and turned to A.B.

  “The young man you saw putting that sign on the telephone pole is my son, Warren. That’s how I knew. He’s mentally ill. He’s not really dangerous or anything. But he’s got serious psychological problems. And the whole rabbit thing is a part of it.”

  He sighed. “It’s a long story, A.B. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  *

  A.B. had felt a connection to the Dunleavy family since Bob gave him the gravesite in the Dunleavy family plot in which to bury his mother. So, A.B. was tormented by Bob’s revelation about his son’s mental illness.

  “Bob Dunleavy has been coming into the restaurant for years,” he told Jen. “And I never knew this about him. I know lots of things about the people who come into the restaurant, but Bob never said a thing about this. Not once.”

  “It’s probably just too painful to talk about,” said Jen. “I don’t t
hink anybody who hasn’t had that kind of thing in their family can really know what it would feel like, how it would change everything.”

  A.B. nodded and lit a cigarette. “What kind of mental disease would make you put signs in rabbit talk on telephone poles?”

  A.B. began looking for Warren Dunleavy every time he went up to the convenience store for smokes or a Mountain Dew, or whenever he was in Westport for one of Jen’s gigs. On the way to and from work he made a point of glancing at every telephone pole along the way, hoping for a glimpse of Warren Dunleavy. A.B.’s surveillance resulted in several additional sightings of Lapine inscribed steel plates, but no additional sightings of Warren himself.

  Then one night, driving home after helping Jen and the band at one of Mother’s charity performances, A.B. saw a man wearing camouflage pants and a black parka dart into an alley off Roanoke, just south of 45th. He was sure it was Warren. He turned into the alley, slowed his car to a crawl, and flicked on his brights. Without giving a thought to what he might do if he actually found him, A.B. continued down the alley looking for Warren Dunleavy. The alley was lined on both sides with dumpsters, loose newspaper pages, and multiple empty vodka and whiskey bottles. It looked a lot like the alley behind Smoke Meat.

  A.B. rolled down his window, thinking maybe he’d hear Warren, maybe behind one of the dumpsters. He stopped his car and listened.

  Then an arm in a black sweater sleeve thrust itself through the open window and the hand at the end of the arm grabbed A.B. by the collar and pulled him halfway out of the car and the face at the other end of the arm thrust itself into A.B.’s face and said turn off your car and A.B. flailed his right hand around feeling for the ignition and when he found it he turned it off and the face which was calm and was not Warren Dunleavy’s face and had eyes that didn’t blink asked what are you doing here. A.B. tried to speak but the hand was holding his collar so tight he could hardly breathe let alone speak so he just squeaked instead and the hand let him go and A.B. flopped back into the car bumping his head on the door frame and he realized he was about to pee his pants and he had to try hard not to.