Alex did as instructed. To make it easy on himself, he ordered two identical sandwiches, two Snapple teas and then added a large order of onion rings. The food came out hot and smelling like a grease fire. As he cut across the parking lot, he was a little afraid of what he might find back in the room. But his fear passed when he looked over at the far bed. There was Lester in shiny black pajamas with gold pinstripes, looking like African royalty while he watched a baseball game between the Braves and Mets. He got out of bed and made his way to the rickety table. “Smells good,” he said. “Let’s dig in.”
“Hope you like onion rings,” Alex said, feeling a little giddy about the day’s accomplishments. “I got about a pound of ’em.”
“How could anyone not like onion rings?”
“My mother hates them. She calls them uncivilized.”
Lester unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. Then he looked at Alex and said, “That reminds me, you need to call her tonight.”
And, just like that, the mood was ruined.
CHAPTER TEN
The baseball game lasted through dinner and was now in the bottom of the sixth tied at two runs apiece, but the on-field drama wasn’t enough to hold Lester’s interest. He was asleep and snoring.
No way was Alex going to call his mother. For one, he didn’t want to deal with the inevitable tirade over who’s the boss and who’s only sixteen and who the hell did he think he was, blah blah blah. The other reason not to call was traceability. She’d see South Carolina and pretty much know where he was headed. But for Lester’s sake, Alex needed to make it look like the call was made on the motel invoice. He picked up the phone, got an outside line and dialed one of the few 518 numbers he had committed to memory.
The phone rang and a female voice said, “Delmar Pizza, can you hold?”
“Sure,” Alex said. Holding was good. Stretch it out. He looked over at Lester. Still sleeping.
“Pick up or delivery?”
“Um, actually I just wanted to know your hours, like when do you close?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“So when would be the absolute latest I could order a pizza and wings?” It was the kind of information that could come in handy someday.
“I wouldn’t order past 10:30, personally. I can take your order now and have it ready by eleven.”
“No, that’s okay.” He didn’t want them wasting food on his behalf. “I’ll call back.”
“Whatever,” she said.
“Same to you,” he responded and hung up the phone. Lester was either still asleep or a hell of a good faker.
ALEX WOKE to the sound of retching. He looked over at Lester’s sleeping body and figured the noise was coming from the next room. Some sick man was puking his guts out. Alex looked over at the clock—4:32 a.m. A toilet flush replaced the sound of vomiting. Then there was moaning.
“Son of a bitch,” Lester said. He pulled himself up, switched on the nearest wall lamp and staggered to the bathroom. “No sleeping through that nonsense.” He turned to Alex. “Let’s check out and get on the road.”
Alex popped out of bed. “Think we can make it all the way to Fort Lauderdale?”
“It’s still quite a ways. But with both of us driving, we should.”
They were gassed up and on the interstate by 5:30, Lester first to drive. “Despite that rude awakening,” he said, “I slept pretty well. Fact, I must’ve slept right through your talk with your mother. How’d it go?”
“Not so good,” Alex said. “She told me she knows where we’re going, and she threatened to press charges. I don’t think I’ll call her again.” He didn’t want to have to call Delmar Pizza again either.
Lester didn’t say anything for a while. He had a deep contemplative look—furrowed brow, pursed lips, both hands on the wheel. Finally, he said, “Used to be, sixteen meant something. When I was your age, I spent my summers loading and unloading boxcars at a rail yard fourteen hours a day. Worked afternoons during the school year and saved enough for college.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Wasn’t as much then. My point is you ought to be responsible for yourself, earlier the better. I won’t make you call her.”
“I still don’t think she’ll press charges.”
“May not matter one way or the other.”
“Why’s that?”
“All depends on what the age of consent is for driving cross-country with an ancient black man. And I don’t know what that is.”
Alex didn’t know either. His hunch was that his mother wouldn’t put herself under negative public scrutiny. But his remedy, if she did press charges, would be to call every media outlet in the Capital District and explain how she had kicked Lester out of their house before calling him a kidnapper. That’s what Alex would do. He’d do his part to ruin her political future, and he wouldn’t feel bad about it in the least.
As they passed a sign with a peach and an Olympic flame welcoming them into Georgia, Lester talked about the old rail yard in his hometown of Terrell, Alabama. He said it was the lifeblood of the community, like GE had been in Schenectady before all the layoffs. But then, in 1968, the rail yard closed and the town practically folded. Lester’s dad, who’d been a functional alcoholic before the closing, turned into a fall-down drunk. He died in 1971 of liver failure.
“He never learned to appreciate what he had,” Lester said. “Never found a way to pick himself back up.”
“Did you like him?” Alex wanted to know.
“Tough question. I think every son wants to like his dad, give him the highest benefit of the doubt. I suppose that’s what I did.” He flashed a knowing look. “And that’s what you’re doing right now.”
It was probably true, and it made Alex wonder how any human with a pulse could measure up to the expectations he had built. Even with all the bashing over the years by his mother, there still remained a protective shell around his father. That shell was built with excuses, none too far fetched. As a little boy, Alex had pictured his father tirelessly trying to find him, but the man was so far away that he’d forgotten how to get home. Then there was the excuse that his father was just waiting for the right moment, a big party moment—Surprise!—and it could happen anytime. When it kept not happening, Alex hit upon the witness protection program. Which held for a long time until Google threw everything out of balance. But even now, without a workable pretext, Alex clung to the idea that his father was still a good man.
“It’s good to hope for the best about a person,” Lester said. “But don’t let it fool you. It’s not all milk and honey.”
Alex tilted his head. “Milk and honey?” The old man had some ridiculous sayings.
“You know what I mean. You got some dark business with regard to your father. Don’t cover it up. Because that’s where your truth is.”
Alex had grown used to hearing advice, typically in two formats: the politically correct crap he got from his mother or the psychobabble crap he got from Dr. Kruger. This particular advice from Lester felt more authentic. He’d try to remember it for later.
It was time for lunch. Lester pulled into a truck stop just outside the coastal town of Brunswick. The parking lot was so crowded that even the handicapped spots were taken. They had to park a good forty yards from the building.
Lester opened his door and said, “I got a mind to use that stick.”
Alex reached behind his seat. “Here you go.” It felt good to be of service. In fact, the whole day had a good feeling about it.
The old man huffed and hobbled his way across the parking lot, pausing once to catch his breath and once more to swat at a militia of white gnats. His final stop came at the set of glass entry doors. “Patience, kid,” he said.
It looked like a supermarket inside, but beyond the aisles of merchandise there was a restaurant with two buffet peninsulas loaded with food. Soups and salad fixings, meats and side dishes. For dessert, there was an assortment of cobblers and a soft-serve ice cream machi
ne with three chrome handles. Alex surveyed the abundance before him. Except for the collard greens, he wanted everything.
“Don’t you stuff yourself,” Lester said. “You’re driving next.” He turned to the hostess and told her they’d both have the buffet. Then, to Alex, he said, “Fill me a plate, if you would. I’ll take a salad with Thousand Island and a thick slice of that roast beef. I’m headed for the bathroom.”
Alex moved around the bustle of people with a tray, piling food onto plates. Then he looked around for a table. He scanned the well-populated dining room, hesitating at the far corner booth where a pony-tailed woman was sporting a spandex halter top. She was sitting alone. His heart swelled.
He made his way to the round table nearest her booth. This day kept getting better. He positioned himself in such a way that his eyes, his main entrée plate and the woman’s breasts all existed along the same Euclidian plane. He set Lester’s plate to the left.
It takes a degree of skill to simultaneously eat and stare while trying not to be too obvious. The V of her top revealed a gulf of cleavage. He took a bite of mashed potatoes and looked again. He could feel himself getting hard. It was unstoppable.
“Why don’t you take a picture?” the woman said. “It’ll last longer.”
Snagged! His face felt as hot as the mashed potatoes.
A muscular man with tattoos on his forearms put a plate down and sat across from the woman. But she didn’t even look at him. She kept staring at Alex, giving him a taste of his own behavior.
Alex smiled nervously while starting on a piece of batter-fried chicken breast.
The man turned and looked at Alex, then back to the woman who was most likely his girlfriend. “This guy bothering you?” He flipped a thumb in Alex’s direction.
“He’s been staring,” she said as she cupped her hands under her breasts and gave them a substantial boost.
“Wow,” Alex said to no one in particular. Half his blood remained in his face while the other half pooled into the tight quarters of his crotch.
The man got out of the booth and stood over Alex. “Punk-ass little pervert,” he said. “Take a seat somewhere else.”
“I won’t look anymore,” Alex said. “I swear.”
“Not good enough.” The man picked up the little dish of peach cobbler from Alex’s tray and plunked it onto his nose.
The cobbler was like molten lava. Alex let out a horrified moan. Then he saw Lester in his periphery.
“What the hell’s going on?” Lester said to the man.
Alex began wiping the gooey mess off his face.
“This pervert’s been harassing my girl.”
“He did no such thing,” Lester said. “And he’s not a pervert.”
“Listen, Old Timer, this is none of your business.”
“When you assault my friend, I make it my business.” Lester raised his stick with both hands and lowered his stance as if preparing for an outside fastball. The entire dining room fell silent. A few people were standing. “Back off right now,” he continued, “or I’ll pop your head into next week.”
The boyfriend didn’t budge. He looked down at Alex and gave him a little swat on the forehead. “You’re a prize,” he said, “a pervert and a nigger lover.”
The whole crowd seemed to gasp in unison.
Lester’s face had turned monstrous. Sparks could have charged out of his eyeballs. He swirled the stick one revolution and swung.
Whack!
Some foul utterance came out of the boyfriend’s mouth. He raised his hands to the side of his face and crouched to the floor. Blood trickled over his fingers and onto his watch. The girlfriend knelt beside him and tried to put her arms around his chest. But he pushed her out of the way and rose to his feet. For one brief moment, he lowered his hands. There was a bloody gash from his left cheek to the top of his ear. He stared at Lester and said, “I’m not through with you.” Then he marched out of the restaurant, his girlfriend running after him.
The crowd of patrons erupted into gasps and chatter. There was light applause for Lester, and there was even one little man who laughed. A skinny waitress with bad complexion rushed to the table with Styrofoam boxes and a plastic bag. “Here,” she said, “I’ll pack up your food. Y’all should get out of here.” Her Southern twang carried a sense of urgency. She peered out at the parking lot. “Looks like he’s gone, but no telling when he’ll be back. There’ll be no charge for the food.”
She began dumping the contents of the plates into containers, paying no mind to the laws of food separation.
“I think she’s right,” Alex said. He dabbed his face with a wet napkin to clear away the last of the stickiness.
Lester leaned against a chair. His eyes were closed. The air went in and out of him like a gated rodeo bull, but he just stood there. And then he nodded, grabbed his stick and began walking. Alex followed closely behind trying to remember a time when someone had stood up for him the way Lester had. It didn’t take a lot of searching. There was no one. The realization made him want to cry.
The day was sweltering, far too bright, and there were swarms of gnats like microscopic piranha chomping at his scalp. He brushed them off with his free hand while carrying the food with the other, all the while scanning the parking lot for muscle-bound racists. If he saw the bloody boyfriend again, he was perfectly willing to smack the cartons of food at him then run like hell. Not exactly bravery, but it was a plan.
But the man was either gone, tending his wound, or he was well-concealed between vehicles. That made sense if he wanted to identify Lester’s car.
At the Cadillac, Lester pulled the keys out of his pocket and said, “You’re behind the wheel, kid.” He lowered himself into the passenger seat.
Alex got in and started the engine. He adjusted the air conditioner to full blast. Then he looked over and said, “You okay?”
Lester nodded and said, “You just worry about driving.”
“What about the food?”
“We’ll eat after we cross the Florida line. It’s not far.” He had raised his hands to his eyes and was now looking at them like they’d betrayed him.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Hit that son of a bitch harder than I expected.”
“Maybe the stick wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
“I’m not sorry I hit him. I just hope he doesn’t come full of testosterone and hunt us down.”
“Me too,” Alex said.
“Every man’s got a streak of anger inside him. If a man says he doesn’t, he’s either lying or castrated. Sometimes there’s no telling how or when the anger’ll come.”
“You talking about him or you?”
“Both,” Lester said, “mostly me. I’ve been angry since the day I was born.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s not a story you ought to hear,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and went silent.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As they approached the state of Florida, Alex expected an oversized billboard jammed with a collage of alligators, oranges, pastel beaches and Mickey Mouse, all bordering a space shuttle at mid-launch. But the actual sign was generic blue, no bigger than a movie poster.
Lester pointed to an exit ramp and directed Alex to a shady spot behind a gas station. A cluster of cigarette butts surrounded a couple of inverted five-gallon buckets that would do for seating.
Alex sat across from Lester and ate while listening to the old man complain about how his roast beef was covered with dressing and mixed in with his salad. He said everything was the same temperature. Then, after a few more bites, he said, “I’ve had all I can stomach.” He got up and tossed the rest of his food into a nearby dumpster.
Alex kept eating while watching Lester. The old man opened the door behind the passenger seat and pulled out his stick. He held it under brilliant sunlight and spun it around slowly. Then he went back to the trunk and searched around. He pulled out a first aid kit and found an alcohol prep pad
, using it to rub the end of the stick. Afterward, he slammed the trunk and said, “No more racist blood on my stick.”
Alex offered a nervous smile.
Buckled up and in the passenger seat Lester said, “For better or worse, I believe I’m developing a fondness for that stick.”
THEY WERE back on the road, traveling through the heart of Jacksonville but with very little traffic. Both remained silent for a long time while the tension in Alex’s chest expanded. He wasn’t afraid of the old man going psycho, whacking away with his stick. But he was worried about Lester’s health if he kept having outbursts. The other thing Alex didn’t like was being censored out of Lester’s history. After thirty or so minutes, he couldn’t take it any longer. “I’m not a little kid, you know.”
Lester shook his head slowly. “It’s not a pleasant story.”
“Fine with me,” Alex said. “Pleasant stories are boring.”
Lester smiled and said, “All right, but first you gotta realize, I’m not blaming anybody here, not even myself. It’s just the way things were.”
Alex nodded.
“You see, my mother had this thing. She called it a weekly purification before the Lord’s Day. Nowadays, you’d call it abuse. Every Saturday she beat the snot out of me and my brother and my three sisters. Went on every week till I turned twelve.”
“Sounds worse than my mother.”
“But the thing is, after I turned twelve, she stopped. And I had a lot to do with it.” The old man’s breathing seemed to catch. Alex didn’t say anything.
“I snapped,” Lester said. “But it wasn’t out of nowhere. I saw my brother and sisters get beaten the same way every week. I took it too. I kept thinking my father would step in and put an end to it.”
“Why didn’t he?”
Lester raised a finger to hush Alex. “It was my twelfth birthday. My father asked me the day before what I wanted for a present. I said I wanted momma to stop beating us. He didn’t say anything. But I thought, maybe.”
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