“How much were my socks?” asked Way, peeling out his dollars. From the way his fingers touched them, it had been a long time since he’d had that much. “I owe you for the paint, too.”
Laurie backed away. “We owe you for breakfast and dinner, then. Please, Way! Families share.”
“Well—But I’m supposed to be lookin’ out for you kiddos!”
“I hate to think about what might’ve happened to us without you.” Laurie shivered. “If you hadn’t run off that jocker—”
“If you’d hollered and made a fuss, some of the other guys would’ve helped. Tramps and ’boes learn to mind their own business but most of ’em got hearts.”
“All the same, we’re lucky you decided to be our—our family.”
“Not as lucky as me.” He put the money back in an inner pocket of his coat, maybe where he kept the butcher knife. “Okay, I’ll keep it for now but it’s yours much as it is mine. We better shake a leg so we can eat that dinner we have comin’ before we pile into that fancy Packard. And say, I’m goin’ to buy a razor and see if that nice lady at the café won’t let me borrow a washbasin and some soap.”
She was happy to oblige and supplied a mirror to prop in the window above the outside bench. With his jaws scraped clean, the burn scar on Way’s cheek was less conspicuous. He had trimmed his shaggy moustache, too, and looked years younger, in fact he now didn’t really look much older than the forty years Laurie had figured out must be his age.
“Good gracious, Way!” she said so softly that no one else could hear. “If you keep looking handsomer and younger, no one’s going to believe you’re our grandpa.”
He beamed and smoothed his crisply waving hair. “Reckon I’ve got a ways to go before anyone takes me for your big brother, kiddos. I may look better’n I did but no one’s goin’ to call me a liar if I say I’m fifty.” He gave a startled whistle as the café lady put a huge steak in front of him with green beans and a mound of mashed potatoes and good-smelling gravy. “Ma’am, I’d have to paint your whole building, inside and out, to deserve this!”
“Beef’s cheap because of drought and there’s lots of apricot cobbler.” She smiled at Laurie and Bud. “What would you like? My husband’s chili is the best you’ll ever taste. There’s chicken and dumplings. Or you can have steak.”
Buddy took the chicken and Laurie decided on chili. It was delicious, spicy beans with chunks of beef, altogether different from the thin concoction Mama had made by shaving slivers off a block that was more orange suet than meat. The soda crackers were good, too, and Laurie demolished a bowl of them. Just like they were paying customers, the lady kept their glasses full of iced tea, and Way’s mug topped off with fragrant coffee.
They were starting on their cobbler when the big, square-faced owner of the Packard came in. He ordered sirloin steak without even looking at the gray-eyed lady. His chunky fingers drummed the counter, one wearing a gold ring with a glittering diamond—did men wear diamonds? Laurie had never seen a man with a ring before. You’d expect yellow eyes to be soft, but this man’s were hard as they drilled into Way.
“Say, fella, are you some kind of goddam Red?”
The bald man who stuck his head through the service window of the kitchen rapped to get attention. “You watch your language in front of my wife, mister.”
“I can sure find someplace else to eat.”
“You sure can,” agreed the cook.
“No offense, lady,” muttered the yellow-eyed man. The cook went back to his stove and the big, square-bodied man turned back to Way. “Well, how about it?”
“Guess you been talkin’ to Lem,” drawled Way. “How’d you like the sign I did for Seth Hanna’s garage?”
The broad, powerful, ringed hand made a dismissive sweep. The top of it and the bottom finger joints were furred with coarse black hair. “Short and sweet, mister. You one of them crazy radicals?”
Way wiped coffee off his moustache and unfolded from the stool. Laurie remembered the knife in his pocket and sucked in her breath, but his tone was easy. “If it’s radical to think there ought to be work for everybody at decent pay, I reckon I’m a radical. And I’m a radical if that means believin’ that in this great big country of ours, the wonderfulest one in the world, there hadn’t ought to be families camped under railroad bridges and kids that don’t get enough to eat. Shouldn’t anyone in this whole United States have to go to bed hungry.”
“Includin’ bums and tramps?”
“Ought to be some way they could work for a meal. Anyhow, Jesus was a bum and a tramp.”
A lady with bluing-rinsed hair jumped up from a table. “You—you’re blaspheming!” she sputtered.
No one paid her any mind. The dark pupil spread over the heavy man’s yellow eyes and the skin at the curves of his flattened nostrils pinched white. “You don’t want a ride much, mister.”
“We’ll manage.”
Way turned his back deliberately and finished his coffee. “Thank you, lady,” he said to the kind-eyed woman. “Best cobbler I ever sunk a tooth in. Come on, kiddos.”
“Say, mister,” said a lanky old man at the end of the counter, “I’m headin’ east soon as I’ve et the last of crumb of this cobbler. Only goin’ about eighty miles but the kids don’t take up much room so you shouldn’t have too hard a time catchin’ a ride—and if you don’t by nightfall, you can bunk down in the barn.”
“I’ll fix you a sack for your supper,” the café lady said. She gave the flat-nosed man a scornful look as she vanished into the kitchen.
Suddenly, the square-faced man laughed and shrugged. “You’re a tough old vinegaroon but I kind of like that. Besides, I want those signs.” He smiled at Laurie and Buddy. His teeth were big and white and looked hungry. “Bet you kids’d like a ride in my Packard. I’ve even got a radio.”
Laurie looked at Way. Riding in the big blue car would be almost as magical as having enough dimes to ride the merry-go-round as long as you wanted during the county fair. She’d never had more than two rides, clinging rapturously to the pole as the spirited horse she’d picked with such care to make sure he was the most beautiful plunged up and down with the music. Oh, if she was ever rich, she’d ride just as long as she wanted to, hours and hours of the dreamlike canter that carried her to an enchanted world. But she didn’t like this man and hated how he’d talked to Way. It was up to him to decide. Buddy had his mouth open. She gripped his arm and gave him a fierce stare.
“We’re much obliged to you, mister,” Way said to the lanky old man. “Mighty good of you to offer, but we’re headed for Texas and Holbrook is a good chunk of the way.”
“Why, sure,” their would-be benefactor nodded. “You better ride far as you can at one crack, ’specially with the kids. Good luck.”
“Same to you,” said Way.
The lady came out of the kitchen with two sacks that gave out delicious smells and a bottle of milk that she handed to Laurie. “Cinnamon rolls and fried chicken,” she said. “You folks be careful now!”
“That’s way too much!” protested Laurie, reaching in her pocket. “Please, we’d like to pay.”
“That pretty sign’s worth every bite,” said the woman.
“Let me give you a song, then,” Laurie said. She got out Morrigan’s harmonica and played “So Long, It’s Been Good to Know You.” The lady didn’t know the words, of course, but they were true.
10
It seemed almost sacrilege to deposit their scruffy bundles in the spacious carpeted floor of the back of the Packard, or sink down in seats covered with butterscotch-colored suede leather so soft it felt like velvet. Laurie’s awed delight was penetrated by the stranger’s hearty voice.
“Guess it’s time we got acquainted.” It must have been a trick of the light but those yellow eyes seemed to blaze as the man settled heavily behind the wheel. This buggy didn’t need cranking. It was the first car Laurie had ever ridden in that had a starter. As the motor throbbed eagerly, the driver swung the
big, fancy car onto the highway. “I’m W. S. Redwine.”
“I’m Wayburn Kirkendall and these are my grandkids, Larry and Bud Field.”
“Their mother must be your daughter.”
Laurie squirmed and waved a last time at the nice café lady. She hoped Mr. Redwine wouldn’t get too curious. She wasn’t good at lying. It was a bad sin and till she’d taken on a boy’s identity, she had seldom even fibbed. Buddy lied a lot to escape punishment but always gave himself away and got spanked for that on top of his original misdeed. Way, however, nodded easily.
“My onliest child,” he said in a mournful tone. “She died of dust pneumony. Her man went to pick crops in California and got drowned.” Laurie filled with scandalized admiration at how he mingled truth with invention. Probably that was the secret of lying convincingly—stick to the truth as much as possible so it wouldn’t be hard to sound sincere, like Way did. “So now the kiddos are with me. I’m all they’ve got. My wife and their other grandparents are dead.”
“That’s quite a burden, especially since you seem to be having a hard time of it. Lots of men in your fix would put the kids in an orphanage or find some good family to adopt them.”
“Not while there’s breath in my carcass,” Way said fiercely.
After a pause, Mr. Redwine asked, “So you’re headed for Texas? Got family there?”
“No, but I’ve worked in the oil fields. There’s generally some kind of job in a boomtown. We’ll get along.”
“I started my truck centers in Texas,” W. S. Redwine said idly. “Spread into New Mexico and kept going west. I may put one in back there in Tarry.”
“What’s the need?” asked Way. “There’s a café, cabins, and garage already.”
Mr. Redwine gave his shoulder a negligent hitch. “A modern center—everything new and all together—would close down those hick outfits inside a month. Local folks might go on using them but it’s the highway trade that counts.”
“And I reckon you could cut prices.” Way’s tone was dry. “Raise ’em again once you didn’t have any competition.”
“That’s business.”
If Mr. Redwine owned the café, Laurie was sure no traveler would get a bag of food like the one the lady gave them. It hurt to think of her and her husband and Seth Hanna being forced out of business in spite of the beautiful signs Way had painted. Kids weren’t supposed to cut into grown-up talk, but even if it imperiled their ride, Laurie had to say, “That’s a mighty mean kind of business!”
“Only kind there is.” Mr. Redwine chuckled, not the least bit upset. “Let’s hear a tune on your harmonica, sonny.”
Laurie didn’t want to play for him. She couldn’t very well refuse when they were riding in his car but she played songs he wouldn’t like and thought the words at him—“Ludlow Massacre,” “Seven-Cent Cotton and Forty-Cent Meat,” and “You’ll Eat Pie in the Sky.”
“I’m not partial to church songs,” interrupted Mr. Redwine. The pie song used the tune of “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.” “Let’s see what we can get on the radio.”
He fiddled with knobs, swore at the static, and finally located a music station that suited him. He tapped his fingers on the wheel to something called “The Music Goes ’Round and ’Round” and said over his shoulder, “Get the tune to that one, kid.”
She wasn’t his slave. It was a silly song, but she did like a couple of the songs that followed, “Red Sails in the Sunset” and “Tumbling Tumbleweed,” though she didn’t think whoever made up the last one had ever been caught out where the wind was whipping tumbleweeds across the plains. There was nothing lazy and melodic about that. She was getting the tunes in her head when Mr. Redwine switched off the radio and said, “Okay, Larry. Play it.”
She played the songs she’d liked. “Fine,” said the man, whose square shoulders bulked twice as wide as Way’s. “Now how about the one I asked you to pick up?”
Laurie’s mouth felt dry. “I couldn’t.”
They were traveling through desert country that looked as bad as the Dust Bowl. The only cheerful thing about it was the Burma-Shave jingles on signs along the way. She didn’t want to be the cause of the three of them getting thrown out by the side of the road but something told her it would be dangerous to buckle in to W. S. Redwine. Besides, Morrigan had given her his music; it seemed unfaithful to let Redwine tell her what to learn.
“Pay attention,” he said. “I’ll whistle it.”
“Whistle all you want.” Way’s voice was soft and drawly but something in it made Laurie think of the knife inside his coat and turned her cold. “But Larry don’t have to play songs he don’t like. Music’s not a paid kind of thing.”
“Didn’t see him turning down any cash when he was playing outside the café.”
“Larry gave his music. It was free. Anyone could listen. Folks who liked it and could afford to gave him money.”
“Since I’m giving you this ride, you’d think he could give me a song.”
“He gave you a bunch of ’em.”
“But not what I asked for.”
“That’s how music is,” said Way. “Anyhow, you ain’t exactly givin’ us this ride, Mr. Redwine. I’m goin’ to paint you a bunch of signs.” He chuckled. “Now that is business. I’ll paint exactly what you want ’long as it won’t get me throwed in jail.”
Redwine turned on the radio.
Snaking, twisting, hairpin curves that made Laurie’s stomach lurch. She had thought the bleached Mojave Desert looked the way the world would after the angels dumped out all the vials of God’s wrath but these Black Mountains of western Arizona were even worse, rock melted in hell and spewed out to harden in fantastic monster shapes.
Surrounded by layers of what Way explained were mine tailings, the old mining town of Oatman clung to a hillside. Stores and offices shaded by wooden awnings were built on one side of the highway, which was also the only street. Wooden steps led up to a plank boardwalk supported by stilts to make it level. Houses perched wherever they found a flat space, many on steep hilltops ribboned by a road or trail. Some were neatly painted but the majority were weather-beaten gray.
It was a relief to reach desert again and see a few stunted trees with small, delicate leaves a little like those of honey locusts, growing along sandy watercourses. She had seen cactus before, of course, but not some of these kinds, nor did she recognize a scrubby bush with tiny, dark green, glossy leaves and little yellow flowers, or tall, thorny wands covered with small leaves and tipped with brilliant red blooms.
“Must’ve rained lately,” said W. S. Redwine. “The creosote and ocotillo are blooming. Good thing we didn’t get caught in it. The desert’s so rocky that rain just runs off into the washes and sends a flood crashing along so fast it can catch a car and sweep it right along with it. I’ve sat here for a couple hours waiting for a flash flood to go down so’s I could get across. And I remember when the desert road was just planks laid across the sand. If you met another car, you each kept the tires on one side up on the planks so you wouldn’t get stuck.”
The road edged a range of mountains of dark rock patterned with light that glowed crimson, azure, and gold in the sunset as the Packard slowed down a little for Kingman. Here the highway passed an inspection station, where they were waved on after Mr. Redwine genially told the man that of course he wasn’t carrying any California fruit. Merged with the highway, Front Street ran past warehouses, businesses, and the depot for the Santa Fe Railroad. Buddy nudged Laurie.
“Aren’t you glad we’re not sneakin’ around the yards looking for a boxcar?” he whispered.
Laurie smiled and nodded but she wasn’t sure. Even if it had been scary coming through the mountains, the Packard was a lot more comfortable than any car, truck, or train she’d ever ridden in. The cushions were so deep that they sort of hugged you so you didn’t jounce around and Mr. Redwine was a good driver even if he went faster than Laurie liked, especially on those terrible curves where you looked down and saw the
road coiling dizzily beneath you.
But there was something about Mr. Redwine that made her determine never to play “Begin the Beguine” or learn the songs he tried to make her play. She’d learned all of Morrigan’s that she could, and had been glad to pick up tunes from tramps and hoboes, but a fear deep inside her warned that he’d take over her music if she didn’t fight him, and then it wouldn’t be hers anymore or Morrigan’s either.
Where was Morrigan? Would she ever see him again? If it weren’t for the harmonica and his songs, she’d think that she’d imagined him, dreamed him into flesh and blood during that awful trip from home to Grandpa’s. Usually she wouldn’t let herself yearn for him because it seemed ungrateful to want more luck in her whole life than that he’d come along the way he had, traveled with them for that day, and given them his music. It still seemed to her that he was a kind of angel Mama had sent to help them through that journey. But it would be so wonderful to see him at least one more time and he’d been heading for work in the Texas oil fields just like they were.…
W. S. Redwine swung the Packard left off the highway and parked to the side of a long stucco building with four gas pumps in front of it, a big garage on one end, and about ten cabins behind it. A metal sign over the garage, where several men were working on a truck, said TRUCK CENTER—CAFE—CABINS. A neon sign rearing high above the center said DUB’S TRUCK CENTER.
“Bet you can improve on that, Wayburn.” Redwine jerked his head toward the plain white sign with black lettering. “The neon catches folks at night but I need something good for daytime. Seth Hanna said you thought up that cat sign of his.”
“Well, Mr. Redwine—”
“Call me Dub.”
“Well, sir, I’d like to think it over some but how about ‘Square meals—square deals’ and something about what a good rest a trucker can get here? Maybe you’d ought to think on a name for your centers so’s drivers could wait for the next one. If they take a cabin, maybe you could give a discount for one at the next place.”
The Longest Road Page 15