That Night at the Palace

by Watson, L. D.

  “Now I remember him.”

  Jesse stepped out of the car and reached back to shake Brewster’s hand.

  “Thank you, Corporal.”

  “We’re going to get you out of this, kid, but you’re going to have to tell us what you know.”

  Jesse looked him in the eye. “I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

  Chapter 9

  PLEASANT GROVE, TEXAS

  July 7, 1936

  Jesse and Cliff rumbled along through the old black community in the noisy old Model-T truck. It had taken almost a week to get the thing running. They had ransacked almost every Model-T in East Texas for parts. Jewel’s father’s old truck had a good fuel pump, distributer, carburetor, and gas tank, but both trucks had rusted-out radiators. As it turned out, there were a lot of old Model-T’s around; many were still running, but the ones that didn’t run almost always had a rusted-out radiator. Finally they learned that Mrs. Bertha Greer, Jesse’s and Cliff’s Sunday School teacher, had an old Model-T car sitting in an over-grown shed in the woods behind her house.

  All three of them went to check it out before talking to Mrs. Greer, partly because they expected it to be rusted just like the others, but mostly because the boys knew full well that before she would let them so much as look at it, she’d make them go home and memorize a half dozen scripture verses. So far, Jesse and Cliff, mostly Cliff, had managed to get through Mrs. Greer’s class with memorizing almost no verses, with the exception of the mandatory John 3:16, Romans 3:23, and Romans 10:13 - there was no escaping having to memorize those three. Jesse and Cliff, again mostly Cliff, always managed to find something to help Brother Bill with that required their immediate attention at the time during class that was allotted to scripture memory. They regularly volunteered to set up or put away the folding chairs in the “fellowship hall” or pour water into the baptism tank.

  The boys had pretty good success in avoiding Mrs. Greer’s memorizing assignments, but that was mostly because Brother Bill made sure the boys had something to keep them occupied. About a year earlier they had volunteered to help fill the baptism tank, which had to be filled by hand since there was no running water in the church. The tank itself was a modern marvel and had been purchased from Sears and Roebuck and installed right behind the choir loft. Unfortunately, since almost everybody in Elza had already been baptized, the new tank didn’t get a lot of use, especially in the summer months when the water level tended to go down due to evaporation. The tank also tended to leak into the choir robe room. So when they did have someone to baptize, the tank had to be re-filled. This particular task was not one that the boys preferred to volunteer for, but carrying buckets of water was still better than getting any more of Mrs. Greer’s memorization assignments. That summer Sunday morning the boys told Brother Bill that they would be happy to fill the tank. It was a considerable amount of work, requiring the boys to fill three gallon buckets at Mrs. Williamson’s well next door and carry them into the back of the building and then pour them into the tank.

  That particular Sunday had been right after the annual spring revival, and there were five freshly saved lives to be baptized. The group, all members of the same family, had recently moved to Elza from over in Louisiana. They had previously been Presbyterians, but Elza didn’t have a Presbyterian church, so they all needed to be re-baptized to become full-fledged, honest-to-God Baptists.

  Jesse and Cliff had just finished their first trip with a bucket when Cliff had noticed Brother Bill’s fishing waders hanging in the dressing room behind the sanctuary next to the baptism tank. Brother Bill would put on the rubber waders so that, rather than completely disrobing to baptize the newly saved Christians, all he had to do was pull the waders over his pants and put on a white robe over his dress-shirt. That way, while the choir sang Amazing Grace, which they did after every baptism, all Brother Bill would have to do is take off his robe and waders, put on his suit coat, and walk out just after the chorus and deliver his sermon.

  By the third time the boys passed the waders hanging on the wall, Cliff could no longer resist the opportunity and took out his pocketknife to cut a small hole in the seat of the rubber waders. Later, when Brother Bill had stepped into the pool to baptize the five newly saved believers his rubber pants began to fill with water. The professional that he was, he never let on before anyone, but as the choir sang it had taken almost all five new Christians/Baptists to help him climb out of the tank. Worse still, he had to borrow some trousers from the newly baptized - Baptist style - believers to deliver his sermon. So that Sunday he had stood in front of the whole congregation wearing his black suit coat and a pair of tan pants that were eight inches too short.

  Naturally, the pastor knew exactly who was responsible, regardless of how innocent the boys tried to appear. The following week the two drained the tank, which again had to be done by hand. They then scrubbed the tank, helped repair the leak, and then re-filled the tank, which took almost a full day. After that Brother Bill made sure that the boys had tasks to perform each Sunday morning. Little did he know that he was doing them a favor by getting them out of Mrs. Greer’s class right before she issued memorization assignments.

  So when Jesse, Cliff, and Jewel saw that Mrs. Greer’s Model-T sedan had not only a good radiator but also four wheels with no broken spokes and a seat that was in almost new condition, they had no choice but to go knocking on her door. It took considerably less begging than Jesse or Cliff would have thought. Mrs. Greer was delighted to let the three kids have parts off the old car. The car had belonged to her late husband, God rest his soul, and since he had sold the motor out of it for parts before he died the thing was doing nothing but rusting away.

  They were just about home free without the subject of scripture memory even coming when Jewel asked, “Is there anything you would like us to do for you, Mrs. Greer?”

  If Cliff had owned a gun he would have shot her right then and there. Another moment and they would have gotten away without so much as quoting the words, “Jesus wept,” had Jewel managed to keep her big mouth shut.

  As a result of Jewel’s generosity, the two boys were given the memorization list for the entire summer. Jewel was exempt from the task because her family went to the Methodist church, so Mrs. Greer didn’t feel responsible for her spiritual development. Mrs. Greer had never met Jewel but confessed to be extremely impressed at what a thoughtful young lady she was when she promised, to Cliff’s chagrin, to make sure that the boys worked on their memorization every day.

  Nevertheless, regardless of how much it ended up costing them, the little stake bed Ford turned out to run pretty well. To drive it the boys had to wire a couple of two-by-four blocks to the pedals because Jewel was the only one tall enough to reach the floorboard. And of course the top had long since rotted away, so when it rained, which wasn’t often, they got wet. But aside from the occasional backfire and a lot of noise, the truck rolled along just fine.

  In fact, the only problem they had at all was getting tires, but Cliff solved that issue by offering to make three free deliveries per tire for George Henry McMillan. Cliff wanted one delivery per tire, but the fact was that they were in no position to negotiate. They weren’t going anywhere without tires, and George Henry was the only person in Elza with tires for sale.

  The day they finally got it running they proudly drove right down Main Street on a busy Saturday afternoon to show off their achievement. Of course, by then everyone in Elza knew what the kids were up to, mostly because they had gone through every shed and barn in town looking for parts. Still, they made quite a show with Cliff at the wheel as they triumphantly demonstrated their mechanical skills. There had been quite a debate as to who had the right to be the first to drive the truck. Jewel made a good case for herself given that without her father’s truck they would probably still be looking for parts. Jesse’s argument was probably the weakest, but it was he who found out that Mrs. Greer had
a Model-T in the woods behind her house. Cliff shot that one down because he, rightly, figured that they would have found it sooner or later. In the end Jewel had to give way to Cliff, even though he wasn’t tall enough to reach the pedals, another argument in Jewel’s favor, but fixing the truck had been Cliff’s idea. All things considered, building up that old truck was nothing short of genius as far as all three were concerned.

  The possibility of the kids getting it to run had been a subject of a great deal of deliberation at the domino hall and out in front of McMillan’s store. Not an insignificant amount of money had been wagered, which encouraged Cliff’s determination all the more. Once he learned that the boys at the domino hall were placing bets, there was no amount of scripture memorizing that could have stopped him from driving that rusted collection of bolts.

  Thus their proud parade down Main Street garnered the attention of just about everyone in town. People all along the street came out of the stores to see that the kids actually got the old, long-forgotten truck to roll. Even Gemma and Jettie Crawford stepped out of Ruth Anne’s shop to clap and wave as the Model-T rolled by. Their father, Peterson Crawford, who had just parked his Plymouth sedan, stood stern-faced and watched as the kids passed.

  Just as they reached the end of the street, Police Chief Thomas Jefferson Hightower stepped off the curb into the middle of the thoroughfare with a cigar in his mouth, displaying the most official look he could muster. Cliff pulled to a stop and the chief walked around the truck, looking it over carefully and finally stopping next to Cliff.

  Chief Hightower had been approached a number of times on the street by concerned citizens warning him that three mischievous kids who were way too young to drive were building an automobile. Most of the warnings, naturally, came from the same people who complained about Toad Lowery’s noisy truck or that Hobe Bethard’s dogs barked too much. The chief, of course, already knew about the kids - in fact he had bet a dollar fifty that Cliff would get it done. He also knew, of course, that they were too young. He’d even checked with Judge Buckner who, upon considerable thought said, strangely, that there was no law prohibiting kids from driving.

  And Jefferson also knew that their parents were the only ones in the small town who didn’t know what they were doing. So the chief, without the kids knowing, which in Elza was no small feat, had a discussion with some of their parents. He made no effort to talk to Murdock and Garvis Rose, who never knew or seemed to care what Jesse did with his time. For Jefferson’s money, life was better that way.

  Cliff’s father, Ned Tidwell, was not at all surprised at what the kids were doing, but he expressed a lot of concern for their safety, as did Irwin Stoker. In the end they both came to the same conclusion - the kids were putting their time to good use and staying out of trouble. More importantly, their idea of doing deliveries for Washington’s and McMillan’s was a darn good one, and they would probably make a little money at it. Among the three, however, Jefferson was the only one who thought the kids would actually get that old Model-T to run. In the end it was decided that the kids could go through with their plans and no one would interfere. If they got the truck running, which was doubtful, Jefferson would give them a good talking to about safety and responsibility of driving an automobile.

  All in all, the only real concern was that Irwin Stoker didn’t like his little girl spending her afternoons with those two boys. Jefferson just smiled and assured him that he and Sarah had done a good job raising that girl and that the boys had much more to fear from her than she did of them.

  So when Jefferson walked up to a proudly smiling Cliff Tidwell, he gave the best performance of a professional lawman he could possibly manage. Cliff, as usual, had long since suspected that the Chief might possibly try to deny them the right to drive and had prepared an admirable case in defense of his position. Jefferson, though, was not at all interested in Cliff’s oratory and gave a good ten-minute lecture to them about all the auto accidents he had seen in his time as chief. It was a grand performance, though at that point in his career, other than a few fender-benders, he had only seen one serious accident, and it didn’t involve a serious injury. Because of the size of Elza, most of the town, the three kids included, had come out to see that wreck. Still, Jefferson made his point that the driver of that car could have easily ended up dead.

  Eventually, the kids had to agree to some safety requirements or else, Jefferson, as chief, would take the truck away. First, they had to drive no faster than twenty-five miles per hour. That part, he suspected, was easy because he didn’t think that the old truck would actually go that fast. Secondly, they couldn’t go more than ten miles from downtown Elza, and not into Jacksonville or Rusk because the police in those towns might not be so accommodating, and he wasn’t about to go to either of those towns to get the kids out of jail. Thirdly, they were not to drive after dark. That part was all the more important because it looked like the headlamps on the old truck were broken.

  All three readily agreed, mostly because they had no choice, though none of them had any idea if they could obey Jefferson’s rules. They could keep from driving at night and they knew that they’d get in trouble for going up to Jacksonville or Rusk, but the ten-mile rule and the speed limit were different stories. The car’s speedometer and odometer didn’t work, so they had no idea how fast they were going or how far they had driven.

  The two boys turned up the long, red dirt, tree-lined lane leading to Cherokee-One-Leg’s house. Their daily routine had changed once they became mobile. Both boys started getting up extra early to do their chores at home. They then met up at Washington’s where they, as quickly as they could, swept the floors and stacked feed. Then they would load up for a delivery, if Nickel had any. At first there weren’t any at either store, but as soon as the local farmers heard they could get feed delivered, they began calling in orders.

  When finished at the feed store the boys would rush over to McMillan’s and sweep and stock, and if they were lucky they would get one or two deliveries before picking up Jewel at noon. Cliff made a reasonable case that they should keep the profit from any deliveries that they made before she joined them. Jesse, by that point, stayed out of Cliff’s arguments with Jewel, realizing that Cliff never won and was more likely to go home with a black eye than with any extra profit. Jewel made her position clear that Cliff would not have had a truck without her dad’s parts and they had a deal, making them equal partners. The two were in quite a standoff until Jewel was ready to put up the dukes, to which Cliff would mutter that he wasn’t going to beat up a girl and would storm off in defeat.

  So Cliff and Jesse would make a couple of deliveries in the morning without Jewel but sharing all profits as if she were along. They had been hoping for a chance to go out to Cherokee’s without Jewel from the start, but this was the first opportunity they’d had.

  Cherokee was sitting on his porch wearing his cavalry hat, enjoying the cool of the morning as the two boys came bouncing along the lane in the old truck. He, like everyone in the area, had heard that they had the truck and stood to watch as they approached.

  When they pulled to a stop, Cliff shut off the motor, but the old engine continued to rumble, sputter, and backfire for at least twenty seconds after they got out of the car and walked to the porch.

  “Hi, Cherokee,” Cliff said cheerfully once the noisy old truck shut down.

  “Some new sparkplugs might help that racket,” Cherokee offered as the two boys got to the porch.

  “We’re plannin’ to get some if we ever pay off the tires,” Jesse replied.

  “Come sit down boys. I got some tea made.”

  The old man hobbled into the house and a moment later returned with a couple of Ball-Mason jars. He picked up a crock jug he had sitting in the shade on the porch and filled the two jars.

  Jesse took a sip of tea from one of the glasses. “Wow, that’s cold.”

  “An old Indian trick. I mak
e the tea at night with cane sugar then lower the jug into the well before I go to bed. It cools overnight down there in that water, and by mornin’ it’s nice and cold.”

  The old man settled in his rocker, “You boys sit-down,”

  The two kids took seats, Jesse in the porch swing and Cliff in the opposite rocker.

  The old man smiled at Cliff. “That was my wife’s chair. We spent twenty years rockin’ on this porch.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She went to be with the Lord almost five years ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Cherokee,” Cliff replied.

  “Don’t be, she was a good woman. She was a good army wife. She never once complained when I went off to chase Indians or fight the Spanish. She was, by far, the best part of my life.”

  “Do you have any kids, Cherokee?” Jesse asked, wanting to change the subject.

  The old man reached for a cane that he kept next to the door and stood. “My first son died at birth. My daughter died in the winter of ’85. But my other son, Romulus….” the old man stopped speaking and hobbled into the house. A moment later he came out with two velvet-covered cases. He handed them to Jesse.

  “Romulus started out with the tenth cavalry like me but transferred to the ninety-third in 1917. They created two colored divisions, the ninety-second and ninety-third.”

  Jesse opened one of the boxes. Inside was a medal with a green and red striped ribbon. The medal was a cross with crossed swords.

  “That’s the Croix de Guerre. It’s the highest medal the French give to foreigners.”

  Jesse handed the box to Cliff and then opened the second one.

  “That’s the DSC, Distinguished Service Cross,” the old man said with obvious pride as he seated himself. “It’s the second highest honor given in the American army.”