The Longest Road

by Jeanne Williams

  Redwine didn’t own any truck stops in this state so they drove right through the night. Laurie had already discovered one interesting habit of W.S.’s. Heading downhill, he’d speed up, then throw in the clutch and coast in neutral as long as he could. “Saves gas,” he said, but she thought what he relished was getting a free ride where most people didn’t.

  Just as stingily, he saved sleep. He wouldn’t let Way spell him. Dozing as she sat in the corner of the backseat and cuddled Buddy, who was stretched out with his head in her lap, Laurie roused when the car stopped and Mr. Redwine turned off the lights. He sort of wrapped his arms across the wheel and rested on them. Laurie drowsed off again so she didn’t know how long he had napped when she woke to the sound and movement of the car. That happened several times before dawn, when they ate at Los Lunas and headed north for the mountains and Santa Fe.

  “Be glad when they straighten the highway,” Redwine grumbled. “When they run it through Albuquerque like they’re talking, they’ll cut off ninety miles.”

  Santa Fe! The name—all Spanish names—enchanted Laurie, and so did the adobe buildings with pole ends sticking out of the upper walls. The golden-brown walls were smoothed as if with loving hands and looked as if they’d curve like bodies to fit the people who lived in them. They weren’t hard and unchangeable like wood or stone or brick. Laurie yearned to look at the jewelry, moccasins, pottery, and other things the Indians had spread on blankets along the streets but of course she couldn’t ask.

  Mexican food in Las Vegas that afternoon, a bowl of steaming chili that night in Tucumcari. It was morning but still dark when they stopped at a string of cabins and a truck center with a neon sign that glared at them: WELCOME TO TEXAS—GOOD FOOD—GOOD BEDS—GOOD GAS. From the opposite side, it proclaimed: LAST CHANCE AT TEXAS PRICES.

  W. S. Redwine got out and stretched, his blocky shoulders looking solid as granite, his legs like pillars in the sand. “It’s good business to rake in money off 66.” He yawned heavily and his thin seam of a mouth stretched in a grin. “West Texas is my stomping ground, though, where I’ve really sunk my money. Pile out. When you wake up in the morning, Wayburn, you can start my sign. There’ll be fourteen of them to do between here and Black Spring—hotel and café signs, too.”

  Lifting a metal box from under the seat, Redwine got out a huge ring of keys, each shaped differently but with no other means of identification. He selected one, opened the café, and got a key from one of the nails spaced on a board beneath the cash register.

  “Last cabin,” he told Way, before, without knocking, he went through a door marked PRIVATE.

  “Dub!” came a woman’s voice. The woman was surprised for certain, but whether glad or sad, Laurie couldn’t guess.

  W. S. Redwine and his party drove through the Llano Estacado, the high, wind-scourged Staked Plains, perhaps named for the yuccas spiking lance-straight from the seared earth, yuccas much larger than those Laurie remembered from the Oklahoma Panhandle. Dust had blown here, too, especially where the prairie sod had been broken to farm. Dunes banked against buildings, heaped around yuccas, half-buried fence posts.

  Most of the flivvers and trucks they met were headed the other way, mattresses and chairs roped to the top, suitcases and boxes tied to the running boards, kids stuffed in amongst the bedding and household gear. Laurie ached every time they passed a family with a broken-down vehicle but there was no use asking Redwine to stop. He even seemed to drive faster past these stranded folks, churning up more dust. If I ever have a car, she thought, I’ll carry extra innertubes and tires and food and water and I’ll always stop. Meanwhile all she could do was pray someone like Morrigan—well, not like him, for no one could be—but someone kind and cheerful would come along and get each family on its road again.

  “Dust never got as bad here as it did in that hundred-mile circle around Liberal, Kansas,” said Redwine, as if he, personally, had gentled the storms. “But come the blowin’ months in spring, lots of this country moves over into New Mexico.”

  They stopped in two places where a Dub’s Truck-Inn was all there was. Even so, Laurie and Buddy collected $1.75 for their singing in the first café and $2.60 in the other. They didn’t keep it, though. While Way was finishing up the sign at the second truck stop, a jalopy pulled in for a few gallons of gas. The tall, raw-boned driver and his yellow-haired wife must have been young—she held a baby and the towheaded twin boys couldn’t have been more than three—but lines were graved in their faces and they looked old, worlds older than Grandpa Field.

  The woman took the children to the rest room and took advantage of water and soap because when they came out, faces and hands were much cleaner. Smells of bacon, coffee, and biscuits floated from the café. “Hun’gy, mama!” One boy tugged at his mother’s faded skirt. “Billy hun’gy!”

  “I’ll give you a cracker,” she said, urging him along.

  “Want some milk!”

  “We don’t have any,” the woman whispered in a desperate, embarrassed way. “Get in that car, Joey, and quit makin’ a show of us!” Her husband was digging into his pocket, adding to the change in his hand. It was with clear relief that he found a nickel and three pennies that finished paying for the gas.

  Laurie glanced at her brother. He nodded and delved into his bib pocket for his share of the money. Laurie got hers. Catching the woman’s raggedy sweater sleeve, she thrust the money into her hand. “Please take it, lady,” she whispered. “We’re from the Dust Bowl, too.”

  It was the first time she’d said it but now she had, she knew for the rest of her life it would be a kind of password, a bond with everyone blasted from their roots, blown with the dust along the lonesome roads. They were her people, they were her kin. The woman gazed at them warily.

  “How’d you boys get this kind of money if you’re Okies?”

  Laurie’s mortification changed to pride. “We didn’t steal it, lady.” She got her harmonica out of her pocket. “Folks gave us money for our music.”

  “Your ma and pa—”

  “They’d want us to help.” Of that Laurie was sure. “Please, lady, get your kids some milk and good things and sometime, when you’re able, help someone else.”

  The worry lines in the woman’s face melted into a smile. She looked years younger, almost pretty. “You’re angels!” She kissed Laurie, patted Buddy’s cheek, and took Joey’s hand. Trailed by the other children, she hurried to the grocery store up the road while her husband got the Model T to cough and start.

  “’Preciate it, boys!” he yelled at them, waving.

  “I ain’t no angel!” Buddy grumbled.

  “Aren’t, Buddy! You aren’t!”

  Laurie could scarcely see the family for the mist in her eyes. Wasn’t it funny the woman called them angels when that was what she herself had thought about Morrigan? It was a good feeling, but it ebbed as Laurie stared at the old jalopy that carried a family and all they had on earth.

  Four dollars and thirty-five cents. That would feed them a couple of days, buy gas to get them a little farther on that long way west. And then they’d be just as broke and just as hungry. She kept her share of the music money separate from Buddy’s. Running to the cabin, she hauled the old sock out of her bundle and took out the bills.

  Eight of them. And here were five half-dollars. She’d been hoarding them for school clothes and things they’d need to set up housekeeping, but she and Buddy could always earn more. If the man worked anytime he found a job along the road, if they were lucky and found a farm where they could have a house and some of their food on top of a small wage, if … if … if!

  Why did poor people’s lives depend on so many ifs they couldn’t control? At least this money would buy gas, buy food, buy a little hope. Laurie ran all the way to the store and gasped up as the family came out of the grocery with two big sacks.

  The woman shifted the baby in her arms and fumbled in her pocket. “If you want your money back, all we’ve got left is two dollars.”
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  Laurie shook her head. “Keep it. And—and Mama sent this.” She stuffed the rolled dollars and coins into the sweater pocket and got out the harmonica. “Is there a song you folks like? Songs help on the road.”

  “Play your fav’rite, son,” the man said.

  Laurie did, “So Long …” Then the family piled in the Model T, Joey guzzling milk right out of the bottle. They waved till the mattress-crowned flivver jounced out of sight.

  “What the hell you up to?”

  Laurie jumped. W. S. Redwine had told Way he tipped the scales at two hundred pounds but he could be soft-footed as a cat. She hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of; why was it so hard to meet his eyes?

  “I was just telling those folks good-bye.”

  “You gave them money.” He said it like she’d committed an unspeakable crime. “Emptied your overall bibs, but oh no, that wasn’t enough! I saw you stick a wad of bills in that tramp woman’s pocket. And all the time I’m givin’ the lot of you free beds and meals, not to mention transportation!”

  “Well, you have mentioned it, Mr. Redwine, and the cabin and meals haven’t been free. Gramp’s painted your signs. What’s more, he thought up that catchy slogan about ‘the rest of your life’ that would’ve cost you plenty if some big advertisement outfit had done it!” The man scared Laurie just by being so big and rocklike. Why did the sunlight drain the color from his eyes, leaving them the shade of dirty ice? Laurie’s stomach knotted but she said boldly, “Buddy and I earned that money—maybe we didn’t earn it, but folks gave it to us. If you don’t like what we do with it, I reckon we can take off on our own and get along just fine. You can find someone else to paint your signs in Black Spring.”

  His body seemed to swell, completely blocking off the sun. If he tried to shake or slap her, she’d go for his wrist, bite in as hard as she could. A breath went out of him, almost a sigh. He chuckled suddenly. “You got a big mouth, Larry, but it’s kind of interestin’ to see what you’ll do next. Toss your stuff in the car. Time we was going.”

  Her knees started to shake as she walked away. Strangely, she didn’t feel exhilarated about facing him down. It was as if he were keeping accounts and every mark by her name would have to be paid for sometime. But that was crazy! This was a free country—free to starve anyhow. She and Buddy and Way could leave Redwine whenever they took the notion. She just mustn’t ever let him guess how he scared her.

  13

  The high plains looked like a vast rumpled carpet dropped carelessly from the doming sky, faded yellow-brown worn bare where the grass was gone, pegged down by yuccas or by derricks that looked from a distance like towers made of Tinker-toys. Pump jacks worked up and down, huge mechanical birds bobbing heads and tails as they sucked oil from beneath the exhausted soil. It reminded Laurie of draining blood from a dead body. The highway in New Mexico had been a mix of pavement, dirt, and gravel, paved from Tucumcari to the Texas border. From there it was unpaved almost to Amarillo, the biggest city Laurie had ever been in and the most important one for hundreds of miles in every direction.

  “Those grain elevators may be empty and ranchers aren’t shipping many cattle,” said Redwine. “The dust gets bad here, too, busts ranchers and farmers, but it can’t hurt what’s underground. Pipeline and tank cars run out of here with gas and oil for Kansas and Missouri, even far away as Michigan and Wisconsin and all the oil fields get their supplies and equipment here. Don’t see how Amarillo can go any way but rich so it’s one city with competition where I’m investing pretty deep.”

  To Laurie’s relief, they didn’t see much of him during the three days Way painted signs for Redwine’s restaurant and hotel and two Truck-Inns on the west and east ends of town on 66. She and Buddy sang at the restaurant during the noon rush. Close to the bus station, courthouse, and post office, it was clean but not fancy and served good food at moderate prices so that it drew regulars as well as bus travelers and those stopping at the junction of 66 and 87, the city’s main thoroughfare.

  The big contributors were people in the oil business. From their talk and what the waitresses said, Laurie began to sort them out. A tool pusher in for equipment might wear work khakis but his laced boots were of the best quality and the hat he tossed on a peg would be a Stetson. Producers wore dark suits with polished cowboy boots. Speculators emulated that attire but added tooled belts with inlaid buckles and turquoise rings, even silver and turquoise wristwatch bands, and usually smoked cigars. Roughnecks didn’t eat here, preferring places nearer to their other entertainments. Speculators either didn’t leave any money or they made a show of stuffing a dollar into an overall bib. Producers usually gave a quarter. Drillers always left fifty cents or a dollar and one, who’d asked Laurie if they could do “Yellow Rose of Texas,” left a wadded five-dollar bill in her pocket.

  Three musical noons at the restaurant and three evenings at the truck stop filled the sock again. Laurie’s fingers trembled as she counted out the money and Buddy divided it into even shares. “Twenty-one dollars, Buddy! That’s ten-fifty each. We can get school books, the clothes we need worst, and set up housekeeping.”

  Way sighed. “Don’t seem right for you kiddies to buy our pots and pans but in return for my paintin’ his signs at Black Spring, Redwine’s going to give us a house for a month and credit for groceries at his store.”

  “Which’ll cost more than they do anywhere else,” said Laurie. At Way’s crestfallen look, she jumped up and gave him a hug. “I bet we get enough from singing to buy our groceries till you get a paycheck from the job you’re going to find!”

  “I bet you will,” chuckled Way, touching her cheek with his rough, paint-stained, turpentine-smelling hand. “Far as that goes, before I hunt a job in the oil patch I might better pick up any other paintin’ jobs I can find. Shucks, might even be some fellas want their pictures painted to send their old mothers for Christmas. Most men’ll do anything to get out of writin’ a letter.”

  “And when they do write, they likely don’t get it mailed.” Laurie thought aloud, remembering with a pang how seldom Daddy wrote, wishing she had those scrawled cards. “You get addresses, Way, and we’ll wrap and mail the pictures.”

  “We’ll sell a bunch more doin’ that.” Way’s eyes lit up. “Say, Larry-Laurie, it’s a sight easier to come up with good ideas when there’s someone to help. When we get to Black Spring are you goin’ to be my granddaughter?”

  Laurie didn’t understand it, but she didn’t want W. S. Redwine to ever know she was a girl. “I better stay a boy for a while. It’s easier that way to go in places and make music.”

  “S’pose you’re right.” Way looked wistful and she remembered his dead little daughter. “But I’ll be tickled when you can wear some pretty dresses and let your hair grow out all curly and soft.”

  “What’ll you do about going to the toilet at school?” Buddy asked. “I don’t want somebody finding out you’re a girl and then trying to see if I am!”

  “They won’t find out if you don’t tell them,” snapped Laurie. “I-I’ll watch and go to the boys’ toilet when no one’s there and they’re busy playing or something.”

  Buddy curled his lip. “I’ll still be glad when you go back to bein’ what you are.”

  Skirts would feel funny now and so would curls. The time was coming when bib overalls wouldn’t hide her breasts but as long as she could pass for a boy, she was going to. Guilt smote her over that dress Rosalie had made for her, the only garment in her bundle that she hadn’t worn during the journey. She ought to send it back to Rosalie so she could make it over for Belle.

  “Better tuck in, kiddos,” said Way, yawning. “Mr. Redwine wants to leave real early so we can get to Black Spring before dark.”

  It had been wonderful to see that high, wild mountain country in Arizona and New Mexico but Laurie was worn out with traveling, especially with Mr. Redwine. Still, now their long road was ending—the road that ran all the way back to Prairieville—she felt nervous, wondered
if the teachers and kids at the school would be as mean as those in Oklahoma. “I wonder if we’ll like it there,” she muttered.

  Way’s answer was simple, short, and beautiful. “If we don’t, we’ll move on.”

  Of course! Of course they could. Way had his paintbrushes, she and Buddy had their music. But a little pang tainted the heady sense of freedom. She wanted a home, a place to belong. But with Mama and Daddy both dead and Way used to wandering, she thought she’d better not count on staying anywhere very long.

  It was dark outside when they went in for breakfast. A big black Cadillac hulked in front of the café but no one was in the narrow, glaring white room except a hefty waitress with kinky brown hair who rubbed her eyes sleepily as she took their order. By the time she brought their pancakes, several truckers had come in. Their banter woke up the waitress. She started sloshing coffee into Way’s cup when she refilled the truckers’.

  “Hold it, Sal.” Redwine stepped inside. “You’ll give Wayburn coffee nerves.” He laughed and dropped a thick hand on Laurie’s shoulder. “Ready to go?”

  “Yes, sir.” She slid out from under his hand. He wasn’t pressing down, not really, but she felt as if he were.

  He stared at her a minute. She pretended not to know it and made for the door. “Toss your stuff in the Caddy,” he said. “That’s my car for Texas where there’s paving.”

  “Is Black Spring paved?” Way finished his coffee and left the waitress a dime.

  “It is through town.” Redwine’s voice followed Laurie as she ran back to the cabin for her bundle. “I’ve got two trucks there. One’s usually running.”

  Was he a little crazy? Surely no one else in the world would think of keeping a Packard for California, an old car for dirt roads, a Cadillac for good Texas roads, and a couple of trucks. She could understand being stingy all the way or always extravagant if you could afford it, but she guessed W. S. Redwine was the only person who had plenty of money but threw the clutch into neutral to coast far as he could without burning gas. She wondered what kind of a house he had. It was hard to imagine him living anywhere.