Redwine laughed. “Nope. It’s the Escalante—a Harvey House. There was one smart Englishman. When he took the Santa Fe out west back in the 1870s, the food was so awful that he made a deal with the railroad. The Santa Fe would build the fancy restaurants and furnish ’em, bring in food, and pay the help’s wages. Harvey hired French chefs and saw that every restaurant served the best of everything. The pretty waitresses got married so fast that he took to hiring plain ones, but they all had to be decent women and I guess they were watched after stricter than nuns.” Redwine grinned. “I don’t have to compete with the Escalante. After all, they can’t service trucks.”
Way got the sign painted before dark while Buddy roamed and Laurie washed out their dirty clothes and finished patching the dry ones. She’d never expected to treasure scissors, needles, and thread, but now she did, and kept them in the paper bag the store had given her. It gave her a good feeling to acquire things she’d taken for granted at home but which made all the difference in keeping respectable looking. Mama always said a patch or darn was no disgrace but a hole was.
There weren’t many customers in the café that evening, but several tanned young cowboys taught Laurie a rollicking song about some cowboys riding home drunk from Prescott who met the devil, roped and branded him, and tied knots in his tail. “Gail Gardner made it up while he was bound for Washington, D.C., on the Santa Fe, fixin’ to join up in the World War,” said one of the men. “My daddy worked cattle with him on the Mogollon Rim and Gail was one of the best. Postmaster over to Prescott, he is now.”
The song delighted Laurie. She got them to sing it till she had the words and valued the lesson more than the quarter and half-dollar they left for her when they jingled out. As Way and the children walked to the last cabin in the row, Buddy started singing the song. He had learned it, too! His boy’s voice thinned here and there but it was clear and sweet.
Laurie gave him a jubilant hug. “Buddy! If you can sing while I play, we’ll be twice as good!”
Wresting free, Buddy protested. “I can’t learn all them songs, Laurie!”
“Those songs. Of course you can—most, anyway. We can practice in the car if Mr. Redwine doesn’t mind. If he does, we’ll practice at night. Just think! You’ll have your own money again.”
That brightened him considerably. “Do I get half?”
Laurie thought a minute. “Yes, if you buy your clothes and a share of groceries and whatever else we have to spend.”
Buddy groaned. “I don’t want to worry about all that! How much can I have to spend on good stuff like funnies and gum and candy and drinks and ice cream?”
Laurie glanced up at Way but he just grinned. “Well, Buddy,” she thought aloud, trying to impress him with the facts of existence, “we all need clothes. We have to eat once Way’s job with Mr. Redwine’s over. When we get to Texas, we’ll need to rent a place to live. It depends on how much we earn, too. The Kingman truckers gave us four dollars and ten cents. Tonight we only got a dollar and a quarter.” Hastily, she added, “But that’s good—and we have to be real grateful—when a man can work hard all day for a dollar.”
“How much do I get?” Buddy persisted.
Way whooped. Aggravated, but giving up on educating her brother anytime soon, Laurie said, “Let’s try fifteen cents.”
That would have been riches to Buddy before the recent windfalls but now he wheedled. “What if we get—oh, five dollars? What if someone puts money in my bib pocket?”
“You’ve been spending some they put in mine.”
“Yeah, but you’re a lot older than me!”
“That’s why I have to look out for you and why I can’t let you blow money we need.”
Buddy pouted as they entered the cabin. “Why should I sing when you’ll give me almost as much if I don’t?”
“You ought to like to sing! You should want to earn your money—and if you won’t, then I’m not going to give it to you!”
“You—you’re a mean old—” Buddy groped for a name bad enough and came up with one W. S. Redwine had hurled at their flat tires. “You’re a mean, stingy old sow bitch!”
“Buddy!” Way caught the boy’s shoulders and stared down at him till Buddy stopped trying to twist away and hung his head. “You think that’s the way to talk to your sister?”
Reddening till Laurie’s outrage turned to pity for him, Buddy finally, reluctantly, shook his head. “Then,” said Way, stern with either of them for the first time, “don’t you reckon you’d better tell her you’re sorry?”
Tears glinted in Buddy’s eyes. As Way released him, he rubbed his sleeve across his face. “I-I’m sorry,” he snuffled. “I didn’t mean it, Laurie. You’re not a—”
“Don’t say it,” she cut in swiftly. “Mama would hate to hear you talk that way.”
“I’ll sing,” he promised in a small voice. “We can practice right now if you want to learn me some.”
“Teach,” Laurie sighed. “You learn and I’ll teach.” She sat down on the cot and got out her harmonica though she was so tired that she wanted to go right to bed. “All right. Let’s try it.”
Before they turned in, they had the words and music sounding right together, and if Buddy wasn’t having fun, his zest was deceiving. Apparently, he’d picked up parts of Morrigan’s songs, too, and it wasn’t hard to work up “So Long, It’s Been Good to Know You” and several of the spirituals.
“Sounds mighty good,” nodded Way. “Why, you kiddos might get as famous as the Carter Family!”
Somehow, Laurie couldn’t imagine Buddy singing as a career but she couldn’t picture him doing anything else, either, except hunting rabbits. She was asleep the moment she stretched out on the cot.
12
Grassy meadows grazed by deer and antelope overlay ancient lava flows that here and there spread in terraces or jutted up like frozen waves. Pines, some bearing scars of lightning or fire, reared tall and straight into the sky, often so close together that there were no or few branches till close to the top, where they at last found the sun. A few yellow leaves still clung to graceful silver-trunked trees that were surrounded by a golden carpet.
“Is that a bear?” Buddy gasped as a dark hulk ambled unhurriedly into a thicket.
“Plenty of them up here,” said Mr. Redwine. He had vanished into a cabin last night and they hadn’t seen him till they were finishing breakfast when he came in the café, bleary-eyed and unshaven, to drink three cups of black coffee. “Mountain lions, too, but you could live here all your life and never see one.”
A little east of Williams, cinder cones rose against the sky, their fervent heat extinguished millennia ago. Had that been one end of the World? Did it end over and over and make itself again all fresh and new?
This high world was so beautiful, so green and cool and different from the desert and plains, that Laurie feasted her eyes, unwilling to practice songs with Buddy while they had all this to see and admire.
“San Francisco Peaks.” Mr. Redwine flicked his thumb toward a vast mountain with three separate crests thrust into the clouds, glistening with snow. “It’s an old volcano. Fire and ice wore down the crater edge till it looks like that.”
It was a shock when the forest abruptly gave way to substantial buildings of brick, stone, and wood fronting the wide streets of Flagstaff. It really was a city, the biggest Laurie had ever seen, except from the train. Signs announced a teacher’s college, an observatory, and a museum. There were many church spires, a depot for the Santa Fe Railroad, an imposing Harvey House, and all kinds of nice big stores.
“Do you have a Truck-Inn here, Mr. Redwine?” Buddy asked hopefully.
“Too much competition.” The man grinned at Buddy’s remembering to use the name Way had coined. “This has been a big cattle and timber center ever since the railroad came through in the eighties. I like to find a place where there’s plenty of traffic and not much choice for travelers. Put good food, good beds, and gas and repair service in one place and yo
u can make a mint without being fancy the way you’d have to here.”
They got the morning’s flat tires patched at a gas station, where they used the rest rooms and got soft drinks. Laurie wished mightily to see the museum but she was resolved not to ask Mr. Redwine for any favors. If he knew you wanted something, she was sure he’d use that to get you to do things, like a dog does tricks for a bone. She wasn’t going to be his dog. That was why she hadn’t come right out and asked him what he’d meant about her becoming a musician.
The sights to the left and the right quickly made her forget her disappointment. Cinder cones; a gigantic gash in sandstone that was a solid rainbow of shadings from yellow to a brownish red the color of dried blood; far to the south the rim of what Mr. Redwine called Meteor Crater. Laurie shuddered at the notion of what sounded like a giant cannonball from space plunging into the earth with such force. She preferred to look the other way, where clouds and the slanting afternoon sun deepened every shade of crimson, violet, gold, and amethyst on distant buttes.
La Posada, the Winslow Harvey House, was a handsome Spanish-style building that awed Laurie, and she longed for just a peek inside. They passed it to eat at a roadside diner while the afternoon’s flats were being patched.
“Can I buy your sandwich, Mr. Redwine?” Way asked.
Redwine gave him a tough glance from those cat’s eyes. “No need,” he said curtly, but he didn’t offer to buy their sandwiches, either. “Make it snappy. Want to get to Holbrook before dark.”
They got stuck twice in the sand of the Little Colorado River crossing and had to dig out to the tune of Mr. Redwine’s cussing. As they neared Holbrook, the setting sun dyed sandstone ledges and mesas every hue of vermilion and purple.
“You can get the background painted before supper, Wayburn.” Mr. Redwine pulled in behind a gas station–café and nodded at the sign above the pumps. “Then you can finish up before noon.”
Way stared at the mesas, hazed purple now, fading into the distance. “Guess there’s no rush. We’re not fixed for campin’ out in this high country. More cars are headin’ for Californy than the other way. Might take us a while to hitch a ride, there bein’ the three of us.”
“Asking for a free night in a cabin?”
“Reckon I know better’n that. We’ll pay.”
Laurie tugged at his sleeve. “Way! We can’t afford—”
“Sure we can,” he promised jauntily. “Bound to be some more painting jobs around town.” He cocked a bland smile at his employer. “Why, I bet just as soon as that other gas station–café sees your new sign, Mr. Redwine, they’re goin’ to want one, too. Not to mention that tourist court on the edge of town.”
“Trying to squeeze me?” growled Redwine.
“Tryin’ to look out for my family.”
The sun was down but Mr. Redwine’s eyes caught light from somewhere and glowed pale orange. Way met his stare. After a long moment, Redwine shrugged. “We’ll talk about it after you finish my sign, Wayburn. Dump your stuff in that last cabin and do the background coat before supper.”
Without looking back, he strode into the café. As soon as Way had gone to the garage, Laurie turned to her brother. “Buddy, if Mr. Redwine’s going to act mean, we don’t have to sing in his place. Let’s get cleaned up and go see if that restaurant down the road won’t let us sing and play for their customers.”
“They’ve got a big neon cowboy sign,” said Buddy. “I bet they’d like our Sierry Petes song.”
“I bet they will. Now hop in the tub and don’t leave a ring.”
Laurie shook their overalls out the window to jar loose as much dust as possible and got out clean shirts. When they stopped at the garage to tell Way where they were going, he frowned. “Why don’t you go ahead and have your supper, kids? You must be plumb wore out. No need to go about this singin’ like it was a have-to rain-or-shine job.”
“How long will this take you, Way?” asked Laurie.
He was still scrubbing dirt and flaking paint off the metal. “Oh, maybe an hour, hour and a half.”
“We’ll come back then and we’ll eat together.”
They cut across the highway. The red neon cowboy topped a bucking bronco on top of the whitewashed adobe building. A buzz of laughter and voices grew almost deafening as Laurie pushed open the door. The room was full of tables and the tables were full of people. Three waitresses hurried in and out of the swinging doors, skillfully levering their trays past heads and shoulders. Each time the kitchen doors opened, tantalizing aromas floated out but Laurie was so abashed that she’d lost her hunger.
This was a real restaurant, not a café for truckers who were glad of any diversion. These well-dressed people were tourists or town folks who wouldn’t understand or like her music. Had Laurie been alone, she’d have bolted but she didn’t want Buddy to guess her fears.
A chunky, gray-haired man behind the cash register was watching them. As she forced herself to approach him, he came out from behind the counter with its display of candy, gum, and postcards. “If you kids are hungry,” he said in a low-pitched tone that still seemed echoing loud, “go around to the back and I’ll tell one of the girls to feed you.”
He thought they were begging! Flushing hotly, Laurie dug her harmonica from her pocket. “We-we’ll be having supper across the road, mister. But—well, sometimes folks seem to like hearing us sing and play.”
“I won’t have anyone panhandling my customers.” The big man’s voice sounded louder than ever.
“We don’t panhandle!” Laurie flashed, defending Morrigan and his songs and whatever talent she and Buddy possessed. “You just listen to one song, mister, and see if you don’t think we’re good enough to sing in your place.”
She set the harmonica to her lips and launched into the rollicking gallop of “The Sierry Petes.” Buddy, wide brown eyes fixed on her, sang in his high, sweet boy’s voice the bibulous exploits of Sandy Bob and Buster Jigg. By the time the devil came prancing down the trail, the crowd was listening, and when he was finally branded and got a knot tied in his tail, there was thunderous applause.
“Say, Jed,” called a prosperous-looking gentleman in a suede jacket and polished boots. “Let’s scoot tables till those boys can stand in the middle and we can hear ’em better.”
Jed, the gray-haired man, scanned his customers. “That suit all of you?”
“Tickles us plumb to death,” drawled another man in boots, who rose to move his table.
Jed lowered his head to speak in Laurie’s ear. “Okay, you can go ahead and sing but don’t you stop and stare around between numbers like you expect money. Quit as soon as folks start talking like they’d rather do that than listen. I’ll give you a dollar when you leave. Reckon we’ll get enough extra pie and coffee orders to afford that.”
The man in the suede jacket ordered root beer for them and taught them the haunting, wistful “Colorado Trail” when they had, to considerable applause, done all the cowboy songs Buddy knew. By then it was time to join Way. Laurie guessed these folks could put up with one Dust Bowl song so she moved into “So Long, It’s Been Good to Know You.”
As she and Buddy started for the door, the man in suede put a dollar in Buddy’s overall bib. Someone else thrust a dollar in Laurie’s. These were joined by half dollars, quarters, and more bills—no dimes or nickels.
Jed stepped out from behind the cash register. “Maybe you ought to give me a dollar,” he said wryly. “But you didn’t hint for anything and a deal’s a deal.” He gave Laurie another bill as the door swung open. “You boys going to be in town a while?”
“No, they’re not.” W. S. Redwine loomed against the door. “We’re traveling east tomorrow.” He gave a curt nod and held the door, following Laurie and Buddy outside.
“What’s the big idea?” he demanded, striding across the highway. “You damned ungrateful little devils! I got a good notion to let all of you hunt other beds tonight.”
“Then you won’t get your sign,�
�� said Laurie, speaking up boldly though his anger scared her. “We’ve got money to rent another cabin. And we went across the street because if you’re not giving us a room tomorrow night there’s no reason to try to help your business.”
“Your granddad’s in the café,” growled Redwine. “Come along in here and let’s get some things settled.”
“We’ve got to wash our hands first,” said Laurie.
When she and Buddy entered the café, Redwine didn’t even glance at them but finished what he was telling Way. “—so you might as well ride with me to Texas and do signs for my places there. When you’re finished with that, you can get work easy in Black Spring, what with the oil boom.” His gaze flickered toward Laurie. “There’s a school. That’s where the boys ought to be.”
School? To go to school you had to have a home, even if it was a shack or a tarp stretched from a car to a post. You had to have a place, if only for a little while: Way’s dark eyes searched Laurie’s face.
“What do you think, kiddos?”
“Texas is where we want to go,” said Laurie.
It was a real big state, the biggest, and there were lots of oil fields, but wasn’t there a chance of someday meeting up with Morrigan? Wherever he was would feel like home—she wouldn’t have bad dreams—even if it was along the road beneath a cottonwood the way it had been last time, that magic, never-to-be-forgotten time when Mama talked God into sending an angel.
Sun and shadows crimsoned the Painted Desert, hazed it in every tint of blue, purple, and gray, or drenched the white and yellow with stark brilliance. Dead rainbow trunks and stobs of the Petrified Forest twisted or sprawled from warped masses of hardened red clay. Buttes, lava flows, earth gashed with oxblood or leached dull gray. Reservations and trading posts, Gallup, New Mexico, Grants.
The Longest Road Page 18