Leo pulled the shade, turned on his bedside lamp, and sat on his bed in front of the fan with a notepad and pencil. He thought he was going to try throwing together another song, then come up with the music too-he’d call it “The Mystery Girl”-but what came out instead was a letter:

Dear Gerry,

What’s new? I’m hung over and unemployed. You’ll never guess what happened last week. Allie’s dad and I got AMBUSHED on the way home from work. It was Floyd Starrett with a bat and a couple of painter brothers I don’t think you know. One of them was huge. Anyway, Chick put Floyd down with a left hook to the head, then the brothers starting creaming him. I swiped the bat from Floyd and whacked one of the painters in the ribs. Knocked him down too, but then Floyd got it back from me and started swinging. Anyway, Chick was in a coma for three days, but we hear now he’s going to pull through.

So, I’m taking my first break of the summer. Allie’s doing great. We’ll probably get married one of these days. No lie.

Leo stopped. Where the hell did that come from? He looked up at the black and white poster of Big Bill Broonzy looking down at him. He glanced at Katie Faye’s box beneath it.

Anyway, miss wasting time with ya. Keep me up on World Adventure.

Your friend,

The Louisville Kid

He tore out the page, found the piece of paper Mr. Poitras had written GP’s addres on, and copied it onto an envelope. He got up, took Katie Faye’s box from the bureau, and turned it upside-down on the bed. All the pictures and poems and two notebooks fell out in a cool pile on his legs. There was more paper than pictures. He unfolded what looked like a piece of a brown grocery bag. On it was his mother’s handwriting: small, neat letters in pencil.

Coca-Cola
butter
rice
bread
corn
pads
Lucky Strikes

The other side was blank. Leo lifted the list to his face and smelled it. He picked up a loose-leaf composition notebook and began reading the first page:

February 11, 1955

Jim and I had a horrible fight last eve. I could say I started it but that would be inaccurate because what I really did was set about finishing what he started, which is his blind and deaf performance. I told him he’s a musician who’s not facing the music; it’s time to prepare for the inevitable. Oh God, such a hard word for Jim. Fighters get so lost when it comes to things they can’t stop. And Jimmy is a fighter. That old line about some men being lovers and others fighters does not apply to my husband. It seems one part fuels another and it all comes out in his singing and playing.