—He recorded. I knew it! I knew it!
—At the Saint James Hotel in Jackson.
—Do you remember the year? Oh God, you actually have the record. Can I see it?
—It’s not for sale.
She does not hand the record to Chester, though he is beseeching her with every cell of his body. The man is a gut-string, taut, vibrating with need.
—Please can I see it?
—Maybe I’ll play it for you.
—Could you just turn it so I can take a look at the label?
—Haven’t used this thing in an age.
She is blowing great puffs of dust off an old Victrola, the kind with an external horn and a crank handle. Chester looks worried.
—Maybe you ought not to play it on that. Those discs are very easily damaged.
She cranks the handle and drops the needle. A hard crackle rises up out of the horn. Chester is rigid, mute with panic. I know what he is thinking because I am thinking it too: Metal needles. Blunt needles that can strip a fragile record, a rare and valuable record. Then I cannot bother any more about what he is thinking, because Charlie Shaw’s voice swoops down, and it is ancient and bloody and violent and it is coming for me, hunting for me as I sink lower and lower, into the darkness.
Believe I buy a graveyard of my own
Believe I buy me a graveyard of my own Put my enemies all down in the ground
Charlie Shaw’s voice is looking for me, for what I have kept hidden, the guiltiest of my secrets. His voice is filled with such terrible pain that I can hardly bear it.
Put me under a man they call Captain Jack Put me under a man they call Captain Jack Wrote his name all down my back
I should not be obliged to hear this voice. I need it to stop. It is not right. I haven’t done anything wrong. The voice wants payment, but how would I even begin to afford the price?
It ends. At last it ends.
—How much do you want for it, Chester asks, before the needle has even run into the gutter. His greed is naked. He is totally powerless to hide it. Again Miss Alberta says it is not for sale.
—Why not. I’ll give you a good deal. Here, how about a dollar?
—A dollar.
The little boy watches us.
—That’s right. Cash money. A shiny silver dollar right here.
—A dollar for my brother’s memory.
—I’ll give you ten for it. Ten dollars, Miss Alberta. That’s a good price. More than fair.
—I said it’s not for sale.
—Twenty, then. You can’t argue with twenty dollars. You should trust me. I’ll take good care of your brother’s legacy. I’m a connoisseur. I’m a very respectful man. If you like I can give you an undertaking, all drawn up and legal. You understand what I’m telling you? I will write you out an official undertaking. A paper, Miss Alberta, if you just let me have the record. I’ll make sure a lot of people get to hear him. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For people to hear poor old Charlie?
—You like the record?
—Of course I do.
—And what about you?
She turns to me. I can’t see her eyes. I want no part of this. Mutely, I nod.
—Then why am I only hearing about money? Twenty dollars says one. The other can’t manage a word. I played you my brother’s record and you ain’t got a word?
No no no, says Chester. He’s stuttering. A misunderstanding. No one could be more excited about Charlie Shaw. One of the great question marks. The gap, the missing link. So many questions.
—Questions? No, I don’t believe so. I don’t believe you have any questions at all.
Chester laughs his big fake preacher’s laugh. I want to tell him to stop with the molasses. He is pouring it into a great red maw.
Ha ha ha ha
ha ha
ha
Chester does not know where he is. Around us the night is screaming messages and he isn’t listening. I can’t raise my eyes from the floor, because each time I look at Miss Alberta, she becomes more terrifying. Her substance is absence. She is made of it, made of loss. I am slipping into darkness. It is enveloping me like a shroud.
—I’d like you to go.
Only now does it dawn on Chester that she is angry, that it is possible he might leave without the record in his hand.
—No you wouldn’t, Miss Alberta. Think of your brother. I’m only thinking of poor Charlie.
—Poor Charlie?
—That’s right. Poor Charlie. Now, do you just have the one platter? Or is there more than one?
I find my voice, croak at him.
—Chester, come on. Leave her alone. We’re not wanted here.
—Keep out of it.
His face, snarling at me. There are some about which I will brook no argument. I look at him and nothing I see makes me any less afraid. He is prepared to do whatever it takes to get that record. He would bite out her throat.
—Now, he says. Now. Now I don’t have the money with me, but I can give you a hundred dollars. One hundred dollars, Miss Alberta. Maybe even more, if there are others. Did Charlie just record the two sides? The two songs?
—He went to Jackson, never came back.
—That’s right. Poor Charlie.
—He went to make the record.
—In Jackson. While you’re thinking about it, why don’t you play me the other side? And if you’d just let me look at the label? I could maybe tell you some things about it. Wouldn’t that be nice?
—I just want you to leave. Go. Get out of my house.
—Miss Alberta.
And then I have more holes, more gaps. I am sitting on a stool, watching Chester, who is looming over the old woman, raising his voice. I am sitting in the shadows. I sit on a stool. I stand out on the porch, I sit on the swing. I am in the driver’s seat of the car, waiting outside the Saint James Hotel. Turning the key in the ignition. He never came back. Turning the key, outside the Saint James Hotel. And Chester is shouting damn you old woman. Are you going to take that record to your grave?