by Tim Bryant
People were talking, but no one brought forth an answer. Everyone was really starting to wonder where this guy had come from. And what his purpose was. It seemed like he had a good bit more on his mind than music.
"It was about the time we moved off the farm that I took the name Art Conray. Named myself after the people who had once owned me. That's what lots of us did. Named ourselves after the people who had owned us and worked us and all-too-often beat us within an inch of our lives. Momma said it was wise. Momma said it was wise because I had an older brother and cousins who had been sold to plantation owners somewhere off in Louisiana, and the Conray name would make it easier for them to find us. If they even cared to find us. If they were even still alive."
"There are still Conrays around here," a man sitting with Sam Bolden said. "You connected to any of them?"
"I'm bound to be. Bound to be."
"The colored Conrays or the white Conrays?"
"Take your pick, sir. Take your pick. After a while, I decided my brother Wash wasn't coming back. I didn't want to be known by that name. The name of Conray. I amended my name with the place that I called home just in time for the 1870 census. That was the first time the government man come around wanting to know who we were and where we were from. I told that man I was Art Patton. He said, did I have a middle name. I told him my name was Art Conray Patton. That's what he wrote down. That's the way I finally became the man I was to be. Art Conray Patton. Born at the age, I think I was twenty-one years old. As Chaucer says, better late than never."
"The seed store seemed to miss George Delafield as much as we did. George hadn't been there in months, ever since he'd been bitten by the hookworm. Yes sir, he was bitten by the hookworm, and then that fever had set in. Once that fever set in, we never saw him 'round the seed store anymore.
"When George gets back, we would say, knowing that he wasn't coming back but still thinking that he could. Knowing that he wasn't but thinking that he could."
Art seemed to like something in the sound of that and sang it a few times, a different way every time, as if he was looking at it from different angles.
"It was enough to keep the store front swept clean and a stack of wood propped next to the stove, even when winter turned to spring and the weather warmed up again. You know what I mean? When George gets back, we best have this place swept up and looking good.
"I taught Harmon to play forty-two, but he never did get the hang of gin rummy or poker. He were to come in here, some of you motherpluggers would take him to the cleaners I'm saying he would have a long night. All the same, he graduated from those Just So Stories to Treasure Island which he didn't care for and quickly traded for Huckleberry Finn.
"This book talks the way I do, he said.
"All right, all right, I said. Play me some of them low down dirty river blues, Nigger Jim."
And off Art went into some real gut bucket blues. The kind you didn't hear much anymore. And he was making that banjo bend and moan like a guitar. I had to look again to make sure he hadn't switched it out.
"Harmon had moved up into the store for good, it seemed, only going home to wash up and pack for a trip up to Marshall or Malakoff to play at a dance or something. They still have dances up in Malakoff? They used to know how to throw a party up that way."
He played a few measures and thought.
"Harmon Littlejohn— otherwise known as Little John Harmon— had taken off on just such a trip, and I was sitting in the kitchen of my house, like the last bullet in the gun, when I heard this sputter and rumble approaching."
He almost sounded like a preacher if you didn't take notice of the bad words.
"I knew what it was. Yes sir, I knew. Even if I had never seen an automobile on Pattonia Road, I'd seen them in town. I was at the screen door just in time to see it pull into the yard and sputter to a stop."
The music fell silent.
"Artillery Patton? You in there?
"I looked over at the hunting rifle propped against the wall.
"Yes sir."
Cue the music.
"That man jumped out his car like he thought it might explode any moment and made a beeline for my porch, stopping suddenly when he reached the first step. He was a white man with a red tint to his hair and a mustache the fell down his chin on each side. He wore a suit but it looked like a suit that might come out of the back of my closet."
Art laughed loud and shook his head, shaking the banjo again while he was at it.
"You are Artillery Conway Patton?
"Conray, I said, but, yes sir, that'll do."
That white man looked down at a roll of papers in his hand and nodded to himself.
"What you want with me? I said.
"I wanted to know what caused him to come all the way out here in his little motor car. What made him run at my porch like he thought the damn thing was about to blow sky high. He braced his foot against the first porch step, and this is what he said..."
Art leaned over into his mic again and paused just long enough for most of the people in front of the stage to lean in toward him.
"I'm part of a law firm in Nacogdoches, and we need you to come into town."
The crowd inside The Pepper Pot groaned.
"Yes, we need you to come into town and talk to us. Sign some papers.
"Oh lord, what had I done. What on God's green earth had I gone and done now.
"I can talk just fine right here, I said."
The crowd hooted and clapped their hands.
"Man handed me a piece of paper. I turned it over in my hands and looked at it real close. Law Office Of Lester Massey. It said, Law Office of Mister Lester Massey. His name was big and fancy looking. Not like him at all. he wasn't too big, and he sure wasn't fancy. I looked down at the bottom of the card. Pilar Street, Nacogdoches.
"Uh oh, I said. What on God's green earth did I do?
"That peckerwood laughed at me.
"Mister Patton, you've done nothing, he said. Absolutely nothing.
"I was thinking, well then, what did I not do that I was supposed to do?"
Howls of laughter from everyone, it seemed. Myself included.
"Mister Patton, this is about settling up the matter of a George Demetrius Delafield."
Art seemed to let out a big sigh, and the music did the same.
"It was the first time a white man had ever called me Mister in my life."
"I was regretting any promises I had made to poor old George. When I died, I decided, they could lock the doors and shut the windows and let my house be my grave. A humorous thought until I realized how likely it was to happen. It might be another hundred years before anyone came back down the road to find me. Except for Harmon. Harmon showed up two days later.
Malakoff sent him back with a small roll of bills and half a jug of corn liquor.
"Half a jug? I said.
"Some of it sloshed out on the way home, he said.
"Maybe some of y'all know what that's all about."
My cup had sloshed itself empty, and I was ready for a refill. I could see a little wiggle room at the end of the bar and decided to make my move. Walking away from the music, I was surprised to find business as usual at both the card tables and the bar. The music nothing more than background noise. Art's voice hanging just above it like cigarette smoke.
Jay Henry saw me and sent a young man over to help me. I ordered up another Dixie and mentioned that the musician was good tonight. I mean, really good.
"That right?" the guy said. "I can't even tell if he's talking in English."
He poured more beer into the same cup and took my money.
"So Harmon finally talked me into going into town the next morning. He figured somebody wanted some money to cover burial costs. Hell, we didn't even know where George was. What they'd done with him. Maybe they were waiting for me to come pick him up. I didn't know.
"We may as well find out where they put him, Harmon said, so we'll know where to pay our respects.
"Now, paying respects was one thing. Paying for the funeral or burial was a whole other matter. Still, Harmon grabbed up his roll of money, and I got the card the lawyer left with me, and off we went."
He ventured off into some blues refrain about going to town. Seemed like a T-Bone Walker song. Something I had heard before. The banjo strings squealed under his fingers, throwing out harmonics that sounded like some ghostly harmonica blowing along.
"I knew where Pilar Street was, so I took a different route into town than usual, coming in directly from the south.
"You sure we should be coming along this way? Harmon said.
"Harmon didn't know the neighborhood, but he knew it was white. Of course, it being white and all, that was exactly why he didn't know it.
"Watch this, I said."
He choked the music down into a half-time stomp.
"I slowed old Zeus down and pulled to the side of the road just as we approached a great big two-story farmhouse surrounded by a pretty little white fence and the brightest green lawn you ever saw. I went to pointing on up at the house. I almost had to make Harmon look.
"I said, looky yonder, Harmon.
"Way up on the big wrap-around porch, up on top of that hill with its green grass, sitting pretty behind that little picket fence was an equally pretty white lady. She was an old lady, but she was sure enough pretty. And just as white as that picket fence that kept me away from her."
Sam Bolden looked at me and shook his head.
"Well, that old white lady stood up and started waving like she was inviting us up for a tea party. Why would I lie to you about a thing like that? That's exactly what she did. Harmon, poor Harmon hid his face in his hat."
"That'll still get you killed nine times out of ten," Sam Bolden said.
"Harmon said, What in the hell are you doing, Art?
"Zeus kept his eyes on the road, and Harmon tried his best to do the same.
"Just smile and wave, I said. Just smile and wave."
"The showy writing on Lester Massey's card didn't match up with his office, a small clapboard building two blocks off the main square in town. We passed it by twice, looking for some clue that we were at the right place. Finally, Harmon spied a small sign on the door with Massey's name across it, in a poor attempt to copy the penmanship on the piece of paper in my hand. We tied Zeus to a post and approached the door.
"Should we rap on it or call out his name? I said.
"Harmon said, I'm doing neither.
"I stood there and sized up my options. More like I was trying to summon up my courage. I finally decided I could call out his name one time, and if he chose not to answer, we could unhitch Zeus and maybe head down to Nigger Main for a shave and a haircut. Maybe a matinee movie.
"Mister Massey, sir, I called out."
It was a quiet kind of call, if his telling of it was accurate. You could hear it, but only if you were cupping your ear and concentrating.
"Just about like that. Mister Massey, sir.
"You can stand there all day. That door ain't gonna open itself. I jumped and turned around, and there stood Mister Massey right behind us, no further than you are to me."
Art nodded his head in my direction. I nodded politely back.
"This is a place of public business, he said. Just open the door and step inside.
"I did as he suggested. The office was one room. Didn't even have a closet to hang a jacket in. There were four windows, one on each wall. Two of them had been propped open to create a blow through. A desk with one busted up chair behind it and another in front that was in even worse shape.
"Take a seat, Mister Patton.
"I elbowed Harmon and mouthed it. Mister Patton.
"There some kind of trouble? Harmon said.
"He seemed happy to be standing, a position which put him closer to the door, closer to getting out in the event that things turned bad. I was close enough to an open window
"Massey fell into his chair, which somehow survived the invasion. He shifted around in it and pulled a cabinet full of papers right out into his lap, licking his thumb and fingering through them from back to front and then back again."
All this time, Art was playing up and down the strings of his banjo, the rhythm of his hands matching the words.
"Back to front and then back again.
"My lands, he said. I was looking up Patton. He said, it's Delafield that I'm trying to find here.
"I cleared my throat.
"Uhmm, I had asked if Mister Delafield might be buried in Mount Violet in Patton Landing, I said. That's where all his people are at.
"Massey looked up at Harmon and then at me.
"George Delafield has already been buried here in the city.
"That's when Harmon reached into his pocket. Yes sir, he reached down into his pocket and pulled out that roll of money.
"How much would it cost to have his body moved? Harmon said. I have seven dollars to put down on it.
"Massey stood half way up, laughed, lost his balance and fell back into place. The chair was obviously stronger than it appeared.
"Boy, I'm sure it would cost a bit more than that. However, if you're that concerned about it, I just might be in a position to help you."
Art seemed like he had gone back in time. I could almost see him in the little office. I wondered if we could open up the windows in The Pepper Pot. See what kind of blow through we could get going. Things were beginning to heat up.
"I stood up, no longer feeling comfortable in the chair with Harmon standing at my side and Massey going up and down like he was.
"I'm not sure that's something we can think about right now, I said.
"I didn't figure George would like the thought of Harmon's Malakoff money buying his eternal home any more than I did. I was just about ready to excuse myself from the proceedings.
"I have George Delafield's last will and testament right here, Mister Patton. I think you might be interested in having a look see."
"Goddamn right," said the man sitting next to Sam Bolden. "Let's have a look."
He slammed his fist down on the table, their drinks jumping in response.
"He fanned the pages across his desk like a hand of playing cards. He must have seen the resemblance too.
"Massey looked across the table at me and said, You've got yourself a winning hand right here. Yes indeed, boy. a winning hand.
"I sat back down and picked up the first card in the stack."
"How fucking old are you?"
Sam Bolden had had enough of Art Patton's stories, and he'd had enough whiskey to say so.
"Well, how old are you, sir?" said Art. He either didn't recognize the edge in Bolden's voice or just decided to pay it no mind.
Bolden was standing up, not twelve feet away from the stage. He was probably unsteady enough that I could have tipped him over, but the last thing we needed was for a fight to break out.
"I was born in 1848, sir," Art said. "I don't rightly know the month of it."
Those must have seemed like fighting words to Sam.
"So you're telling us you're one hundred and fifty years old."
I'm not sure Sam's math skills would have been much better had he been sober. But the drink wasn't helping much.
"Why would I tell you a story if I didn't want you to believe it?" Art said.
Noah McDaniel, who worked for Sam at Spurlin and was undoubtedly trying to score points with his boss, approached the stage from the bar area.
"Do you actually know any real songs?"
Now, the reason Jay Henry Britt served beer in Styrofoam cups was to keep people from using bottles as weapons, but the whiskey came in a glass bottle, and sometimes Jay Henry would even supply shot glasses, if the bottle was being passed around. So when Art laid his banjo to the side and stood up with his whiskey bottle in his right fist, everybody in the joint tensed up. Art took a swig instead of a swing.
"I'm not asking anybody to believe in a half told story," he said. "B
ut yes sir, I know some songs. I know a whole bunch of songs."
He sat back down and picked up the banjo.
"What time is it?" he said. "Is it one o'clock yet?"
It was just after midnight, not yet one. The moon had moved on, leaving the pine trees to their darkness. The Pepper Pot was a beating heart inside of a dead body.
Art played through the first two lines before I recognized what he was playing. Blind Lemon Jefferson's "Electric Chair Blues." It was a song I had known for several years, but, up close and personal, its ferocious undercurrent was frightening. Art sang it slow and down low, like he knew someone was going to flip the switch as soon as it ended. He repeated phrases, entire verses, until they became a prayer for deliverance.
I wonder why they electrocute a man
at the one o'clock hour of night
Said I wonder why they electrocute a man
at the one o'clock hour of night
Because the current is much stronger
when folks has turned out all the lights
All too soon, the night came to an end, Jay Henry turned out the lights, and everyone was left to make their way back home, leaving Patton's Landing Road empty and going nowhere. I tried to find Art Patton. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to ask for a little more time. Somehow, he slipped off through the back door and into the night. Was there a waiting car? An accomplice somewhere on the grounds? I never found out.
I returned to the Gazette and went back to work writing about families moving this way and that, coming into the community and then leaving it. All the time, the notebook sat on my desk, turned to another page. I asked around, and no one seemed to know anything about Art Patton. I drove out to see Jay Henry, and he had little information.
"He said he was one of the Pattons that use to live out here," Jay Henry said. "You might try to look them up."
I tried to find Whitey, but he had gone missing. Not unusual there.
As the days went by, my hunger to find out more only grew. I decided to use a few connections and see what I could turn up. Maybe this was all just a part of the story.
