It was not Daddy or me. It was my grandfather Jones and his father and mother. Jones looked blankly at me, then nodded. His eyes twinkled and his smile went fuller. I heard him say, "well, well, John Harwell's boy, how about that?" Then he said to me, "Gets right interesting doesn't it boy? Godspeed." After a long second he put his arm around his mom and his hat on his head titled back. He led her in a turn and the three walked together towards the porch of the old Mansfield house in Dellrose.
Good feelings arose in me, a sense of affirmation in Granddaddy's word on leaving me, "Godspeed." It was as though they-and he especially-had invoked for me God's care and given me precious blessing for my journey through the past, the present, and the future.
Mr. Jones, the politician, also appeared briefly in my nocturnal travels. He was briskly walking away from me across the courthouse square on an overcast, blustery autumn day, headed north towards Mr. Wyatt's place. I was walking fast to catch up with him, my face stinging from the chill. I woke up before that scene was resolved.
I slept in that morning, for some reason, and woke up more relaxed and refreshed than on any other day of my visit. I did not get on the road until after eight. The pool hall crowd had thinned, and Kathy was taking a smoke break while four hangers-on talked trash to her. When I came in, she put her cigarette in an ashtray and brought me my iced coffee set-up. She greeted me, "Morning, sleepy head. I was about to get worried…the sun came up and you weren't back here scribbling and looking into space. You get lucky last night or just lazy today?" Not waiting for my response, she winked and turned to the counter to resume her break and contend with the fruitless efforts of the other pool hall Romeos.
"Much obliged for the concern, confidence, and warm hello," I said to her back, with a laugh.
Over her shoulder, as her hips worked their magic, she said, "Don't mention it, honey. A man's got to be a man, a hound has got to be a hound, and a fool's got to be a fool. I'll get your breakfast order in two shakes." And she did. We didn't indulge in any more racy banter. She cooked and delivered my meal with an honest smile. I ate, left a $5 tip and went on to my mission.
Miss Emma, a well-dressed, bejeweled, spry, cultured Southern lady in her early eighties, watched out for Mr. Wyatt's antique shop when he was at his law office around the corner. Her perfectly groomed hair was a color not found in nature and she was quite creative and expressive in applying facial makeup. Her ensemble was suited for a 1950s country-club party. In the old house with her I had a feeling of a Pip meeting a neat, un-mad Miss. Haversham in an uncluttered, ordered Dickens era house.