Seeing America

by Nancy Crocker

  Damn. He knew how to heap on the guilt.

  But what really got to me was his face—usually stone and now pure torture.

  So we drove out to Evangeline’s house and had supper, the three of us, at her table. Paul got up and ministered to Rae several times when she called him. He acted like it was second nature. Then Henry and I went outside to make a campsite.

  “I feel like we’ve been sent to the colored help’s quarters,” he complained.

  “Not tonight, you don’t. I imagine we’ll rest easier than any colored people in America.”

  “Well, at least it’ll be over soon.” Henry yawned. “One way or the other. If Jeffries wins, whites get what they wanted and can shut up. If Johnson wins—” He looked like he’d been kicked.

  “There’s gonna be hell to pay, no matter what happens. Look.” I pointed toward town, where a two-story building was in flames. “Think somebody left the chimney flue closed?”

  No fire of our own, we stared at the one a mile away until it burned down to a glow and we fell asleep.

  The air was still gray and thick when I heard a noise and opened my eyes to see Evangeline slip inside her front door. Henry was sleeping, and I tried to get back to that thoughtless land myself.

  The best I could manage was a daydream, though, with Evangeline rising from her bath all rosy and flushed, her hair curling around her face as she reached for a towel. I watched her dry her dainty little feet and her soft rounded knees and make it up to her damp thighs—

  I felt a nudge and found Paul standing over me.

  I jumped up like he knew. “Oh, hey.” I raked my fingers through my hair.

  “Let’s get going. What needs to be done?”

  I looked around. “Well, nothing. Roll up our bedding and take a leak. After we get Henry moving, that is.” I poked him with one big toe, and he roused. I looked toward the house with its smoke coming out the chimney. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of breakfast—”

  Paul held out a cloth-covered package. “For the road.”

  Less than five minutes later, we were standing next to the Model T with our belongings stashed inside.

  I said, “Do you need to—?”

  “Done.”

  We headed north, and once we’d put Denver behind us, we were in high desert land again and the real mountains popped up into our view to the west like they were rewarding us for leaving that godforsaken place. The land directly around us wasn’t pretty, to say the least, unless sagebrush and tumbleweeds count for something I don’t know about. But the air was cleaner and easier to breathe.

  That’s how I felt anyway. Paul rode shotgun, still as a statue. I told him what the world looked like around us, and he didn’t even nod. My guess was he saw something different.

  We had dinner and bought some gasoline for our spare can in Loveland, a little town about halfway between Denver and Cheyenne. I was all for making Cheyenne and passing through so we could camp somewhere the other side, but when I suggested it, Paul came back to life.

  “No! We can’t do that.”

  I nearly veered off the road. Like that would matter much. We were following a trail cut by wagon wheels, and it looked like those had been following cow paths.

  “Sure we can” came from the backseat. “Pick up some provisions, say thank you, and get the hell out.”

  “But that defeats the purpose,” Paul argued.

  “All this time you been hidin’ the fact you got a purpose?”

  I glanced back to see Henry smiling, and it struck me as a sight I hadn’t seen in nearly a week. We could have done with a lot less Denver.

  “Four major cities along our route,” Paul recited. He ticked them off on his fingers. “Kansas City, Topeka, Denver, Cheyenne. We can’t just skip one.”

  “Paul,” I said, “how about we sightsee in Cheyenne on our way back? A week or so from now?”

  “I thought we’d take a different route back.”

  I snorted. “You want roads worse than these?” Right on cue, I hit a deep rut that rain had sluiced across the trail. We bounced down, then up, then started on with a limp I recognized as another flat tire.

  All the while Henry and I worked to change the casing and patch the tube, we argued. Henry reminded Paul he’d been away from the ugliness of town the past week and didn’t know what he was asking for. Paul said we’d made our point, but observing didn’t mean you had to get caught in the fray. That’s what he said: caught in the fray. By the time we were ready to push on, it was clear that the ugliness leading up to the fight was something Paul would just have to see for himself. So to speak.

  The sand of northern Colorado and southern Wyoming, it turns out, isn’t at all good for making mud. Instead, when rain falls, it runs and cuts miniature Grand Canyons across the countryside. There were dozens of them in our path, and they ran as far east and west as the eye could see. There was no way we could go around them. We had another flat before Cheyenne, and the travel in between was the slowest going we’d had the entire trip.

  I was so starved by the time we hit civilization I couldn’t have argued with Paul any more anyway. We drove down a dark main street with Henry and me squinting at signs.

  “Tavern, saloon, bar,” Henry muttered. “Don’t these people eat?”

  “What are you lookin’ at?” a cowboy on the sidewalk yelled.

  Thunk! The business end of his bullwhip cracked on the Ford’s front fender.

  Paul jumped. “What was that?”

  “Welcome to Cheyenne,” I told him.

  We settled on a tavern not too much in the thick of things and walked into what you might call a lively debate.

  As we were getting situated at a table, a man wearing full cowboy gear right up to the hat pounded his glass on the bar and said, “What I wanna know is, he thinks he’s all-powerful and better than white people, then how come he only goes around with white women?”

  The crowd seemed to agree.

  There was no question who he was talking about.

  “He’s forgot his place is what,” someone shouted.

  A man wearing a bloody apron came through a back door and over to our table. “You havin’ food or just gettin’ drunk?”

  “Food,” Henry answered. “What you got?”

  “Steak,” the man said.

  “What else?” Paul asked.

  The man frowned at him. “Another steak,” he growled.

  “I meant, what comes with it?”

  “Beer or whiskey, your choice.”

  “What kind of steak is it?” Paul asked.

  Couldn’t he hear the annoyance in the man’s voice?

  “Coon steak.”

  Paul blanched.

  “What the hell you think? Beef.” He used his apron to wipe his nose and dropped it again. “You want one or not?”

  We all nodded.

  “Drink,” he said.

  “Beers all around,” I answered, and he was gone.

  Paul clasped his hands on the table, and they were shaking a little. Every time someone yelled, he flinched. It was a hell of a way for Henry and me to earn an I told you so.

  Once our beers and bloody-rare steaks came, we didn’t say much except “Salt” and “Pepper.” There was enough being said. We didn’t hear anything new and, for sure, nothing smart, but that didn’t slow down the flow of words any. And not a word spoken was about any subject other than the fight.

  When we were almost finished, a bowlegged man with a Santa Claus belly staggered into our table and bumped Paul’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Paul tilted his head back and said, “Sure.”

  That stopped the man dead. He bent over until his nose was three inches from Paul’s. “This is what I’m goddamn talkin’ about,” he bellowed.

  I started to my feet and saw Henry coil like a spring.

  “If we’d take all the retards and the other defects and drown ’em when they’re born, the goddamn spooks wouldn’t look around and get
such a high opinion of theirselves. We need to start cullin’ and sortin’, I tell you. Cullin’ and sortin’.”

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Paul. Two steps to the left and forward.” Paul and Henry stood, I threw two bills on the table, and we lockstepped out with Paul in the middle.

  Our bowlegged friend couldn’t let go. “Long way to a river,” he yelled at our backs. “Jes’ throw him down a well!”

  We walked out to a chorus of drunken laughing.

  My hands were shaking on the lever and throttle, and it took Henry three tries to crank the Ford started.

  “Where to now?” I said once he was in the backseat.

  “Out of town. Camp. You were right.” Paul’s teeth clacked together.

  “Wait.” Henry leaned over between us. “Drive on down the road and get away from here and then stop.” When I had done that, he went on, “I say we find someplace here to stay tonight.”

  “Here in Cheyenne?” I thought I must have heard wrong.

  “Listen,” Henry said, “you want to be out in the middle of nowhere, just the three of us, if that asshole back there and some of his buddies happen by on their way home later?”

  He had a point.

  I drove almost to the edge of the city and stopped in front of a hotel that didn’t look any worse than the others we passed. We all got out and walked up to the door together.

  A man unlocked the door and pointed a shotgun at us. “Try anything and I’ll shoot.”

  We raised our hands like we’d seen in moving pictures. For Paul, it must have been instinct.

  “We’re not trying anything, sir,” I said. “We need a room. Someplace safe.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Who you runnin’ from?”

  Henry stepped forward. “Sir, have you heard of Motherlode Jones, the biggest miner to strike gold in Idaho?”

  “I . . . guess so,” the man said.

  Thank God I was in no mood for anything to strike me funny.

  “Well, this is him,” Henry hissed and tossed his head my direction. “We’re accompanyin’ him back east and, well, there’s all sorts would like to know what he’s carryin’, if you know what I mean.” Henry nodded toward his own metal safe box, tucked under his arm.

  The hotel owner looked us up and down. “You don’t look like you got a pot to piss in.”

  Henry winked. “Well, now, wouldn’t do to tip our hand, would it? Too much at stake to be showy about it.”

  The man still looked suspicious. “One at a time, then, and I’m gonna have to pat you down. I don’t need no trouble.”

  “Of course.” Henry stepped through the doorway first. He handed me the metal box, and I felt his gun slide and hit one side. He grinned. “Can’t be too careful.”

  Upstairs, Paul threw himself on the bed. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he told the pillow.

  “We need to talk some,” I said. “About tomorrow.”

  Henry was nodding. “You got the map?” I took it out of my pocket and handed it to him. “I dunno. Whaddaya think? Laramie?”

  I looked over his shoulder. “We can make it a little farther, don’t you think? Wheatland, maybe?”

  Paul rolled over. His face looked like a shirt that had been slept in. “What? What in God’s name are you planning?”

  “Where to be for the fight tomorrow,” Henry said.

  “How about someplace they’ve never heard of it?”

  I smiled a hair. “Don’t think we can get to the moon by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Paul sat up. “No. I mean why don’t we camp out miles from any town and stay as far away as possible until it’s over?”

  Henry and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

  “Same reason as tonight,” Henry said.

  “Who knows who might come along and what kind of tear they might be on?”

  Henry said, “We don’t want to be here—”

  “But there’s some safety that numbers can offer,” I finished. “We want to be—”

  “In a small town,” Paul said. “We want to be in Wakenda.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  July 4, 1910, dawned overcast with clouds that looked none too friendly. We slipped out of town early and as quiet as we could. After we left the hotel, the only stop we made was at a baker’s shop—open before everything else—for enough bread and sweet rolls to get us through the day if need be.

  We had settled on Wheatland as where we’d stop driving that day. It looked to be a little over sixty miles from Cheyenne, and the way the map was keyed, you could tell it was no major town. We thought there was plenty of time to get there, until we started crossing more gullies washed out across the road. Henry and I took turns driving and reminded each other there was only one patch left to get us to our next stop.

  None of us mentioned the two Ford dealerships in Cheyenne that could have supplied us with any parts we wanted. We weren’t going back.

  I was driving when Henry turned around and called, “And there it goes. Gentlemen, we have just lost sight of Cheyenne.” At that second, the sun broke through the clouds, and we all busted out laughing.

  Along about noon, we came into a town called Chugwater that wasn’t shown on our map. It was a Wakenda-sized town, and we were almost out the other side before we turned around and came back to the dry goods store. We all got out to stretch, and I went in. There was a lunch counter with stools back in a corner, and I came out to get the other two.

  We took the last three seats and ordered fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, the only things written on the menu slate up on the wall. The men sitting at the counter gnawing on chicken bones nodded and gave us a friendly howdy. The man and his wife who ran the store and the kitchen turned out to be just as nice.

  Once somebody asked where we were from, we became star entertainment for the whole group. The three of us took turns telling stories, and the locals all took turns going out to look at the Model T.

  “Nobody here got a automobile yet?” Henry asked.

  The missus reared back her shoulders. “Russell Horsch has got one. Brings it to town every month or so. It’s not like we’ve never seen one.” She rubbed at the counter with a rag, just a little too hard.

  Not one of them mentioned Paul’s blindness. Even better, nobody mentioned the fight coming up that afternoon. It was like we’d driven into a bubble, with all the meanness left on the outside. After we’d finished eating and gathered the well wishes of our fellow diners, we went over to the cash register to pay and get toothpicks.

  Under my breath, I asked Paul, “Want a newspaper?”

  He just about broke his neck shaking his head.

  I asked the woman as she handed me change, “Are there any hotels or rooming houses here in town?”

  “Nearest is Wheatland.”

  “Any place at all we could stay over? We don’t need anything fancy.”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  So staying in this friendly little town until the brouhaha blew over wasn’t an option. If we did stay, we’d have to camp. Exposed. Open to all the elements, natural and otherwise.

  And looking over your shoulder is worse than facing whatever happens. Probably.

  As we got closer to Wheatland, I realized neither of the other two had spoken since we’d got out of Chugwater and I was driving even slower than I needed to.

  “We’ve got to be somewhere,” Paul finally said.

  Henry nodded.

  I gave the Model T a little more gas.

  “It was almost one o’clock when we left there,” Henry said. “Fight’s at one thirty. Take our time, it may all be over before we get to Wheatland. We might miss the whole thing.”

  “It’s not the during-the-fight part I’m worried about,” I said.

  We got to Wheatland, a Lexington-sized town, around two o’clock. Main Street was easy to find, and from the crowd milling around talking, it seemed like maybe we really had dodged the whole event. The crowd was divided, all the white people in a gr
oup on one side and half as many coloreds on the other, but voices were quiet and postures were normal. Maybe we’d been afraid for nothing.

  I stopped the Ford next to a fellow who looked to be about our age.

  “Who won?” I asked him.

  He snorted. “Ain’t started yet. Rumor has it that coon’s turned out to have a whole lot of chicken in him.” He spat in the street.

  “Why’s everybody out here?” Henry asked.

  “’Cause we won’t all fit in the telegraph office—that’s why.” The man threw a look toward Paul. “You got any stupid questions?”

  Of course Paul didn’t answer.

  “Oh, I see. Deaf, dumb, and blind. Ain’t you three pretty.”

  Henry started out of his seat, and I motioned him down.

  “Just traveling through—that’s all,” I said. “Just thought we’d ask, in case the fight was over.”

  “Over before it’s started, far as I’m concerned. ’Bout time somebody shut that big, black mouth. I hope he kills him.”

  Paul must have flinched or frowned—I didn’t see.

  The fellow let out a laugh that sounded like a donkey braying. “Gotta darkie lover here, do you? Or don’t he know what colored is?”

  Henry’s face was getting red.

  I said, “Thanks for the information.”

  Henry muttered something, and I put the auto in gear and moved down the block before I stopped again.

  “Let’s just keep driving,” I said. “Do we really need to listen?”

  Paul spoke up for the first time since we’d hit town. “And go where? You said it yourself last night. Where can we go to avoid whatever’s going to happen?”

  “We can just keep driving.”

  But I didn’t put the Ford back into gear. We sat there with the motor putt-putting and none of us saying anything more. Finally, Henry craned his neck to turn around and scan the crowd behind us, and I couldn’t help doing the same.

  I didn’t want to know. I had to know. Goddamn it to hell.

  “We stayin’ till it’s over, then?” I asked.

  A good long minute passed.