Highway 61 Resurfaced (v5)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Her face wrinkled as she passed. “Fine,” she said. “But you seem to be attracting flies.”

  2

  AS THEY CROSSED the lobby, Rick fumbled through a convoluted story about a wild night at Tipitina’s involving Dr. John and a backed-up toilet, but Veronica wasn’t buying it. “Do me a big favor?” she said as she boarded the elevator.

  “Name it.”

  She pushed the close button and said, “Take the stairs.”

  “Uh.” Rick pointed to the ceiling and said, “I’m up on seven.”

  As the door began to close, Veronica cast a damning glance at Rick’s waistline. “The exercise’ll do you good.”

  As Rick huffed up to the seventh floor, he came to terms with the fact that Veronica wasn’t playing hard to get so much as she was saying he smelled like crap and was fat to boot.

  He was sweating and out of breath when he reached his apartment, a one-bedroom with a thumbnail kitchen. But it had a view over part of the city and the confluence of the Yazoo and Mississippi Rivers. At four-fifty a month, not a bad place for a single guy with no romantic prospects.

  He turned the shower on and stepped in fully dressed. He’d probably have to throw the shoes out, but he thought it best to rinse everything off before making any decisions. As he dried off, he checked the answering machine at his office. Only one call. He picked up the phone and punched her number. “Wanda Lee? It’s Rick.” He listened for a moment before he said, “Yeah, I’m back. But things didn’t go exactly as planned. I know, I’m sorry, but I—” She cut him off with another question. He said, “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. I got a couple of things to do this afternoon and I’m on the air tonight, so just meet me at my office, say, tomorrow at two?”

  Thanks to Charlie, Fred, and Paul, with their erratic tales of innocence and police brutality, Rick hadn’t gotten much sleep in the Port Gibson jail. He hoped to get a couple of hours before going to work. But just as he lay on the sofa and draped his arm over his eyes, he had an idea. One that might make up for the misadventure at the Pine Grove Motor Inn. “Damn.” He sat up, grabbed the phone book, and looked up a number. When a young woman answered, Rick said, “Yeah, you got anything that looks like a black Lab?”

  THE ANIMAL SHELTER was down on Washington, south of town, in a converted cotton warehouse on the river. Rick parked in the gravel lot, grabbed his camera bag, and headed for the building. He noticed a Piggly Wiggly sack next to the front door. It struck him as odd since as far as he knew Vicksburg didn’t have a Piggly Wiggly. He also thought it was odd because the sack was, in fact, wiggling. A moment later it fell over and out tumbled a kitten. It was the mangiest critter Rick had ever seen: dirty gray, sick, and scrawny. The kitten shook his head and got to his feet looking around, dazed. His eyes seemed to be set too far apart and his ears were too big for his head. The kitten pranced into Rick’s path as if using his last bit of strength to make a good impression on someone who might help.

  Now Rick was a pretty soft touch, but being unsure what flea-borne diseases might be transmittable these days, he was reluctant to touch the thing with his hands. Instead, he used his foot to herd the kitten gently back into the sack before taking it inside. There was a riot of dog, cat, and exotic bird noises coming from the depths of the warehouse, but the front office was empty. Rick put the sack on the counter and rang the bell for assistance. A moment later, a harried young woman with a one-eyed cockatoo on her shoulder stepped into the room. “Can I hep you?” It was the bird speaking, in a southern accent no less.

  Rick looked at the bird’s empty eye socket, then at the woman, and said, “Yeah, I’m the guy who called about the black Lab.”

  The woman nodded, then looked at the wiggling sack. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, I found that outside,” Rick said. “It’s a kitten. I guess somebody left it.”

  “Uh-huh.” The woman looked in the sack, then shook her head. “Damn.” She pushed it toward Rick and said, “You’ll have to keep it.”

  “It’s not mine.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Really.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “If you give it to me, I’ll just have to put it down. You want to be responsible for that? You want me to kill this little guy?”

  “Well, no, of course not but … look, like I said on the phone, I just need to take a couple of photos and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can I hep you?” The cockatoo let out a piercing screech, “Aaaaccck!” It began to bob and weave on the woman’s shoulder, then it screamed, “Youth in Asia!”

  “Listen,” the woman said, wagging her finger at the bag, “I don’t have the time, money, or staff to take that sick little cat. Aside from whatever medical attention it needs, and it looks like it needs plenty, somebody’s either going to have to nurse that thing for weeks or we’re gonna have to put it down. Now, you say you don’t want that to happen, but you don’t want the responsibility either, which means you expect me to take it. So, if you want something from me, it’s only fair I get something from you.”

  Rick held up a hand and said, “I understand.” He pulled out his wallet. “How much?”

  She shook her head. “Take the kitten.”

  “I can’t,” Rick said, trying to sound sympathetic. “I live in an apartment. They don’t allow pets.” It was a lie but had a legitimate ring to it. Several residents at the Vicksburg had cats and a few had small, yappy dogs.

  The woman folded her arms. “No kitten, no photos.”

  The cockatoo leaned toward Rick and screamed again, “Can I hep you?” Its empty eye socket looked like a piece of dried fruit. “Aaaaccck!”

  “Look, I appreciate what—”

  “No, you look! We have to put down three and a half million cats and dogs each year.”

  Rick looked around in disbelief. “What, here?”

  “No, nationally, you idiot!”

  “Hey, there’s no call for personal attacks.”

  “Aaaaccck!” The cockatoo raised up and flashed his sulphur yellow crest.

  The woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She looked at Rick and said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I tell you what, you don’t want the kitten, it’s okay.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want it,” Rick said. “It’s just, the building has rules.”

  “No pets allowed.”

  “Exactly. My hands are tied.”

  She relaxed a bit. Her expression softened and she said, “I hope you understand, I have to try to find them homes. We just can’t save of all of them.”

  “I appreciate that,” Rick said. “I wish I could help you out. And I’ll be glad to make a donation. In fact, I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I work at a local radio station. Maybe we could do some sort of fund-raiser for the shelter, a pet-adoption-day sort of thing, you know, raise awareness, whatever.”

  “That would be great.” She waved for Rick to follow her. “C’mon in the back and bring that kitty. I’ll show you the dog I was thinking of for the pictures.”

  Rick picked up the bag and followed the woman down a hallway. She led him to a small room and locked the door behind them, which made Rick wonder. “Just put the bag on the table,” she said as she went to a cabinet and opened a drawer.

  As he stood there, Rick wondered if Veronica liked cats. She didn’t seem like a cat person, but even so, everybody loves kittens, right? Maybe he should take this one, might be just what he needed to break the ice with Veronica. Rick could see her face as the elevator door opened and he was standing there with that poor little kitten, all precious and pathetic. She’d say, “Awwww. He’s so cute.” Then again, what if she was a dog person? What would she think then? Single guy with a cat might look a little gay, he thought. Of course, women do seem to like gay men. Maybe he could parlay all that into a scenario where, late one night, over drinks, he would confess his sexual confusion to her and express his desire to find the right woman to help prove he
was … No, Rick thought, bad plan. Leave the cat.

  “Okay, here you go.” The woman turned around and offered Rick a syringe loaded with a clear liquid. She nodded toward the sack. “Just stick it in anywhere.”

  “What?” Rick took a step back. “Are you crazy? I’m not going to do that.”

  The woman reached into the sack with her free hand and pulled the kitten out. “Look, you said you can’t keep him. I told you we’d just have to put him to sleep, right? So that’s what we’re going to do. Now, you want to hold him while I do it, or you want me to hold him while you do it?”

  The cockatoo said, “Youth in Asia!”

  Rick hesitated, not sure what to do. Then he reached out. “Give him to me.” He took the kitten and said, “Can you recommend a good vet?”

  “FOR STARTERS, HE’S dehydrated and malnourished,” the young man at the pet store said. “You should take him to a vet.”

  “I did,” Rick said. “They were closed. I’ll go back tomorrow.” He bought a bottle of electrolyte solution, some kitten formula, and an eyedropper. There was a film-processing kiosk in the parking lot, so he dropped off the roll of film he’d shot at the shelter, then went to the station. He wrapped the kitten in a towel and set him on one of the turntables while he worked. The poor little guy had barely moved since. Rick didn’t know if he was sleeping or dying or some of both. Between songs, Rick tried to feed him with the eyedropper, but he wasn’t sure how much was actually getting in.

  At the top of the hour, Rick put on his headphones and cleared his throat. He opened his mike and said, “You’re listening to Vicksburg’s classic rock monster, WVBR-FM.” In the background, the kitten made a wet, snoring sound. “I’m Rick Shannon and this is the Allman Brothers Band with Blind Willie McTell’s ‘Statesboro Blues.’ ”

  Rick killed his mike and pulled off his headphones. He leaned over and looked at the kitten. His eyes were weepy and his nostrils were mostly covered with a brownish crust. Rick got a tissue and picked the kitten’s nose so he could breathe easier. “All right, you need a name,” he said, looking into the widely spaced eyes. “How ’bout Wheezy?” The kitten didn’t respond. “Wait, that was one of Snow White’s little friends, wasn’t it? The asthmatic dwarf? Disney would probably sue us.” He stroked the kitten’s head. “We’ll come up with something.”

  The request line was blinking, but Rick needed to figure out his next two songs before answering. He pulled ZZ Top’s second album and cued “Just Got Paid.” But then what? Rick glanced at the big map on the wall that showed the coverage area of the station’s fifty-thousand-watt transmitter. The shadowy blue circle was cut like a pie on the east/west axis by Interstate 20 and north and south by Highway 61. Rick smiled and spoke to the kitten. “Can’t believe I hadn’t thought of this before.” He pulled Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited. As he reviewed the song list, Rick hit the speakerphone and said, “VBR.”

  “Yes hello thank you,” a young woman said. “Hi wait a second I need to do something.” She spoke as though unaware of the concept of punctuation.

  Rick waited a moment before he said, “Did you have a request?”

  “Wait yes okay you’re still coming in,” the woman said. “Is anyone else listening that’s the sort of thing that’s good to know is anyone else listening?”

  “You mean to the station?” Rick sensed that one of this woman’s tubes had burned out.

  “No no no on the line,” she said. “Sometimes they listen on the line it’s one of the ways they keep track of us but here’s the thing,” she said. “I’m getting your signal through my teeth and it hurts when you play certain songs and I wanted to see if we could make a deal somehow because I could have been rich.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah, I’m related to the guy who first bottled Coca-Cola right here in Vicksburg in 1894 but wait I lost your signal again I’ll have to call you back.” And she hung up.

  “Well thanks for calling,” Rick said, thinking of the Atlanta Rhythm Section song “Crazy.” It was the sort of call deejays came to expect, especially on the late shifts. He started ZZ Top, then hit the request line again. “VBR.”

  “Hey, dude, you’re rockin’ with the Allmans and the Top, but I got two words for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “More Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

  Rick didn’t want to get into a math argument, so he agreed to play “I Know a Little” and let it go at that. It was a typical night. A bored cashier at a convenience store wanted to hear David Bowie. A bunch of welders down at LeTourneau’s Marine Construction facility needed some Jeff Beck. A car full of gamblers driving down to the casinos from Yazoo City had to hear their lucky Bad Company song. He cued the Dylan, then hit the speakerphone. “VBR.”

  “Yes, hello.” It was another woman. “Is this the request line?”

  “Yeah, what can I—”

  “Is this the guy on the air?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you the deejay who’s also a private detective?”

  Rick grabbed the handset. “That’s me,” he said. “Rick Shannon, president of Rockin’ Vestigations with offices in New York, Paris, and Vicksburg. What can I do for you?”

  “I need help finding someone,” the woman said in an accent soft as old cotton money.

  “That’s one of my specialties,” Rick said. “Who are we trying to find?”

  “My grandfather.”

  “I see. Has he wandered off?”

  “No, nothing like that,” the woman said. “In fact, I thought he was dead. That’s what I’d been told when I was young, but I have a feeling he’s still alive and I’d like to meet him before it’s too late.”

  “What makes you think he’s alive all of a sudden?”

  The woman hesitated before saying, “I got a strange phone call the other day. A man asking for him, like they thought he might be staying with me.”

  “Did he say who he was?”

  “No, he hung up when I asked,” she said. “I know it’s not much to work with, but can you help me?”

  “Sure,” Rick said. “No problem. What’s your name?”

  “Lollie Woolfolk.”

  “Miss Woolfolk, do you have reason to believe your grandfather is still in Mississippi?”

  “If he’s still alive, that would be my guess,” she said. “But I can’t say for sure. That side of the family’s spread all over the Delta. He could be anywhere, I s’pose.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Rick said. “If he’s still around, I can find him. Can you come to my office so we can meet? I’ll need to get some more information.”

  “Of course. Where are you located?”

  Rick gave her the address and said, “When would you like to come in?”

  “Would tomorrow be all right?”

  “Let me check my calendar.” Rick picked up the program log and riffled it near the phone. “Boy, tomorrow morning’s booked solid.” He wanted to sound like his services were in great demand, plus he liked to sleep late. “I’ve got a two o’clock that should be pretty quick. How’s two-thirty?” She made the appointment and hung up.

  The ZZ Top was running out. Rick grabbed his headphones, opened the mike, and said, “I think it’s time to revisit Highway 61. Here’s Bob Dylan with ‘Tombstone Blues.’ ”

  3

  THINGS HAD CHANGED since the last time Clarence had been on a bus, so he sat up front by a window all the way to Jackson. The Greyhound station was in the shadow of a bluff crowned with the dome of the Old Capitol building. Clarence had planned to walk from there to his meeting, but when he saw the line of taxis he decided to treat himself. Let someone else carry him, save his tired old ankles.

  The dark-skinned driver looked in the mirror and asked “Where to?” in a funny way. Clarence leaned forward and said, “Goin’ to the Mayflower. But we got time, drive around first.” He wanted to see how things had changed.

  “Yes, sir. Very good.”

  Clarence sat back thinking about the cha
nges he was already seeing. This strange man—Indian, he assumed—calling him “sir” and driving him around downtown Jackson. It was like the dream he’d been having for fifty years, where he had an entourage and a driver and a tailor making his suits. But Clarence already had a driver in mind and it wasn’t this man.

  As they climbed the hill toward State Street, Clarence asked the driver where he was from. It was a place called Madras, in India, but he’d lived here for twelve years. When Clarence asked how he’d ended up in Jackson, the man explained that his uncle owned several motels in the Delta. “I came to work for him, but it was too boring,” he said with disdain. “Checking in, checking out.” He shook his head. “I could not stand it. I prefer to move around, to see things, to meet people.” As he turned onto Pearl Street, the driver glanced in his mirror and said, “This is where you are from?”

  “Naw.” Clarence shook his head. “I’m from up near Dockery Farms,” he said. “Small town called Drew. But I used to get down here now and then, long time ago.”

  “How long?”

  “I was twenny-two,” Clarence said. “I’m seventy-two now.”

  The driver let go with a low whistle. “You are visiting family?”

  Clarence shook his head. “Takin’ care of some business.”

  The driver suddenly honked his horn and leaned out his window to shout at a passing cabdriver, “Keep it between the lines!” The other driver, a younger white guy, laughed and shouted something back, but Clarence couldn’t tell what.

  “You like it here?”

  “Oh, very much,” the driver said.

  “People treat you all right?”

  The driver glanced at Clarence in the mirror. “You mean because I am so dark?”

  Clarence nodded.

  He gave a rueful smile and said, “Where I am from, we have what is called a caste system. I am used to the way some people act superior.” He shook his head. “It is amusing to me how people here act as if the southern white man invented prejudice.” He glanced in the mirror and said, “You will find it everywhere, I promise.”