by Clara Hume
The words floated around me in some sort of heat-induced vision. Fran and I, and Caine and Buddha behind us, were putting one foot in front of the other, looking for water, our bodies like perpetual motion machines. Dust, stillness, feverish feelings, hot sunshine, and lack of energy resulted in a taciturn hike.
I thought of books I'd read about how the world used to be. If I would have experienced ivy-covered red brick towers, rainy sidewalks full of students, cheery pubs at campus corners, and professors with their spectacles and metaphors, I would have known the old world.
I, however, knew only of being on a dry mountain where rainfalls, when they happened, brought down old familiar homes. I'd never had a sagacious mentor. I knew of coyotes and wolves crying at my door at night. My atmosphere of learning hadn't been surrounded by ivy but by books left by the elders, survival, and imagination.
I thought of Moby-Dick. I saw the ocean as life-giving and was disheartened about how we had tampered with it so much that we'd ruined fisheries and coral and many of the sea's gifts. I thought of rare species. White whales, spirit bears, hell...whales and bears altogether. What would it have been like to live in that old world?
Fran tripped and nearly fell forward. I caught her quickly and said, "Let's go back. You need sleep."
Her eyes were aimed straight ahead, as if straight ahead were a marker for water. Her eyes were slightly red-tinged due to lack of sleep.
"I'm fine," she said.
Buddha and Caine caught up with us, and Buddha was a big guy and nearly dying himself—canteens were attached to his belt—but he lifted Fran up and carried her in his arms. She was too tired to argue, but insisted that we shouldn't let her fall asleep because we needed water and she could find it.
We had not even gone that far. Fran was following the vegetation down to a ravine, and then at the bottom we would dig. Caine had with him a pick and shovel as well as some rags to soak up any water if we found it. He was dark and sturdy, and I wondered why he always appeared so haunted.
I stepped up to him and walked next to him. "Want me to carry some of that?" I asked.
"No," he said with a clip.
I shook my head and kept walking. My tunic was sticking to my body, my long hair floated about me, and I asked, "How's Buddha?" The man was really huffing and puffing up ahead.
"He'll make it, I guess, but he's more of a bushwalker if you ask me."
I had no idea what he was saying. I nodded anyway and took the pick off his back.
After a few more moments, Buddha lifted Fran down gently onto the lower embankment of a dune and she said, "Here, we dig."
Caine marched forward and struck his shovel into the ground. I went over to him and struck the ground with the pick. Fran sat down and watched us. Caine dug, and I threw up sand and clay with the pick, and we continued beneath the sunshine until we came across wet sand about six feet down. We dug further, and Caine tasted it.
"No salt, no soap," he said.
We began to soak up the water with our rags, and wrung our rags into the canteens Buddha had brought along. During this time, Buddha fainted and Caine drug him over to the wet sand and put a cool canteen up to his lips.
Buddha slowly came around and said, "Thanks, man." But then his dark eyes rolled in back of his head and he was out again with a big thump, for he was a big man. His long, black hair lay around him in curls. Caine sighed.
I stared at the miniscule water that would save our lives and dreamt of the ancient waters that had been abundant, where whales lived and were sought for. I sighed too, though only within myself.
When we got back to the camp, Fran should have slept right away, but pulled me aside outside the wagon. By now a dying sun promised a slightly cooler night.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
She grasped my hands, and I said, "I think today I had a vision."
"What?"
"I suppose it was a mirage. I dreamt of clean and plentiful water. By the ocean where our parents are."
"We'll get there someday, Fran."
I tried to believe my own words, even though I lacked faith for it to be true. The death of Cameron had destroyed some of my conviction. Would we come to South Carolina and see our only surviving parents again? Would we come across a raging sea that told of times gone by?
Back at the wagon, I noticed that the boys hadn't returned yet. Maisie was trying to deal with Kristy, Jimmy was sitting guard with a rifle next to a sleeping Joe, the dog we had not named snored at the camp's perimeter, and Mei had taken up a spot under a tree and wouldn't look at us, but at the same time hadn't run away.
Maisie was terribly sunburned and said, "She wants her mama." She held Kristy toward me.
I picked up my girl and gazed around the horizon looking for Leo and Daniel. Nothing to see yet. Frannie had already fallen asleep beneath a Joshua tree. I took Kristy over to where Mei was sitting. "Hi, Mei."
The girl didn't respond. She looked down, and I handed her a canteen of water. Mei didn't take the water or even look at me, so I left it next to her.
"Well, I don't know what happened to you, Mei, but we're not going to hurt you. You should travel with us. We'll leave at sundown."
No words.
"I wish I knew what happened to you," I told her. I had no problem talking with someone who wouldn't reply. "You can tell me, you know. If you ever feel like talking. Some of us out here aren't so bad."
My voice trailed off into the windless heat. I thought about the holy oceans and wished I could look at them and find myself. When I saw the guys returning, Kristy was done feeding and popped up to see her daddy walking in from the horizon. The guys walked the scorched earth like heroes, their dark silhouettes fraught with masculinity and brown skins. Leo wore some old floppy hat he must have found. They got closer, and Kristy ran to them. They were carrying two dead rabbits and a canteen of water.
Leo—Chapter 16
I got to not talking much as days wore into weeks during our wagon ride across America. I wore my new floppy hat every day. We also ended up naming our wild dog "Floppy" because we found him and the hat around the same time. The dog also had a habit of not sitting but flopping down.
It was too hot and oppressive to talk or expend much energy, and we all got tired and frustrated. We had to boil and clean water at every chance. Everything we did took a lot of effort, though by the time we reached the Mississippi, the weather was a little cooler, with a spout of rain here and there, which meant we could go back to driving night and day. I figured I might bring out the guitar again and sing a little.
Driving the wagon from Arizona to Louisiana took a good month. In all those days, Mei didn't speak a damn word and Fran started getting sick. Joe began to adapt to life with one arm, and I figured Buddha had lost a good 25 pounds. Caine and Maisie had developed a growing chemistry between them that may have worked faster if not for the conditions we were in.
We'd been traveling backroads to avoid any bandits, as Jimmy had taken to calling them. Hadn't come across any directly, only had seen suspicious-looking deaths along the road. Could be from feral dogs, we now knew, or from boars, men, or who knows what.
After Swansea, we'd paralleled the old Highway 20 as much as possible, having caught up with it in Texas, right around Odessa. From there we'd gone through ancient oil fields and horrendous caked land until reaching Louisiana, when we got one good rain and spent the night cowering on a valley road in the midst of winds so heavy they tore apart our canvas roof. After scavenging enough cloth to fix it, we crossed the Mississippi and stopped on the other side near a sandy beach we figured was south of Vicksburg.
The ol' Mississippi wasn't so grand anymore. It had dried up in places and was swampy in others. Only now and then did we see a narrow river with currents flowing south. We tested the water, and the coliform levels were high. Figured there was some sewage seepage into it from somewhere near, so we didn't bother drinking it.
I sat down next to the
river and envisioned it in olden days. A little song went through my head, and I didn't remember where it came from at first. I felt Fran take a place by my side and intersperse her fingers with mine. She lay down her camera and said, "This old river isn't how it used to be."
I imagined a raft coming down the river. A man in coveralls with a smoking pipe, whistling tunes and grinning. I saw a wide river with a merry pace, not this muddy old creek.
"How ya doing, babe?" I asked.
"I guess okay," she said.
The tune suddenly became clear to me, and I figured I must have heard it as a campfire song in one of those old westerns I starred in. I began to play my guitar and sing.
Steamboat Bill, steaming down the Mississippi,
Steamboat Bill, a mighty man was he.
Steamboat Bill, steaming down the Mississippi,
going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee.
Fran got up to take some more photos of me and of the river. A pleasant breeze floated in our direction. Our camp was in the background, and out of my side-vision I could see the others. At night everyone would find a cool place and write or close their eyes. Maisie would draw. But old Jimmy came by and sat down with us tonight.
"Why, son, I know that there song," he said.
"What's the rest of the words?" I asked.
He sat down with a piece of grass wedged between his teeth and sang the rest of it:
Down the Mississippi steamed the Whipperwill,
commanded by that pilot, Mister Steamboat Bill.
The owners gave him orders on the strict Q.T.,
to try and beat the record of the Robert E. Lee.
Just feed up your fires let the old smoke roll,
Burn up all your cargo if you run out of coal.
If we don't beat that record, Billy told the mate,
"Send my mail in care of Peter to the Golden Gate."
Steamboat Bill, steaming down the Mississippi,
Steamboat Bill, a mighty man was he.
Steamboat Bill, steaming down the Mississippi,
going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee.
Up then stepped a gambling man from Louisville,
who tried to get a bet against the Whipperwill,
Billy flashed a roll that surely was a bear,
the boiler, it exploded, blew them up in the air.
The gambler said to Billy as they left the wreck,
"I don't know where we're going but we're neck in neck."
Bill said to the gambler "I'll tell you what I'll do,
I will bet another thousand I'll go higher than you."
River's all in mourning now for Steamboat Bill,
no more you'll hear the puffing of the Whipperwill
There's crape on ev'ry steamboat that plows those streams,
from Memphis right to Natchez down to New Orleans.
The wife of Mister William was at home in bed,
When she got the telegram that Steamboat's dead.
She said to the children "Bless each honey lamb,
the next papa that you have will be a railroad man."
Steamboat Bill, missing on the Mississippi,
Steamboat Bill, is with an angel band
Steamboat Bill, missing on the Mississippi,
he's a pilot on a ferry in that Promised Land.
Jimmy sang it slowly, not like the upbeat ragtime version I'd heard in some other life. I lay down in the pokey weeds on the river bank and closed my eyes listening to him. I could see it now. Can't remember what year it was, but I was on set and we were filming in Missouri right on the river, and it was me and some other actors sitting around a campfire at night, singing songs and eating pork and beans.
Son of a bitch, I wanted pork and beans right now.
Jimmy's singing drew a crowd, and little Kristy came over and danced a little jig. Even Mei crept up and listened to him, with a near smile on her worried face.
It was the first day it wasn't over 100 degrees, and we had not laughed in weeks until now. I had a sudden and intense desire to latch on to even one tiny thing from my old world. I missed certain parts of it so terribly right then that I couldn't stand it. I didn't miss the celebrity, no. I longed for the wide river again and pork and beans. I got it into my foolish head that maybe if I just went somewhere else right now I could find a piece of my past. Was this what Fran's mom had felt like when she took off?
"Fran," I whispered, "Want to come on an errand with me?"
"What's up your sleeve?"
Truth is, I had no concrete plan. I got up, and she followed me. I found Buddha sitting with Joe, passing some rum back and forth, and I said, "Hey, mind if I take your bike, Buddha?"
Buddha was just too friendly to say no. "Sure, man, like where you going though?"
Joe eyed me with a puzzled look. He had recuperated after arm surgery, but said on more than one occasion he felt like half a man now.
"I want to see if there's any towns nearby. That's all."
Joe spoke up, "Don't you think we should go as a group? Might be dangerous entering a town just by yourself."
"Me and Fran," I corrected.
Buddha lifted the bike keys out of his pocket and said, "Sure, dude. Just, you know, like be careful."
Joe wouldn't have any of it, though. He arose too and said, "Fran and I can both sit in the sidecar. I'll get some guns and ammo. I have a bad feeling about this."
It was settled, and Fran didn't ask questions. We walked past the others who were sitting on blankets in that meadow by the river. Caine and Daniel had gone off to find firewood. Maisie sat cross-legged on a towel next to Elena. They were all entranced with Jimmy's song.
Floppy tried to follow us, but I successfully shooed him off. He wouldn't be able to keep up with us, and there was no room in the sidecar. He whined and moped back to the camp. He still hadn't become very friendly. Nobody could get close and pet him. But he wanted our company, food, and water.
We were off after Joe and I grabbed a couple rifles.
I drove the bike, with Fran sitting on Joe's lap in the sidecar, and headed down a partially crumbling road that was surrounded by sparse trees and dead farmlands. There were ancient-looking houses here and there, all of them seemingly unattended. Surprisingly, after turning down a frontage road along Highway 51, we came across a roadside stand. We slowed down at a distance and tried to figure out who these people were and whether they were friendly.
Joe said, "Seems to me they're okay."
I watched for a while. Another drifter was making a trade. We couldn't see what, but once his transaction was finished, he hopped on a bicycle and continued down the road.
I could feel sweat pouring down my face and arms. Away from the river breezes, the heat was impenetrable and sticky. This beard had to come off sometime soon, I thought. I needed a damn shower, too. A piece of my past, I thought. I didn't have a good razor anymore.
After watching the market at a distance for a while, we were assured things were cool and drove on up to it.
Turns out there was a black couple working there, along with their teenage son, and they seemed amicable enough, waving at us as we pulled in. I made sure Fran put the guns down low in the sidecar so they couldn't see.
I did the talking and asked, "Hey, what kinds of things are you selling here?"
Their display out front was insignificant. They had a long table with some sad-looking early summer fruits and veggies, along with a barrel full of grain. Above their table was a canopy that was supported partially by a wagon in the back.
"Ain't doin' so much selling as we are trading," the man said. "My name's Wesley, and this is my wife Eugenia and son Kenny."
"Nice to meet you," I said, having nearly forgotten the old civilities that had been part of our modern discourse when meeting new people. "My name's Leo." I pointed to my friends, who had gotten out of the sidecar and said, "That's Fran and Joe."
Eugenia came right up to Fran and said, "You look hot as balls. H
ere." She gave Fran a peach.
Eugenia wasn't within distance to see the rifles, not that I was worried too much now but also didn't want these nice people to think we were going to give them any trouble.
Fran said thank you, and, still having the camera on her, asked if she could take a picture. The woman grinned wide. She was missing a few teeth.
Wesley explained that in their wagon they had some canned goods and ammo. They didn't have too much, but wondered how we could pay them.
I hadn't planned on coming across anyone but said, "We have a wagon over yonder," I explained, "With dried apples and jerky. Hey, you got any pork and beans?"
"Do we have pork and beans?" The old man laughed heartily. "We have cans of it coming out our ass. We got some pickled chow-chow, tomatoes, you name it."
Then Kenny, who was a tall young man, stood up. "We got trouble, Pa."
At first I thought he was talking about us, but I followed his eyes around to see some guys ambling down the road. They were carrying guns and looking obnoxious.
"Get back there inside Wesley's wagon," I whispered to Fran. Joe was already learning to work with one arm. We grabbed our rifles and went back to the wagon with Wesley and Kenny. Fran and Eugenia climbed inside the wagon and stayed low.
"Who are they?" I asked Wesley.
"Dunno, never seen them before. People around these parts are pretty good folks," he said. "We gotta take care of each other if we are to survive. Cain't say these are locals."
The men were six in total, and they were all young and big. We didn't stare, but I kept focused on them as they neared us.
"Don't hesitate to shoot," Wesley said lowly. "They're armed. They might be okay, but men walking with their guns out like that, they up to no good."
Their leader approached us first, the others flanking him. All the guys were toothless and hairy. I could smell them from a distance. The leader had evil black eyes and a mane of dark hair that seemed to exude from his chin, face, arms, and chest. He had a leather vest and wore greasy jeans.
"You men want somethin'?" Wesley asked.
I held my rifle behind my back. They might know we were carrying if they were so inclined to know much at all, but by the ignorant looks on their faces, I doubted they were too smart.