Free The Sweetest Thing by Deborah Fletcher Mello Page A

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    Quentin poured a second shot into the cup, stopping when Mrs. Todd’s deep cackle returned. The old woman palmed the heavy mug and took a second deep sip. A look of satisfaction crossed her face and Harper couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
    Quentin replaced the cap on the bottle and sat himself down in the seat across from the two women. “Mrs. Todd, you know I don’t have a liquor license,” he said.
    “You ain’t selling none,” she replied. “Besides, don’t nobody know what I have in my cup if you don’t tell. Ain’t like the store open no way.” She swatted a dismissive hand in his direction.
    Quentin turned his gaze to Harper. “Mrs. Todd and Pops were old friends and they used to sing together for years.”
    “That’s right. Folks would line up to hear me and your daddy perform. We had us some good times! Him and my husband, Martin, was old friends. Martin died in 2008. Old age took him. After that, me and your daddy would have our special coffee together at least once every week.” She took another sip of her drink, savoring the flavor against her tongue.
    Mrs. Todd suddenly turned to stare at Harper, her eyes widening. “You Everett’s baby, ain’t you?” she exclaimed excitedly. She suddenly grabbed Harper’s hand and pulled it to her chest, pressing it over her heart. The gesture was hard and fast as she squeezed Harper’s fingers tightly. She tapped both of their hands with her free palm, tears welling up in her dark eyes and then she started to hum, a low mournful moan that echoed around the room.
    Harper’s eyes widened in surprise and she looked from Mrs. Todd to Quentin, whose own expression was a collage of curiosity and concern. He met Harper’s nervous gaze and shrugged.
    Mrs. Todd began to rock her frail body back and forth, Harper’s hand still clutched tightly to her chest. She closed her eyes, tossed her head back against her neck, and began to sing. Her aged voice was crystal, a deep alto timbre that had been fostered by years of struggle and a distinct love for the shimmering sultry style that was pure Memphis blues.

    Lost my baby down by the Mississippi
I dream of her, does she dream of me?
Would give my life to see her free
Her daddy’s baby she’ll always be.
Want to hold her hand and wipe her tears
Walk her to school and calm her fears
Supposed to be, her very first love
I wish that prayer to the Man above.
Through and through, the best of me
I love her. Will she ever love me?
Can’t turn back time, or change what be
She’s her daddy’s baby, the best of me.
Lost my baby down by the Mississippi
I dream of her, does she dream of me?
Would give my life to see her free
Her daddy’s baby she’ll always be!

    Mrs. Todd sang and tears filled Harper’s eyes. When the old woman was done with her song she opened her eyes, pressing her wrinkled fingers against Harper’s cheek.
    “Your daddy wrote that song. Yes, he did. Wrote it and sang it down here on Beale Street for years. Everett surely did love you. He used to say on the regular that you was going to come home to him one day.” She tapped Harper’s cheek, her gray head bobbing earnestly against her thin neck.
    Harper took a deep breath, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. She maneuvered to her feet, swiping at her face with the back of her hands. She leaned to kiss Mrs. Todd’s cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered and then she bolted from the room, not bothering to look back over her shoulder.
    Quentin jumped to his feet to run after her, wanting to check that she was well. Mrs. Todd stalled him, her hand reaching across the table.
    “Just let her be for a minute. She’s going to be just fine. Sometimes it’s hard for a woman to learn that a man’s blues was nothing but love the whole time,” she said softly.
    Nodding his head Quentin glanced back toward the door Harper had disappeared through, hoping Mrs. Todd knew what she was talking about.
    She drank the last of her