Jeb had unloaded my bike and backpack. He looked at me. “I recon yous don’t really have a cousin. But you is one strong boy. Son, yous be careful now, yah hear? I’m just sorry I cant’s do nothin for yah. I’s sure would likes to, ifin I’s was white or yous was colored.”
“I’ll be real careful, I promise, Mr. Jeb.” I wanted to honor him the same way he honored me.
Jeb reached out his hand. “Been a real pleasure meetin yous Mr. Jory. You’s a fine, fine boy.”
I grabbed his huge, black, wrinkled hand and squeezed about as hard as I could. “Been a real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Jeb.”
I watch him scrunch his mouth and give a quick nod. His other hand took hold of my hand already encompassed in his. With both hands he shook my hand. He nodded again, released my hand, and his big, black, hand landed softly on the top of my head and gave a quick rub. “I is so sorry ’bout your papa.”
The old man turned around and climbed into the driver’s seat. The old engine started easily and the truck slowly moved out onto the road. Freda’s arm reached out her window just as Jeb’s arm reached out his, both waved back and forth. I waved as high and wide as I could, hopped on my bike, and headed down the road. The truck was barely in view, rounding a curve, and two arms still waved out the windows. I missed them already, and hoped they missed me.
13
My Journal
I LOOKED AT THE MAP AND SAW THAT REDWOOD WAS CLOSE. I thought I’d best put up for the night because I didn’t want to get to the river in the dark and try to find a place to camp. There were rain clouds, and I knew it would be best to make a lean-to with the tarp. I headed into the pine woods and started walking my bike through some trees when I noticed a corncrib. It was two rectangle cribs with a center-covered area like a garage open at both ends. There was no farmhouse or buildings around. I approached it and could tell machinery had often been parked in the center. In one crib was a shed-like room with a few pieces of what I thought might be a tractor, and a bunch of hay bales on one side stacked three and four high. The cribs were empty. I heard a loud clap of thunder and rain started to fall. I was glad I had at least come upon a place with a roof.
I pushed my bike through the shed door and leaned it against the wall as the rain came down in sheets. I tossed my sleeping bag to the top of the hay bales, climbed up, and rolled it out. As the thunder, lightning, and rain continued, I settled down atop the bales and noticed how they made a nice, firm mattress. Exhausted, sleep came quickly.
* * *
Coasting down a hill the next morning, I came upon a small, white church with a tall steeple. There were cars everywhere, and I realized it was Sunday. I rode on and soon found myself in Redwood. I passed a gas station and a few stores, including one café; it was the only thing open. I leaned the bike against the window where I could keep an eye on it and not have to untie the backpack. I went inside and saw five tables and a counter with eight or nine stools. I hopped up on a stool, where I could watch my bike.
An old man came over. “You wanting something to eat, young man?”
“Sure do.”
He put a glass of water in front of me and handed me a menu. “I don’t have everything on the menu on Sundays. Just ask, and I’ll let you know.”
“Can I have some eggs and toast?”
“That I have, always. You wanting some bacon and hash browns with that? How you want those eggs fixed?”
“Sure. Can you make easy-over eggs?”
“That’s my specialty, coming right up.”
Without asking, he placed a glass of cold milk in front of me—how I wanted a glass of milk. A few minutes later, he walked over with a plate of bacon, slices of toast cut in triangles, a pile of hash brown potatoes with onions and green peppers stuffed inside, and three big, perfectly cooked eggs. “Wow! What a breakfast.”
“You look mighty hungry.”
I was the only person there. He poured himself a cup of coffee and walked over. “How’s them eggs?”
“Really good, thank you. How far is the Mississippi River from here?”
“About ten miles. You heading there?”
“Yup, to do some camping.”
A couple came in and sat down. He nodded, took the coffee pot, and left to take their orders. Full and satisfied, I looked at the little green receipt to see how much I owed. The only thing written on it was $1.25. I left a dollar fifty and hopped off the stool. I thanked him for breakfast, and he told me to take care and come back again.
Gliding down a long grade toward a town, I saw water to my right and a road, Washington Street, so I followed it. The water there wasn’t very wide, couldn’t be the river. A little farther down, there it was—the mighty Mississippi. I couldn’t believe how wide it was. It made a bend and I was looking upriver at nothing but water and barges. I biked down the road and saw old, rusted barges everywhere along the shore, some partially on land, some half-filled with water. Some had tugboats attached to the back, and there were tugs of different sizes. A large tugboat pushed two rows of four barges full of something that looked like gravel. Black smoke was spewing out of the big exhaust stacks, and I could hear the rumble of the engines straining against the current. The most interesting thing about the tugboat was the height of the helm, the cabin where the captain steered the whole thing. It must have been four or five decks high, with antennas and lights on top; it looked awesome. The captain got to sit way up high so he could see over all the barges. How I wanted to see what it was like up there. If I were only older, maybe I could get a job on a tugboat.
I rode down by the dock. There were crates, rope, and junk stacked everywhere, but there wasn’t any activity, probably because it was Sunday. The empty barges looked like huge, rectangular swimming pools, and most had dirty water sliding around in the bottoms. The ropes tying the barges to the dock posts were bigger around than my arm, with loops at the ends that I could stand in. I followed the dock downstream. At its end, a thick seawall continued through town and under a large bridge. There were businesses facing the river, and more docks.
Nearly out of town, I was stopped by a big cove with many small boats tied up in individual slips. I had never seen a big marina before, and it sure was interesting. There were sailboats of all sizes and motorboats that would make great places to live. I couldn’t believe how big some of the cruisers were.
I rode around the edge of the marina, dreaming of living on a boat. The road followed the river south, and at the edge of town, I went past a closed filling station with a phone booth that made me remember I had planned to call Stewart. I pulled up to it, put coins in the slot, and dialed his house’s number. I was hoping Madge wouldn’t answer.
“Hello,” Stewart said.
“Hi, Stewart. This is Jory.”
“Jory! Thought you’d be home by now. I was about to get worried. Where are you?”
“I don’t want you to worry, and I don’t want you thinking anything happened to me. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Do I need to come and get you? You at the house?”
“No, you don’t need to come get me. I’m fine. But I’m not coming home.”
“What? Why? What’s the matter?”
“I just don’t want to live at that foster home. I can’t. It’s horrible there. The house was full of beer cans and cigarette butts, and the woman was nasty looking and mean. The kids there call her Mrs. Bitch.”
“Jory, just give it a chance. If it doesn’t work, I’ll figure something out, I promise.”
“I know you want me, but I know Madge doesn’t want me.”
“I’ll talk to her if you’re unhappy there, honestly.”
He meant well, but he could never convince her of anything against her will—he didn’t have big enough pants. “Just don’t worry about me, okay?”
“Jory, how can I not worry about you if you’re off somewhere? Of course I’ll worry! Let me come get you, all right?”
“I can’t, Stewart, and don’t try to find me. Wi
ll you look after Dad’s things for me, please?”
“I told you I would, but Jory, you need to come home.”
“I can’t. I just can’t. I’ve got to go.”
“How will you get along? Do you need money? Where will you stay? I need to get you what you need.”
“If I need anything, I’ll call, okay? Bye.”
“Jory, promise me you will call if you need anything, anything at all. Promise me.”
“I promise. Bye.”
“Jory, don’t be—”
I hung up the receiver and heard the coins fall into the bottom of the phone.
14
Cliff Home
PEDALING DOWN THE ROAD, I wondered what Stewart was going to do and if he would have the police look for me. My eyes scanned the side of the road by the river, looking for a place to camp. As the road curved away from the river, the buildings vanished. I followed it until a smaller road split off to the right, toward the river, so I headed down it. I soon came across a small trail heading into the trees, and I thought I could see water. It ended at the riverbank, where there was a large, cleared circle in the grass and remnants of past campfires.
Slowly riding downstream through the trees, I followed the shoreline until it was necessary to walk my bike because of the dense vegetation. The grade got steeper further from the water, and a cliff loomed over the area maybe a hundred yards away. There appeared to be a hollow in the cliff wall high up in the trees, but it was too steep to get there with my bike. Taking the backpack, I walked up the slope toward the cliff, reaching the solid rock face and a flat spot where the face jutted out toward the water. The hollow reached about twenty-five feet into the cliff before the roof met the ground, and the floor was dry as bone, for rain wouldn’t make it that far back unless it was a blown inside.
The climb wasn’t too bad, and I felt safe being high up. Upon reaching the hollow, I leaned the backpack against the rock wall, and went back for my bike.
Dry firewood was plentiful. While gathering an armful, I looked for signs of people, such as paths or trampled areas, but saw none. It was not likely anyone would happen on my site. The trees and underbrush were dense, and the cave being high up was difficult to see.
Darkness came quickly, aided by heavy cloud cover. Stacking wood in a rock circle I had constructed, I started a fire and got out my army cook set, separating the frying pan, pot with lid, and the plate. Dumping a can of stew in the pot, I heated it over the fire. A couple of pieces of bread from the squashed loaf joined my dinner. Eating the stew right out of the pot would keep me from having to wash
the plate, and using the bread to wipe the pot clean was good enough for me. Still hungry and a little jittery, I opened the package of cookies, wishing for some milk to dunk them in.
My adventures weren’t going to be like those of Huckleberry Finn, but I wanted to jot down whatever was going to happen so I’d remember. Taking out a pad of paper and a pencil, I leaned against the cliff and wrote about my first three days, starting with the preparations. Like the books my dad and I had read together, I tried to add lots of detail, including a description of the café, the corncrib and the storm, the neat tugboats, and my new camping spot. This was the start of my journal.
I took out the flashlight, sprawled out on the floor, and thought about Dad and me camping—he would have wanted to be here.
* * *
For breakfast, I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, surveyed what I had left to eat, and made a mental note of what to stock up on. I debated whether to leave my stuff out or hide it. Not wanting to lose anything, I put the loose items back in the backpack, rolled up the sleeping bag and blanket, and looked for a hiding place. Following the cliff face took me to where large, broken rocks had fallen against it, some the size of an automobile. There was one huge rectangular chunk, and next to it another piece not quite as large. Between them was a narrow space. I pushed my backpack and the bedding in and shoved both to the side so they couldn’t be seen if someone did look in. Using a pine branch, I messed up the area to hide any footprints, and then tossed it in front of the opening.
The ride into town felt great without the heavy backpack strapped on the bike. A couple of blocks into town, on the road next to the river, sat Blume’s Drugstore. It had a sign in the window, “Breakfast Special – 99 Cents.” I opened the big, wooden screen door, which creaked its greeting. Along the left wall was a soda fountain with ten red stools. Three tables lined up with the bar, and shelves and benches of merchandise lined the right wall.
“Howdy!”
Behind the counter was a bald, lanky man with a big smile. He was wiping the white marble soda fountain countertop. A large, brass foot rail lined the bottom of the bar. In the middle of the counter was a bank of soda fountains with tall wooden handles sticking straight up. I hopped up on a stool just to the right of the fountains.
“Hi,” I replied.
“My name’s Howard. What be your name?”
“I’m Jory.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jory. Haven’t seen you before. You just passing through?”
“No, I’ll be here a while, staying with some friends.” I wanted to move past this topic. “Can I have the breakfast special you have on the sign, with easy-over eggs?”
“Coming right up.”
Opposite the tall soda fountains was a flat, steel griddle. I watched him place two strips of bacon on it and set a steel weight with a wooden handle on top of the bacon. He handed me a glass of milk, which I started drinking right away. He took a squirt bottle, squeezed out a little oil on the griddle, and broke two eggs on top. Next to the griddle was the big toaster in which he had pushed down two pieces of white bread. He shoved a big spatula quickly under each egg and flipped them over perfectly, put some salt and pepper on top, removed the weight, and put the bacon and eggs on the plate. He painted each piece of toast with melted butter, and I could tell he had done the whole performance a million times.
Afterward, I pedaled down to the docks to watch the barges and tugboats. Dockworkers were busy everywhere, loading and unloading crates, machinery, and bales. Tall cranes lifted bundles and boxes, swinging them on or off the barges. In another area of the dock, a huge conveyor belt loaded gravel onto an open barge. I hopped off my bike and walked further down the dock to where tugboats were tied. It looked like someone was repairing a tug, for I saw huge wrenches, bolts, and many parts scattered about. I could hear a man cursing, and I saw a colored man shouting down a big opening, telling someone that he just didn’t know how to speak to a lady, and that’s why she wouldn’t start.
He glanced my way. “I bet yous knows how to treat a lady, don’t ya?”
I didn’t know what to say. He could see I was embarrassed, and shouted to the other man, “Now this young lad sure ain’t gonna curse at her. He’d be talking to her real sweet like. Wouldn’t you?”
I nodded.
“Come up here and show a grouch how to talk to a lady.”
I walked up a plank from the dock to the gunnel and jumped onto the deck. I went over to the man, peered down into the hold, and saw a white guy working on a huge engine. He looked up at me, nodded, and looked back at the engine. He stuck one arm out wide, put his other hand on his chest, and said loudly, “Oh, darling Jezebel, you have the nicest looking cylinders on the Mississippi. Now won’t you just show ole Jacob here how good they work?”
He turned a switch engaging the starter, the big engine groaned, and all hell broke loose. The man next to me covered his ears, and I did the same as the engine shook violently. Black smoke shot out of the exhaust stacks as the engine banged, clanged, and rattled everything on deck. It ran faster and faster as the man in the hold adjusted something. With the wrench in one hand, he raised his arms above his head and shook them wildly, screaming, “Sweet baby, talk to Papa!”
After a few moments and much adjusting, the huge engine idled down to a solid purr. The man climbed out of the compartment, took his red headset off, held
his hand palm out, and the colored man slapped his hand, saying, “Yeah, boss!”
The greasy guy, “Boss,” looked at me, wiped his hands on a rag, and stuck his hand out. “Jacob Pilcher here, and just who might you be?”
I grabbed his hand and squeezed tight. “I’m Jory. Glad to meet you. That’s some engine down there.”
He grinned and gestured to his partner. “This be Max Kemper, my associate.”
I shook Max’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He said, “Sounds like maybe we’s be needing you to join our team and be an associate, too.”
Jacob said, “Maybe I’ll just replace Max here with some younger blood. You a good diesel mechanic?”
Max laughed. “You betcha. I needs me a long vacation from you.”
Jacob looked at Max. “No vacation unless Jory here takes the job. Twas mighty nice of you to be willing to show me how to treat a lady. You must be a real ladies man.”
I shook my head.
“Well, how can I thank you?”
The thought appeared out of nowhere. “I don’t suppose you know where I might be able to buy a nice rowboat, would you?”
“A rowboat?”
“Yes, sir, a rowboat. I’m looking to buy a nice boat. Something I can camp out on.”
“Why, there are lots of boats around these docks. Surely, we can find you one. You live around here?”
“Well, kinda.”
Max said, “You lets us look around awhile. If’n you can stop back in a day or two, Jacob and me be surely find something.”
“That’s mighty nice of you.” The engine was still purring. “How big is that engine?”
“That baby puts out about eight hundred and fifty horses. She’s a big lady.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s something else.”
“Wanna see her soul up close?”
“Yeah!”
We climbed down a ladder and into the hold. The engine was as big as a car and made lots of racket. Jacob turned the engine off and banged his wrench on a couple of small pipes bent down into the top of the engine. “These here are the injectors, and this is the vacuum pump.” He banged on a black box. “This here line going to the vacuum pump was loose. Wasn’t getting no vacuum, and them injectors ain’t working right. That’s all it was. When I spoke nice to her, she burped out the leak in the connection and showed me it was loose. Guess I need to follow your advice,” he said, smiling wryly at Max.
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