Cadillac Chronicles

by Brett Hartman

  It was no use. He went to the bathroom, showered and dressed for the day. Downstairs, he looked at the street from the living room window. Still no Selma.

  “Good morning Alex.” It was Earlene from the other end of the house. As usual, Lester sat across from her, reading a section of paper. God knows what these two would’ve done if the paper boy failed to show.

  “Good morning,” Alex said and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

  “Another glorious day,” Earlene said.

  Alex rubbed his stomach. “I should go for another run, especially after all I ate.”

  “Kid was unstoppable,” Lester said. “I warned him, told him his belly wasn’t up to all that grease. But he kept going.”

  “I should’ve listened.”

  “Sometimes it’s better to learn the hard way,” Lester said.

  “Praise be,” Earlene said. “We know a few things about learning things the hard way. Don’t we, Les?”

  “That we do,” Lester said, looking at his wristwatch. “We leave in twenty minutes…nine o’clock. My bag’s already packed. Bring it down when you’re ready.”

  The finality of leaving pressed hard against Alex’s chest. But then he heard the sound he’d been waiting for. It was the distant sputter of the Malibu, the slam of her door and her footsteps on gravel. His heart leaped. He expected her radiant figure at the back door, but she lingered outside. He could hear her opening one of the Cadillac doors. Then she shut it.

  “Must be Selma,” Earlene said.

  Alex swiped his upper front teeth with his tongue, licked his lips and roughed the hair at his forehead. There she stood at the landing with two bags of groceries. He bolted out of his chair, but she was inside before he had a chance to get to the door.

  “You get an A for effort,” she said.

  “I can help you put things away.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Lester said. “Get those suitcases downstairs, and then you can say your goodbyes.”

  “I like that the boy wants to help,” Earlene said, turning to Alex. “That’s good Christian kindness on your part.”

  “Thanks,” Alex said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He took the stairs two at a time and practically flew to the back bedroom for Lester’s suitcase. All he had to do was brush his teeth, pack toiletries into his duffel bag and he was downstairs with both bags, breathless.

  Lester was leaning against the oven, stick in hand. He looked at Alex and said, “Took you three minutes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted out of here.”

  “Funny,” Alex said.

  The old man winked. “Now you go on, give these two lovely ladies a proper hug, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Earlene pushed herself halfway out of her chair. Selma helped her the rest of the way up. “Let’s go outside, Miss Earlene. We’ll see them off in the sunshine.”

  “I’m afraid they’ll see me cry,” Earlene said.

  “That’s all right.” Selma’s hands were slings under the old woman’s elbows. “You cry all you need to.”

  Alex stayed in the kitchen while the others made their way to the driveway. He surveyed the paneled room one last time. It was sad to think this room was closer to his heart than the kitchen his mother kept. Outside, he hoisted the luggage into the trunk. Earlene was already weeping in Selma’s arms. Lester went over and placed a hand on the side of Earlene’s face. “I don’t imagine I’ll see you again, sis. This is probably it.”

  Earlene’s sobbing intensified. “Why you always have to be so truthful?”

  Selma reached for Lester and pulled him toward Earlene. Brother and sister hugged while Selma stroked their backs. Meanwhile Alex leaned against the Cadillac and said nothing. Distance kept him from emotional display, but he could feel it coming.

  Lester turned to Selma. “You do a fine job,” he said. “You make my sister happy. And I thank you.”

  Tears were now streaming down Selma’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Bray,” she said. “Hope you got a lot of years left. And you’ll come back this way.”

  It was Alex’s turn to step into the arms of Earlene. She was soft and warm, like a big wet pillow, and her tears were still flowing. She gave him a gentle embrace. But then she followed with a squeeze that startled out a catfish fart before he could stop it.

  “God bless you, child,” she said. “You’ll make a good man.”

  He wondered what kind of words she’d have if she knew what he and Selma had done. “Thanks for everything,” he said. “I really enjoyed it.”

  Then he hugged Selma while whispering thank you into her ear.

  She whispered back, “You’re welcome.” Then she added, “I got you a little something. It’s behind the front seat. You open it when you’re ready…not now.”

  The first feeling to strike him was guilt. “Thanks,” he said, “but I didn’t get you anything.”

  “You weren’t supposed to.” She broke away from the hug. “Now you be good. Make your momma proud.”

  In a minute’s time, he had gone from grief to arousal to guilt then back to grief. He began to cry. All he could think to say was, “I’ll make myself proud.” Then he slipped into the passenger seat and looked once more at Selma and Earlene. Both were still crying. Lester’s were the only dry eyes.

  NORTH OF union Springs, they detoured through the city of Tuskegee and the university, passing by the birthplace of Rosa Parks and the memorial home of Booker T. Washington. Lester drove slowly while talking about how the campus had looked fifty-five years earlier. “Nothing but a few buildings and a patchwork of farms,” he said. “But I’ll say this—it was a fine education.”

  Alex nodded, impressed by how clean and orderly the campus was. “I’m hoping to go to college.”

  “Damn straight you will. Can’t do much of anything these days without it.”

  “I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll study. I just know I need to go.”

  “If you’re undecided, you ought to pick a big school, like Michigan or Penn State or even Syracuse. That way, you got lots of choices.”

  “I’ll start researching it when I get home.” Just saying the word home seemed to throw him into state of depression. Two more years with his mother loomed like a prison sentence. College would be a godsend.

  They turned north and followed the signs to I-85. “Sightseeing’s over,” Lester said, “it’s all interstate from here.”

  “Think I should open the gift?” Alex asked.

  “If you want, but I recommend you wait. That way you can sit awhile longer with the mystery. It’s nice to keep some mystery alive.”

  Alex uncapped a bottle of water. “You’re right, I’ll wait.” He tore into a bag of cashews.

  “I’d say you’re maturing,” Lester said.

  “I don’t want to be a scrawny punk all my life.”

  Lester shook his head. “You won’t.”

  “How was your trip to the cemetery?” Alex’s mouth was full of nuts.

  “It was special. I had what you’d call an epiphany.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s like a flash of understanding,” Lester said. “I could envision the deaths of all my family members. Not just the ceremonies, but the actual deaths.” They were back in familiar territory, driving and talking about Lester’s favorite subject. He went on: “I got a better understanding, like I could see how each of them died, how they finally let go.”

  “Sounds pretty depressing,” Alex said.

  “Not as you might think. Thing is, they all needed somebody. And when they thought nobody was there anymore—when they truly felt alone—that’s when they died. All my family members died alone.”

  “How could that not be depressing?”

  “Because it’s just the way it was. When you think there’s no one left for you anymore, you pass on. That’s usually how it goes. unless you get hit by a Mack truck or a bad disease.”

  “I still say it’s depressing.”<
br />
  “Well, you ought to get a broader perspective on death.”

  “What’s more depressing than death?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Lester said, waving a finger at Alex’s face. “Living a shallow life. That’s what.”

  ALEX REMAINED quiet for the stretch of highway leading into Georgia. The sign marking their transition from state to state only worsened his lovesickness over Selma. He wished he’d been driving so he could put his mind on something else. There were merger signs up ahead and warnings that the right lane was closed. Lester slowed the Caddy and drifted left.

  But apparently he hadn’t slowed down quickly enough. “Ah shit,” he said. “We got a trooper on our ass.”

  Alex looked back. It approached from a hidden glade in the median strip, blue lights flashing. “That sucks,” Alex said. “What are you gonna do?”

  “I’m going to pull over, you knucklehead. What else would I do?” Lester drove to the end of the construction zone then pulled over. He looked at Alex and said, “Sorry, kid, you’re not a knucklehead. I’m just angry.”

  “That’s okay.” Alex looked back and saw a big white trooper, full beard and mustache, rising out of his car and putting on his hat.

  Lester lowered his window.

  The trooper stood just shy of the door. “I’ll have a look at your license and registration.”

  “What’s the charge, sir?”

  “Posted speed in the work zone is forty-five. Got you clocked at sixty-one.”

  Lester shrugged but didn’t say anything. He pulled the license from his wallet then leaned toward the glove box, fingered through the contents and pulled out the registration slip.

  “Stay in the car,” the trooper said. “Be right back.”

  While they waited, Lester lowered all the windows. Then he reached into the glove box and pulled out a sheet of paper. It was the notarized statement granting Alex ownership of the car. All it did was make Alex sad. Lester tucked it back and said, “Sometimes these things are worth arguing about. Other times, it just makes it worse. I’ll have to wait and see when he comes back.”

  “I got a bad feeling,” Alex said.

  “Worst they can do is slap me with a steep fine. I’m old, but I’m not poor.”

  “So it’s just a speeding ticket?”

  “Call it what you like,” Lester said. “Speeding or a DWB: driving while black.”

  It was the kind of remark Alex normally laughed at, but not this time. Twenty minutes of silence passed like the drifting of continents. Finally, there was movement. The big trooper’s door slammed. Alex looked back. The man put on his hat. There was nothing in his hands, no citation.

  He came to Lester’s window. “Step out of the vehicle, sir—hands where I can see’em.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Out of the vehicle, now!” The trooper peered in at Alex. “You stay put.”

  Lester opened the door and pulled himself out.

  “Hands on the side of the vehicle. I need to search you.”

  “What the hell’s this about?”

  “You have the right to remain silent—”

  “I know my rights,” Lester said. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

  “You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”

  “Impossible,” Lester said. But then he peered through the opened window at Alex. “Well, if that don’t suck.”

  Alex’s mind flashed back to the truck stop in Brunswick. The big racist boyfriend could have been a cop. And his final words: I’m not through with you. Alex’s hands were trembling, his chest all knotted up. He couldn’t bring himself to watch Lester getting patted down like a common criminal.

  To the trooper Lester said, “Wait one minute.”

  Alex turned and saw the cop holding Lester’s wallet.

  “Sir,” Lester said, “I need to give my friend some money or he’ll never make it back home. Please allow me a minute with him.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventeen, just turned. See that present right there?” Lester pointed to the package behind Alex’s seat. “That’s from his girlfriend.”

  “Is he legal to drive?”

  “Course he is,” Lester said. “Go on check if you like.”

  The trooper stooped to Alex’s eye level. “What’s your name, son?”

  Alex cleared his throat. “Alex Riley.” No chirp, thank God.

  “Step out of the car.”

  Alex managed to get out and face the trooper. The man was almost a foot taller and probably 150 pounds heavier. For sport he could have tossed Alex’s body into the air then shot it apart like a clay pigeon.

  Lester pointed to the wallet in the mighty trooper’s hand and said, “I need that back, please.”

  The trooper handed it over. “You’re on borrowed time.”

  Lester pulled out some bills. “This is more than enough for gas and food and a motel,” he said to Alex. There were four hundreds and a twenty. “Get yourself back to Albany. You’ll be fine.”

  Alex’s eyes started watering. He held the money all wrong, like the way you’d hold the string of a teabag. “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “Listen,” Lester said, voice unnaturally loud. “You put that money in a safe place and get back in the car. You’re not a part of this. There’s no debate.”

  “He’s given you good advice,” the trooper said, pointing to the driver’s door.

  Tears streamed down Alex’s face. He turned away from the two men and scooted into the car. He went from the driver’s seat over to the passenger. He sat there for a moment. Then he drifted back over to the driver’s seat.

  A white K-9 van pulled in past the Cadillac and stopped. A female cop went around to the back of the van. “You’re going to have a dog sniff me over?” Lester said. “That’s ridiculous! Only drugs I have are the ones to keep me from dropping dead.”

  “The dog’s headed for a homeland security facility in Brunswick,” the trooper said. “Same town you’re headed. That’s your ride. Having her sniff out the vehicle might just keep me from having to tear it apart. That includes your friend’s birthday gift.”

  A German shepherd jumped out. The female cop held the dog by the collar and said, “Here Ginger.” Then a young male cop came out from the passenger side.

  The big trooper pulled handcuffs from his belt and turned to Lester. “You’ll have to wear these.”

  “Long drive to be wearing cuffs,” Lester said.

  The newest cop came over and said, “We’re going to make it easy on you, Mr. Bray.” He had a Hispanic accent. “We’re only going to cuff one of your wrists to Ginger’s cage.”

  “How’s that going to be any easier?”

  “It’s better than having them behind your back for six hours. Trust me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alex’s nerves had descended a couple of registers, from his chest down to his stomach and intestines. He sat with the Cadillac keys on his lap while Lester, now handcuffed and flanked by two cops, staggered his way to the van. There was a brief moment when the old man turned and nodded at Alex, as if to imply that everything was okay.

  But Alex knew better. This was nearly as bad as things could get.

  The female cop opened the door behind him and directed the dog to sniff out the entire area, including his present from Selma. “You’ll have to step out of the vehicle,” she said, her voice husky and false.

  Alex peeked behind the driver’s seat to verify that his gift was still there. That was the only good thing about the day. Then he stood in front of the car and watched through the windshield as the dog scurried across the seats.

  The cop opened the trunk, and the dog jumped right in. Alex could hear the familiar snapping of the old Samsonite latches. This whole thing was terrible, and it was bound to get worse. The situation was clear: In a matter of seconds, one of the cops would demand to see his license. With only a learner’s permit, he’d be nabbed as an illegal d
river. The car would have to be impounded, and he’d be taken to some juvenile home until his mother arrived to claim him.

  His wallet felt hot in his back pocket, like a grilled cheese sandwich straight off the burner. He didn’t dare touch it. Except for his wobbling knees, he remained motionless, waiting for the inevitable.

  “Is this yours?” the Hispanic cop asked, pointing to the green duffel bag.

  “Yeah,” Alex said.

  The man tossed it back into the trunk. Meanwhile the big trooper carried Lester’s suitcase to the van as if it was nothing but a box of Kleenex. Alex looked through the van’s set of back windows, but all he could see was Lester’s hand sticking up against the crisscross of the dog’s cage. Old man was probably lying down.

  On his trip back from the van, the trooper said, “Looks like you’re on your own, Alex. You be sure to drive safely.” He went around back and slammed the trunk.

  Alex lowered himself into the driver’s seat, momentarily forgetting how to start the engine. He may have even forgotten how to drive, and he wasn’t about to put himself under the scrutiny of the mighty trooper. So he grabbed a map and waited it out.

  The van pulled away first. The trooper followed.

  Alex was alone, still in shock. There were actually two shocks mixed together. First was Lester’s arrest, which was partially Alex’s fault. The second was that no one among that brain trust of law enforcement had bothered to check his license.

  Until now, he had been too nervous to consider what to do next. The only certainty was that he couldn’t just sit there. Another cop would come—a savvier cop—who would gladly arrest him for unlawful use of a motorized vehicle. He started the engine and brought the Cadillac to traffic speed. He was officially breaking the law. The map of the Southeastern States lay on the passenger seat. It would be simple enough to follow the yellow highlighted route all the way up to New York. That’s what Lester had told him to do. Alex could keep his speed down and even drive through the night.

  Meanwhile, Lester would be wasting away in some jail cell. Nothing could be more depressing, maybe not even death.