He didn’t really buy that, but he still rescued us from the ditch. He pulled both me and Willie out of the window and helped us get into his cop car. He said he’d have the fellas at Gorman’s Auto Shop, the second of three businesses in Cullman that Bob Gorman owned, come tow our truck up to the house. Provided it was still there the next day.
He drove us through the rain to Willie’s house, and he didn’t let Willie go back in the way he’d snuck out. Instead, he walked him on up to his front door and told Mrs. Parkins all about what we did and how he got us out of the truck in the ditch. And he didn’t even finish telling the story before she was grabbing Willie by the ear and dragging him into the house for what was guaranteed to be the finest whooping he’d ever gotten in his life.
The sheriff drove me up to my house, and the whole way I was dreading the can of butt whooping I was going to get from Pa’s strap. I hadn’t been lit up real good in a while, and I was sure Pa would cash in his rain check for all them missing beatings with this one.
We hurried to the porch and the sheriff banged on our door. There wasn’t no answer. He banged some more. Still no answer.
“Is your pa home?”
“Yeah, but he’s a heavy sleeper,” I said, then I had an idea. “You want me to have him give you a call tomorrow?”
The lightning flashed and the tornado sirens kept sounding.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’ll do. Just get somewhere safe as soon as possible.” And he ran on back to his car.
I went inside and there wasn’t no sign of Pa. I looked out the back window and could see a light coming from his shed. I didn’t know what was worse, having him yell and scream at me for what I did or having him not even notice that I was gone. I went on up to bed before I could make up my mind, which was not the safest place to be if a tornado was going to hit. But I didn’t much feel like being safe. Getting blown away by a cyclone seemed better than dealing with the mess I was in. Anyway, my head was hurting too bad for me to even think of staying awake.
A few hours later, thunder cracked real loud and I woke back up. I could see that the rain had actually died down outside. It was just a drizzle. Then my stomach started rumbling and I realized I needed a real good midnight snack.
I went downstairs to the kitchen and I saw the shed outside was still lit up. It dawned on me that maybe I ought to go check on Pa, what with the storm and all. I went out there to the shed, and when I got right outside the door, I heard a voice. But not one speaking in English. I opened the door, and the voice was barking and yelling and carrying on. Yet, there Pa sat in his chair, fast asleep like he didn’t hear the voice at all.
The notebook that was in Pa’s lap had a whole mess of Spanish copied from Tommy’s textbooks in it, with the English translation written under it. And when I looked at it, I could figure out what the voice was saying based off the phrases written down.
“¿La invasión comenzará mañana?” the voice said, and what it was in English was, “The invasion starts tomorrow?”
That got me a bit worried, and I was hoping to hear what whoever the voice was talking to was going to say, but nobody answered. The voice spoke again.
“¡WX5RJ! Habla conmigo. ¿La invasión comenzará mañana?” I didn’t get a chance to look that up, ’cause Pa stirred at that. I ducked behind the door so he wouldn’t see me. He picked up the microphone in front of him, looked at the notebook, and then he spoke into it.
“Lo siento,” he said in the worst Southern-tinted Spanish I’d ever heard. “Sí, la invasión comienza en la mañana. Primera parte de la Operación Pluto.”
I couldn’t help but notice that last part. It sounded like he said “Operation Pluto.” Who the heck was Pa talking to?
“Gracias, WX5RJ. Su cheque llegará pronto,” the voice said. Pa looked at his notebook again.
“Gracias,” he said. And then they didn’t talk no more.
Pa stretched real good and got up off his chair with a smile on his face the size of Texas. He grabbed an umbrella he had by him and stepped out into the drizzle, looking like a man that just made a million bucks.
I didn’t know what Operation Pluto was, but I had a real bad feeling that my Pa was telling folks that wasn’t American about it. I knew I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but Pa helping out un-Americans sounded pretty bad to me. Even if it did mean he got a cool name like WX5RJ.
Maybe losing our house wasn’t the worst thing we had coming.
Dadgum, taking care of Pa was the hardest job I’d ever had.
CHAPTER SIX
DIGGING THROUGH RUBBLE
The next morning I woke up to the sound of a bird twittering outside my window. It sounded like he was laughing at something, though I wasn’t sure what. Maybe ’cause he’d had the sense to get out of the rain and I hadn’t. Dumb bird.
I shut my window and went downstairs. Right off, I was struck by three things that was real unusual. The first was Pa sitting at the table, reading the paper. He had spent every waking moment out in that shed for the last few weeks, ever since our talk about the money problems. Now, here he was, eating a bowl of cereal and sipping his coffee while he read the Cullman Reporter.
He had it folded over, and the part that was showing to me was the main headline, which was the second real unusual thing that struck me. The headline said TORNADO DESTROYS HALF OF TOWN. The part that I could read, which was difficult since it was upside down, said that a tornado had run right through Cullman, on the side of town opposite us. It mentioned that the airstrip had been hit real bad, as well as the church and a few houses and such. Turns out we’d been lucky.
The third thing that struck me was the story on the side Pa was reading, which I saw when I went around him to get me some orange juice. It wasn’t a main story, it was buried down close to the bottom. But its headline said, CUBAN AIRFIELDS ATTACKED. Underneath, it told that a whole mess of planes and such had been damaged at some airfields in the middle of Cuba, and that the Cuban government, mainly Fidel Castro, was claiming the Americans was involved. But our government was saying we wasn’t.
There was a picture with the article of the damaged planes and such, and Pa was staring at it like it was the most important thing in the paper. I got my orange juice, poured some cereal, and sat down next to him.
“What’s that you’re looking at?” I said.
He blinked and put the paper down.
“Nothing. Just the picture from Cuba. All that destruction brings back memories from the war.” He sighed and took a bite of his cereal. “I sure am glad Tommy’s safe in Korea.”
Except he wasn’t. He was in Nicaragua. But that lady back at the Birmingham airstrip was from Cuba. Weird.
“The article there says that the US wasn’t involved,” I said after I did some reading. “Reckon it’s true?”
“No, we weren’t involved,” he said real quick. “This is just a bunch of Cubans trying to overthrow their government.”
“Wow, it ain’t much of an uprising then. One airstrip.”
“Oh, they’re not done,” he said.
“How do you know?”
He looked nervous from that question and didn’t answer me. He put the paper away and started rinsing out his bowl. Then he saw the trail of mud coming from outside that I’d left from the night before.
“What’s that? Was you out in that storm last night?”
I swallowed real hard. Had to come up with a good story.
“I was sleepwalking.” Nope, that wasn’t a good story. “I walked halfway to the Parkinses’.”
“And the rain didn’t wake you up?”
“I—” I had to get better at my story-making skills. “—had me an umbrella.”
He set the bowl down in the sink and gave me a full-on stare.
“So, while you was sleeping you had the sense of mind to grab you an umbrella,” he said, and looked a
t the footprints again. “And your boots, but you can’t never remember to put the milk away?”
I shrugged. “Maybe I ought to make my breakfast when I’m asleep.”
He chuckled and I prayed something would come along and change the subject for us.
There was a knock at the door and my prayer was answered. Pa went to see who it was, and I heard Bob Gorman’s voice.
“Sheriff had me bring your truck up.”
Oh, dadgum it, I should have said I was sleep-driving, too.
“Johnny!” Pa yelled. Here it came. I went in there to where he and Bob was.
“Yes sir?” I said.
“What happened to my truck?” he said, and I looked out at the tore-up hunk of metal that was attached to the back of Bob’s tow truck. The top of the cab was all banged in from the big tree branch, the windshield was busted and cracked all over, and it was covered from top to bottom with mud.
“Got it stuck in a ditch,” I said. Couldn’t get no more honest than that.
“When?”
Bob answered for me.
“Sheriff said it was last night, right in the worst part of the storm. He picked up Johnny about a quarter mile from the bottom of this mountain. Good news is it still runs.”
“What was you doing driving all by yourself in the middle of a storm like that?”
I wasn’t by myself, and I waited for Bob to tell him that, but he didn’t. I wondered if the sheriff had kept that part back, since being out with Willie would be about five hundred times worse than being alone.
“I came home and you wasn’t here,” I said. “I drove in to see if you was in town.” That wasn’t the honest answer that was probably necessary, but since I could tell the paddle was coming soon in my future, I felt the need to preserve my backside as much as possible.
His face flinched like my words had slapped him across it. He looked at the truck again, then changed the subject for a spell to keep Bob out of our family business. He turned to talk to Bob.
“Why didn’t you have one of the boys at the shop bring that up? Ain’t you got work at the airstrip to do?” he said.
Bob let out a groan.
“You haven’t read the paper yet? The tornado last night tore up the airfield and wrecked my planes. Half the town is down right now, so we’re all pitching in to help whoever we can.”
“Everyone’s helping out?”
“Everyone but you two, so far,” he said. Pa nodded.
“All right, reckon you can give us a ride into town? I can’t do much, but my boy here is strong and can do the work for both of us.”
Bob reached out and grabbed his hand and shook it something fierce.
“That’s mighty white of you, Pete,” he said. “There’s some folks that are digging through their homes and trying to salvage their personals. And the church is leveled too.”
“Which one?”
“The church.”
“We got ties with two churches,” I said. Bob scowled at me.
“Of course the Colony and the church that’s in it didn’t get hit. Those savages probably cast some voodoo magic to keep the storm away or something. But the real church was destroyed.”
“Let’s get going, then,” Pa said as he grabbed his hat. We both went out and hopped in the tow truck. Bob unhooked our poor pickup and then we headed into town.
It was something, driving through the town that just a day before hadn’t had no litter or nothing on Third Street, the main street that went down the middle of town. Now it looked like the whole town had been a bunch of Tinkertoys that some bratty kid had come and kicked over for a temper tantrum. Broken buildings and trash was everywhere, glass was all over everything, along with downed power lines and overturned cars. Folks was out there working together trying to make piles of trash and digging what they could out of what was left of the town. Some folks was picking up their pictures and books off their front lawns, crying as they stared at what was left of what they had.
We drove past the church most of the town was members of, or at least where it used to be. It was flat to the ground, with a few pews stuck on top of cars and the steeple lying in the middle of the street. Bob slowed down until he saw that there was folks from Colony and Reverend Parkins’s church out there helping the white folk get their church cleaned up. He sped up to pass on by.
We got out to Bob’s airfield, and it was tore up pretty bad too. Not as bad as the town, but since the only folk out there to clean up was us and Bob’s family, plus a couple of the fellas that worked at his auto shop, it was bad enough. The top of his hangar was ripped off, and all three of Bob’s planes was turned over on top of themselves with their tails plucked like chickens and flung out into the field. I reckoned his air show was done.
All the fellas that was out there working on cleaning up was on one of the planes trying to turn it back over. I ran over and hopped in line next to Eddie, who wasn’t really doing no lifting but was acting like it so he didn’t get yelled at by nobody. I put my shoulder into it and the plane started to move.
“It’s a shame we don’t have some of your friends from the Colony out here to help turn this thing over, ain’t it?” Eddie said. “This is just the kind of work they’re made for.”
“Shut up or I’ll let this fall on your head,” I said.
He looked at my back pocket, where I’d rolled up the paper and stuck it.
“When did they come take pictures of these busted airplanes?” he said. He grabbed the paper out and looked at the picture more closer. “Oh, never mind, that’s down there in Cuba,” he said, and gave it back to me. “Say, when you going to reschedule that fight?”
“Wouldn’t mind giving a preview right now, if you’d like,” I said, and that shut him up.
I looked at the picture he was talking about. Just like that I realized we was connected, us and them folks in Cuba. They was probably going through the exact same cleanup we was. Sure, their disaster was made by men and ours was made by God Himself, but I didn’t know which one was worse. It was one thing to think that some angry people was gunning for you, but to think that the Almighty had an itchy trigger finger was pretty darn scary.
We got the plane turned over and started working on the next couple, when a white Cadillac pulled onto the strip. Mr. Thomassen was driving it and he rolled down his window.
“There’s a lot more work that needs to be done in town,” he said. “Your muscles could be better served there.”
“Who cares where we’re cleaning?” Eddie yelled at him. “As long as we are cleaning?”
Bob reached over and hit him on the back of his head.
“Pay respect,” he said, then he said louder to Mr. Thomassen, “What if I send three of these boys to help?” He motioned for me, Eddie, and one of the fellas from his auto shop to get in the car.
“Not Eddie,” Mr. Thomassen said. “He’ll do more good here.”
I tried to hide my laugh and got into the passenger seat of the Cadillac. Two of the fellas from the shop got in the back and we headed into town. Mr. Thomassen drove us over to the church and we all got out to start digging through rubble. It seemed like most everybody had showed up, from Cullman and Colony, to help out. Even Willie was there. I went over and started working next to him.
He checked to make sure nobody was listening to us.
“I think the government is behind it,” he said.
“What in tarnation are you saying?” I said. “The government can’t make no tornadoes.”
“No, the thing that happened in Cuba, in the newspaper you got. I’ll bet it’s us messing with Castro’s people.”
I thought about that while I carried some pieces of the wall over to the pile of trash. When we was alone again, I told him how stupid his idea was.
“Why would our government do that?”
“Cuba’s a pre
tty good target these days.”
It was funny, hearing him talk about Cuba like that. Whenever I thought of Cuba, I didn’t think of all the trouble they’d been having with turning Commie or none of that stuff. I reckoned things was different when you was talking about a place you used to live.
“I was in Cuba for a while,” I said. His eyes got real big.
“You was? In Havana?”
“No, Guantánamo Bay, the Navy base we got down there. Lived there all the way up until my ma died, when I was six. That happened in Havana, in a car crash that I was in. Almost died, too. It’s how I got my scars.”
I pointed at my neck. He looked at it like he hadn’t never seen it, then he patted his bum leg.
“At least yours don’t keep you out of sports,” he said.
“Yeah, but folks sure feel uncomfortable with their eyes. They ain’t sure if they should stare or look the other way. It’s kind of like being—”
“Black?” he said.
I nodded. I was actually going to say it was like being a purple dwarf driving a spotted elephant on the wrong side of the street, but his answer sounded less strange.
We talked off and on about having scars and about Cuba while we worked for the rest of the day, stopping only to eat some sandwiches under the only tree that was still standing. That was when I realized that folks was keeping their distance from us, black and white folks alike. Took a quick glance around, we was the only two fellas of different colors that was working together. Everyone else was grouped either Cullman white folk with white folk or Colony black folk with black folk. People pointed at us and whispered to each other, and I could only imagine what they was saying. I tried to ignore them, but deep down I knew. We was breaking all the rules in Cullman County. Well, except for the rule about not spitting on the sidewalks. We was spitting, to be sure, and there wasn’t no telling where the sidewalks was, but we was real careful to only spit on the debris that was on top of the sidewalks.
Folks was trickling away, and I tried my best to convince myself it wasn’t ’cause we was making them uncomfortable. Mr. Thomassen told us they was digging people out of houses and such, and you never knew what you might see coming out of the rubble. After a while, it was only me and Willie at the church working. We didn’t come anywhere near getting all the mess cleaned up, but the sun started going down so most of the folks agreed to meet back there the next day.
The Troubles of Johnny Cannon Page 11