Talk flowed back and forth between him and Daddy. They had to raise their voices above the sound of the engine and whine of the wind. When they neared a man shambling along in the other direction with a battered old cardboard suitcase, Daddy stopped and gave him what was left of the fried rabbit and a jar half-full of water.
“My landlord got money for tractors from the NBA,” said the shrunken, stoop-shouldered man whose face was wrinkled as a prune. “So he tells me and two other guys who were farmin’ for him to clear out. Don’t need us. Goddam gover’ment. Goddam machinery!”
“Brother, it don’t help to take the Lord’s name in vain,” said Daddy.
“Don’t seem to have helped you not to. But I shouldn’t have cussed in front of the kiddies.” The wizened face split to show good teeth and Laurie realized with shock that he must be no older than Daddy. “You just forget that, sissy, and remember how I sure am obliged. Good luck to you folks.”
“Good luck to you,” said Daddy, and Laurie echoed that.
“Want me to drive, Ed?” asked Morrigan, for Daddy had asked him to drop the “Mr. Field.”
“Glad for you to.” Daddy took up more of the seat than had Morrigan and Laurie had to brace herself to keep from jouncing to the floorboards. She forgot her discomfort, though, in the glory of the sunset that crimsoned the whole western sky, scarlet streaked with fiery gold. The brilliance deepened to glowing purple red, then slowly faded to hazy violet.
“They say dust makes these pretty sunsets.” Morrigan grinned. “Reckon that’s the only good thing about it. Glad you gave that old boy back there some food. I’ve been mighty hollow myself and you know what I found out?”
“What?” asked Laurie, Buddy, and Daddy all at once.
“No use goin’ to the churches. I’ve been run off from every brand of church under the sun. I knew better’n to go to the rich houses, but the middlin’ ones won’t feed you, either. What you do is go to the poor folks. They’ve been hungry. Whatever they’ve got, they’ll share it. Funny thing is that these holy folks wouldn’t let Jesus in their churches or homes if He came back today. They’d call him a hobo and jail him for not havin’ a job. But you know, Ed, I have an idea that if He was here, he’d be with the Okies in those stinkin’ California camps.”
Daddy looked startled but then he nodded. “The Lord said the foxes had holes and the birds had nests but He didn’t have anyplace to rest His head.”
“There’s another song Woody taught me,” Morrigan said. “Goes to the tune of ‘Jesse James.’” Softly, he began a song about Jesus and how he was killed. From that, he moved on to songs Laurie had heard all her life, “Chisholm Trail,” “Strawberry Roan,” “She’ll Be Comin’ Around the Mountain,” and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
Laurie and her father joined in the choruses. It made her feel better, lightened the sick heaviness of her heart. Maybe as long as you could sing or make up songs about how you felt, it kept you from feeling quite so hopeless and poor and lonesome. Singing made you think about whoever made the song and all the people who’d sung it since, and everybody who was in the same fix, made you know you belonged to the human race even if your home was gone and your family busted up and you didn’t know what was going to happen.
I’ll try to keep Morrigan’s songs, Laurie vowed. If I can remember them after he’s gone maybe it’ll seem a little like he’s still with us. Uncomfortable as her perch was, she didn’t want this time with him to end.
Close to the road, they passed a blistered farmhouse where a family was piling furniture and belongings into an old Ford truck. In spite of this melancholy occupation, they waved, so Daddy stopped to ask if they could fill their water jars.
“Help yourself, mister,” said the graying man, weathered and gnarled as a cottonwood root clinging to an eroded bank. “At least the well ain’t dried up yet.”
His wife, except for her ruffled sunbonnet and faded dress, looked remarkably like him, too old to be the mother of the towheaded little girl peering from behind her. The oldest boy was taller than Laurie. Three other youngsters stairstepped between him and the toddler, all fair-haired, blue-eyed, and clad in patched overalls that obviously descended through the children according to size till they fell off the thin, sunburned bodies.
The Fields and Morrigan climbed out, each taking a jar, and headed for the well at the side of the house. The door of a sagging barn creaked and swung in the wind. There wasn’t a tree in sight, nor any flowers or bushes. It didn’t seem to Laurie that any place could be more forlorn but as they paused to visit a few minutes, she saw tears in the woman’s eyes.
“Owned two sections of land free and clear in twenty-nine,” the farmer said. “But the bank closed with all our savin’s and me owin’ for this truck—it was new then—a combine, tractor, and seed. Never got out of debt again because I never made another good crop. If wind didn’t blow it out in spring, or hail pound it into the ground, the grasshoppers gnawed it to the roots in summer. Just kept a-plowin’ money under. Mortgaged the land. The bank’s foreclosed on us so we’ve got to go.”
“My first baby’s buried here,” said the woman, picking up the ragged little girl and burying her face against the soft neck. “He’d be sixteen this June. Onliest one of the young’uns that had brown eyes and hair like my daddy. There was a yellow rosebush on his grave and a honey locust shadin’ it. I kept ’em watered, but hoppers killed them.”
“Headin’ for Californy,” said the farmer, “With all of us but the two least ’uns workin’ hard for a year or two, we ought to get together enough cash for a start. They say that earth’s so rich that anything you plant just plain jumps out of the ground.”
Morrigan frowned. It was clear he hated to discourage these hard-hit folks but hated worse for them to be too disappointed. “Well, mister, you got a good work crew for certain, but I’m just back from California and I hope you’ll let me give you a word of advice. If you find work on your way out, a place where you can live decent, better stop right there.”
“But I’ve heard a man can get five dollars a day pickin’ fruit or cotton!”
“Not with thousands of folks like us comin’ every month, dead broke, and havin’ to work for whatever pay they can get,” Morrigan said. “You see, since the Gold Rush, California’s had cheap labor. First Chinese, then Japanese and Filipinos and Mexicans. Now they don’t need ’em to work, they’re forcing lots of Mexicans to go back to Mexico whether they want to or not. Now the growers have Okies—boy howdy! have they got Okies! That’s what they call us whether we’re from Kansas or Texas, Arkansas, Tennessee, Colorado, or New Mexico. Californians treat us just like they do folks with dark skins. Signs in some movie houses say ‘Negroes and Okies in the balcony.’” He shook his head. “That California water Jimmie Rodgers sings about tastes more like vinegar than cherry wine, friends. Sure, you can sleep out every night because there’s no roof you can afford unless you’re pickin’ on a farm where they make a whole family live in one of their one-room shacks and pay a dollar a day for it.”
“Maybe you was just in the wrong place,” said the farmer.
“I sure was.” Morrigan shook hands all the way down to the tiny blond girl who finally, shyly, answered his smile. “Good luck. But I’m sure hopin’ for you that you find a good place short of California.”
“I won’t be far behind you folks,” Daddy said, also shaking hands. “Whatever’s out there can’t be worse’n this.”
As they drove off, Laurie didn’t look back. It was too sad, watching the family pack up their lives and years and hopes into an old truck. But for one thing she envied them. They were together, and they’d stay together.
Morrigan was driving. They’d all drunk their fill of cold, sweet water from the well. Now they stashed the jars where they’d stay coolest and settled down for the drive to Clinton. Morrigan started humming. It turned into words mocked by the curl of his lip and the bitter edge of his voice.
“California water tastes li
ke cherry wine.
California water tastes like cherry wine.
Oklahoma water tastes like turpentine …”
They drove through Woodward in the twilight. It had a courthouse, Carnegie library, American Legion Hall, brick business buildings, and several parks. A pretty little town, Laurie thought wistfully, a good place to live and feel you belonged. Would their family ever settle in a place like this again, have a real home?
“We’re gettin’ east of where the storm was worst,” Daddy said, as the headlights flickered wanly on the road. “Fences aren’t drifted over and there’s grass amongst them Roosian thistles that sure are lookin’ healthy. When they dry up, tumbleweeds’ll be scootin’ across the land like they was people. Farther we can get tonight the less drivin’ we’ll have in the heat of the day. How’s about we travel till nine o’clock or a flat tire, whichever comes first?”
“Fine by me,” said Morrigan.
The flat tire came at eight-thirty, according to the kitchen clock Daddy had wired to the dashboard. Luckily, they were near another dry wash where enough limbs had dropped from cottonwoods to build a fire. By its light, the men jacked up the car and fixed the flat while Laurie and her drowsy brother got out the bedding and plates and utensils. Laurie put on the coffeepot and, at Morrigan’s insistence, got the cans of salmon and peaches out of his old canvas sack, opened them, and set the cans on a tea towel with bread and what was left of the slaw.
Buddy was hungry now. He must have been sick from heat and the motion of the car—and from leaving home. As they ate by the cheerful dance of the fire, Laurie couldn’t help but think how different that day and the night to come would’ve been without Morrigan. Did you send him, Mama? Do you know what’s happening to us? Do you still love us or is it like the preacher says, that folks in heaven don’t grieve anymore? Is being with God so wonderful that you’ve forgotten us? I don’t believe that! I don’t believe it at all! Even worse than Mama’s dying was thinking that maybe she didn’t care about them now, that she couldn’t love anyone but God.
No matter how Laurie tried to deny that shattering fear, it took away her appetite. She nibbled at some bread and ate a little salmon because Morrigan put it on her plate. When he offered peaches, she shook her head.
“No, thank you very much,” she said the way Mama had taught them. Manners don’t cost anything, Mama used to say. Laurie had to remember, remember everything, so she could teach Buddy.
Morrigan’s right eyebrow climbed to his dark hair. “My singin’ turn your stomach, honey?”
“Oh, no! I just—” Daddy had gone to the car for something. It was parked just off the road and he was out of earshot. Laurie blurted, “Do you think dead people know what’s going on with people they used to love? Do you think they care?”
Buddy quit chewing. His eyes fixed on Morrigan. Had he been wondering the same thing? She’d have to get better at guessing what went on inside her little brother. He wasn’t going to tell her, and she was all he’d have. If Morrigan laughed or said she was silly—
He considered for a moment, brow furrowing. “Why, Laurie, if there’s anything left of us at all, it has to be love. That’s one thing I agree with in the Bible—love is stronger than death.”
The way he said it made her believe it. She’d believe anything he said. She brushed at tears. “I don’t want Mama to feel bad, Mr. Morrigan. But it—it’d be so lonesome if she didn’t care about us anymore—”
Setting down his plate, he put one arm around her and one around Buddy. “She cares. She loves you. But where she is, she can see past what’s going on now. She knows you’ll do fine, both of you, and that when you’ve lived out your good lives, you’ll be with her again.”
“Do—do you really believe that?” Buddy asked.
“I believe it more than anything I’ve ever said.” Morrigan gave Laurie a blue bandanna handkerchief that had his smell on it. “That coffee sure smells good and I’ve got a can of evaporated milk.” He glanced up at Daddy who had returned with a clean shirt for tomorrow. Daddy was particular about how he looked and kept his shoes shined even when the soles were mostly cardboard patches. “Is it okay for the youngsters to have coffee this late if we put in plenty of Borden’s?”
“If they want some, I guess it’s fine.” Daddy chuckled at Buddy’s delight.
The golden peaches tempted Laurie now. She had some with a cup of creamy rich coffee and felt content and lazy, as if her bones had dissolved. She was by no means sorry that there wasn’t enough water to heat for dishes.
“I’ll take care of these.” Morrigan collected the plates, forks, and spoons. From fallen bark, he tore off the fibrous lining and wiped the things clean before discarding the fuzzy scourers a good way from camp.
When he returned almost soundlessly, first a shadow, then with the firelight on him, Buddy said, “Could you play your guitar again, sir?”
“Son,” rebuked Daddy, “Mr. Morrigan’s tired.”
“My strummin’ fingers are a mite sore,” said Morrigan. “But I can sure play you some tunes on the harmonica.”
He got it out of his bundle, which was astonishing in the way it seemed to hold just what was needed. The french harp was about six inches long, plated with scrolled silver that flashed in the firelight. Sitting cross-legged, Morrigan made music you couldn’t believe come from such a little contrivance: trains thundering down the tracks, whistles blowing, coyotes laughing like the ones in the distance, hooty owls, and the mournful wailing of the wind.
The man’s body moved to the music, sort of a pulsing, and his long brown fingers could flicker across the front of the harp, causing a poignant vibration like a sob. He used his tongue to make trills and tremolos. It was magic. The only thing Laurie didn’t like, because she loved his voice, was that he couldn’t play and sing at the same time.
“Want to try it?” he asked, wiping the harmonica off on his shirt. Buddy had fallen asleep and Daddy was yawning but Laurie carefully took the instrument, admiring the curlicues around the name, Hohner, and blew into it. She only got a rustle.
“You’ll have to puff harder than that, honey. Don’t worry, you’re not goin’ to wake the neighbors.”
She blew with more assurance. The sounds were pretty even if she didn’t know how to put them into a tune. Oh, lovely! If she had one of these, she’d practice till Morrigan would be proud and surprised. Well, someday she would. When she grew up—
“Better tuck in,” said Daddy. “We need to roll out early so we can get to Pa’s before the worst heat.”
Reluctantly, Laurie handed back the harmonica. “Can you play the dust song on this?” she asked. “The one about ‘It’s been good to know you’?”
“Sure.” He did, winding up with a spirited flourish. That might be an end-of-the-world song and a dust song, but it was mainly about folks gaining comfort from each other in the stifling darkness of the storm—able to say that it had been good—good to know each other, good to have shared their lives.
Just as it had been a saving grace to meet John Morrigan when they had even though the winds were soon going to blow them different ways. She’d never forget him, or his songs, and so she wouldn’t lose him. “Thanks, Mr. Morrigan,” she said. “Good night.”
“Good night, Laurie.” He smoothed her hair, smiling, and the smoldering firelight made his green-gray eyes almost golden. “Sleep tight now.”
He went off into the night. She thought he was answering a call of nature but as she began to drowse, she heard him playing, muted by distance, as if he had things to say to the night and the wind. It was with his music gentle in her ears that she fell asleep. For the first time since her mother died, she didn’t dream of the end of the world.
4
They were on the road before sunrise. Morrigan said laughingly that he was just like a rooster, dawn made him sing, and he sang merrily—about the boll weevil who was looking for a home and took the farmer’s, “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” “Cotton-Eyed Joe,” “H
obo Bill,” and “Orange Blossom Special.” As a town that had to be Clinton came into view, he led off in “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” and they all joined in.
“Clinton’s a pretty prosperous little town,” Morrigan said. “It’s at the junction with Highway 66 that runs all the way from Chicago to California, tucked in here at the bend of the Washita River and it’s got the big state tuberculosis hospital. Hear tell colored folks are in the regular wards since there’s no other place for them.”
“Didn’t this used to be part of the Cheyenne-Arapaho Reservation?” Daddy asked.
“Till it was opened up to homesteaders in eighteen ninety-two.” Morrigan shrugged. “That’s how it was in Oklahoma, you know. First it was roamed by the real wild tribes like Comanches and Kiowas. Then what they call the Five Civilized Tribes, includin’ my Choctaw and Chickasaw kin, got driven off their homes in Georgia and Florida and states like that and got dumped in the eastern part of what by then was bein’ called Indian Territory.” He pulled a wry grin. “Uncle Sam promised them this country as long as grass grows and water runs. Well, Uncle kept sending more tag-ends of tribes to the Territory, and then used the fact that some Indians fought for the South in the War Between the States—hell, plenty of ’em were so plumb civilized they had colored slaves—well, the government used that excuse to grab most of the western part of the territory.”
“Did Indians have slaves?” Laurie was both intrigued and scandalized.
“Sure. My Indian great-grandparents on both sides owned colored folks. Just because a race of people get shoved around don’t mean they’re softer-hearted than anybody else, honey. Anyhow, starting in eighty-nine, there was one land openin’ after another and all kinds of skullduggery, especially after oil was found. Whether the Cherokee Nation or the Choctaw Nation or the Seminole Nation or the Chickasaw Nation or the Creek Nation—and they were nations, with their own laws and courts and constitutions—well, whether they liked it or not, and most didn’t, their Indian Territory was lumped with Oklahoma Territory and made into a state in nineteen-o-seven.”
The Longest Road Page 5