Carrying Albert Home

by Homer Hickam

  Homer, having escaped death, was feeling brash and even a bit puckish. He put the penny back in his pocket. “Snow,” he said. “Freak storm.” Elsie rolled her eyes.

  They returned to the old plantation and loaded the food and blankets and the other things into the car, and then Homer drove back to the crossroads and stopped to look left and right. There was no traffic in sight. Before he could make the turn, there was a sudden fluttering of wings and the green-tailed rooster flew through the open window and landed on his shoulder.

  Elsie frowned. “Where’s he been?”

  “I don’t know but I’m glad he’s back,” Homer said.

  In the back seat, Albert made his yeah-yeah-yeah happy sound. The rooster looked at him and crowed. Elsie put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. “Shut up, you stupid rooster! I’m still feeling the wine!”

  Chuckling, Homer made the turn and drove past the spot where the hay wagon had turned over. He was gratified to see it was no longer there. The road to Florida lay wide open. The rooster, its feathers warm, nestled in next to his ear. Elsie leaned back and closed her eyes. Albert crawled up to the window so he could grin at everything that passed by. The old Buick hummed along and Homer, the penny in his pocket giving him confidence that all would be well, whistled a happy tune.

  I was forty-three and spending time in North Carolina researching a book about life and war along the Outer Banks during World War II. After a couple of weeks without checking in with my parents, I called and Mom answered the phone. “Where’ve you been, Sonny?” she asked.

  “North Carolina, Mom. I told you I was writing about German U-boats off the coast.”

  U-boats didn’t interest her but North Carolina clearly did. “Do you like it there? Are the people nice?”

  After I told her I liked it fine and the people were very nice, she said, “You trust people too much. That’s why you keep getting hurt. You need to be more careful.”

  I knew where that was coming from. I had recently been through a painful divorce and a mother tends to take up for her son, even when he’s in the wrong. She lowered her voice, enough that I suspected she didn’t want my dad to hear. “Your father and I drove across North Carolina one time. We didn’t think we were ever going to get through it. We kept getting slowed down. The first time was because of radicals. Your dad called them Communists. To tell you the truth, I was sort of attracted to them. Even thought about joining up.”

  “You wanted to be a Communist?”

  “No, a radical. That was because I trusted them to do what they said they were going to do.”

  I made an informed guess. “Was this when you carried Albert home? Did he want to be a radical, too?”

  “Don’t make fun. Those were serious times. People were starving. They lived in camps along the road and they couldn’t buy a job. That’s how come the radicals were out there. They said they were going to change things, make the poor rich and the rich poor. That sounded good to me.”

  “What did Dad think?”

  “Your dad . . . I’ll tell you the story but you have to promise not to tell the police.” She lowered her voice even more. “There might still be a John and Jane Doe warrant out on us.”

  “A John and Jane . . . Mom, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about sock mills, Sonny. And trust. And dynamite.”

  PART II

  How Elsie Became a Radical

  8

  WHEN THEY REACHED A SIGN THAT SAID WELCOME TO NORTH CAROLINA, THE TAR HEEL STATE, Homer said, “Elsie, we’re officially in North Carolina. After that, we’ll just have South Carolina and Georgia to go before running into Florida.”

  Elsie had been dozing but, at her husband’s advisory, came awake. “How long until we get there?”

  “Four days, I think, then maybe another day to Orlando. We can still make it back to Coalwood within our two-week allotment if we press steady on.”

  “Oh, what a splendid result that would be.”

  If Homer noticed her sarcasm, he didn’t mention it. “How about lunch?”

  Elsie agreed that she was ready for lunch and before long they spotted a picnic table alongside the road. “Don’t tell the rooster,” Homer said, “but I’d like a sandwich made from one of his former girlfriends.”

  “He’s your rooster, not mine,” Elsie replied. “I don’t talk to him.”

  Elsie took sandwich makings from the car and set out a spread on the picnic table, then tossed a couple of chicken pieces to Albert, who had crawled out of the car on his own, doing a fine belly flop into the grass and rolling over to ask for a tummy rub, which Elsie, after she’d finished making the sandwiches, happily accomplished. The rooster also jumped out of the car and started pecking in the gravel, clearly unconcerned about his past gal pals now resting between slices of bread, tomatoes, onions, and cheese as well as in Albert’s stomach.

  When she heard the sound of snapping twigs, Elsie was surprised to see a dozen or more children filtering out of the trees. They were a pathetic, snot-nosed lot, their ragged clothes loose and hanging from their bony frames. They looked longingly at the food on the table.

  “There must be a vagrant camp nearby,” Homer said.

  Elsie’s heart instantly melted. “We have to give them something,” she said.

  Not waiting for charity, the kids suddenly raced in. Half of them cleared the picnic table while the other half threw open the car doors and tossed out the rest of the food. They were so fast and thorough and professional in their thievery, all Elsie and Homer could do was slap at them ineffectively and then watch with astonishment as the children disappeared into the woods, the last one with a feathery creature beneath his arm. “They got it all,” Homer said in wonder, “even the rooster!”

  “What’ll we do?” Elsie asked.

  “We’re going to put Albert in the car and lock it. Then we’re going to see if we can get our food back. And the rooster.”

  After seeing to Albert, Elsie and Homer emerged on the other side of the woods and beheld a dusty clearing that contained ragged tents and lean-tos made of old tarps. Wisps of smoke wafted from cooking fires where women stirred pots. “Our food is down there,” Homer said.

  They descended into the camp. “We need help,” Homer said to anyone who would listen. “Our food was stolen by children who came from here and we need it back. We aren’t rich. We don’t have much, either.” The camp people edged back, their hollow eyes watching carefully as the couple walked between the tents and tarps, repeating their plea. There were no children in sight.

  A man’s voice called out, “Did I hear someone asking for help?”

  Elsie and Homer turned to see a man who’d emerged from one of the tents. A thin fellow with soft eyes, a mustache, and a broad forehead, he was dressed in a gray suit, vest, an open shirt, and wore what was obviously an expensive fedora. There was about him the air of a civilized, cultured man. He was clearly no vagrant. “It was us,” Elsie said. “A bunch of kids from this camp cleaned us out.” She pointed at the woods. “We’re parked over there. We just stopped for lunch.”

  The man provided a sympathetic shrug. “Circumstances have made even the little ones into thieves. This much I know. Whatever they got from you isn’t coming back. These people are starving.”

  “But it was all the food we had,” Elsie said.

  “And they took our rooster, too,” Homer added.

  “What did it look like?”

  “He was russet with a green tail. A big red comb. Kind of unique.”

  “I’m very sorry,” the man replied. “I haven’t seen it.”

  “Who are you?” Elsie bluntly asked.

  “I’m a writer. These people are American nomads, forever on the move, trying to feed themselves and their families. I’m thinking about writing a book about them. My name is John Steinbeck. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

  After a moment of reflection, Elsie said, “No, sorry. What’s it like to be a writer?”r />
  Steinbeck smiled. “It has its challenges.”

  “Well, Mr. Steinbeck, I am the wife of a coal miner,” Elsie replied, “which also has its challenges.”

  Steinbeck doffed his hat. “That I have no doubt about, madam. Is this your husband?”

  Homer put out his hand. “I’m Homer Hickam, Mr. Steinbeck. This is my wife, Elsie. I’ve read two of your books, Tortilla Flat and The Red Pony. I found them excellent.”

  “He reads a lot of books,” Elsie said, her voice betraying a subtle jealousy.

  Steinbeck shook Homer’s hand. “Might I ask what direction you’re going?”

  “South,” Homer said.

  “To Florida,” Elsie added.

  “Could you see your way to give me a ride? I want to take a look at the textile mills just south of here. They have labor problems there which interest me.”

  “We’d be pleased to give you a ride, Mr. Steinbeck,” Elsie said.

  “We’d better go before somebody steals our car,” Homer said nervously.

  “Thanks. Just give me a second to get my bag.”

  Homer led the way back through the woods with Elsie and Steinbeck following. At the Buick, Homer put Steinbeck’s bag in the trunk, then opened the door to reveal Albert. “Is that a crocodile?” Steinbeck politely asked.

  “Albert is an alligator,” Elsie said. “Have you never seen one?”

  “I grew up in California,” Steinbeck answered. “Now I live in New York City. No alligators in either one of them.”

  “I have always wondered what it would be like to live in California or New York City,” Elsie said.

  “Living there is much like living anywhere, Mrs. Hickam.”

  Elsie was dubious. “Believe me, Mr. Steinbeck, I’m certain both places are very different from living in Coalwood, West Virginia.”

  Steinbeck nodded and said, “Tell me, why do you have an alligator?”

  “We’re carrying him home to Florida.”

  “Where’s he been?”

  “He’s been living with us,” Homer said, then switched topics. “What kind of labor problems are they having in the textile mills?”

  “Strikes, lockouts, beatings, shootings, and murders. Some people say Communists are behind the whole thing and I want to find out if that’s true.”

  “Labor unions came into the coalfields and the next thing you know there was a war,” Homer said. “You ever hear of Mother Jones and the Pine Creek Mine War?”

  “I have, indeed. Bloody mess. The army had to finally break it up.”

  “Before this Depression is over, I’m afraid the army might have to break a lot of things up,” Homer said. “But we’d best get back on the road. Elsie and I are on a timetable to get to Florida and back as soon as we can.”

  “You may sit up front, Mr. Steinbeck,” Elsie said. “I’ll sit in the back with Albert.”

  “Thank you. And please call me John.”

  “That is very nice of you . . . John.”

  When Elsie settled in beside Albert, he looked up at her, then made his sad no-no-no grunt. “I think he misses the rooster,” Elsie said.

  “I do, too,” Homer confessed, then steered the Buick out of the picnic area. Not more than a mile or so, he reached a crossroads, thought for a moment, then kept going straight. “I think this is southerly,” he said.

  “Why aren’t you sure?” Elsie asked.

  “The children also stole the gas station maps.”

  Even though the vagrant children had put the journey in a dire situation, Elsie could not keep from chuckling. “Kismet,” she said.

  9

  AFTER SOME MILES PASSED, STEINBECK SAID, “SHOULD we reach a market, I’d be pleased to purchase you some food to make up for your loss.”

  “No, thank you,” Homer said.

  “Don’t be so prideful, Homer,” Elsie said. “Thank you, John. We would appreciate it.”

  Homer tamped down his pride, then said, “I’m curious, John. Why don’t you have a car?”

  “To meet folks, I just decided to thumb for rides. I’ve gotten around fine.”

  “Do you mind if we talk about writing?” Elsie asked.

  “I’d like that very much. What exactly do you want to know?”

  “Well, I’m thinking maybe I could write some. My brother Victor would have been a writer but he died too young.”

  “That’s a shame. Was he talented?”

  “He was only six when he passed but I think so. He liked to tell stories.”

  “That’s very good. The trick is to turn a story into a book. Do you think you could do that?”

  “Well, I went to secretary school when I lived in Orlando and my professor admired both my typing skills and my descriptive sentences.”

  Steinbeck chuckled. “Did he, by God! Once you have mastered typing and the descriptive sentence, you are more than halfway toward being a professional writer. What kind of books do you want to write?”

  “Maybe I could write funny ones. I wrote a letter to my mother once about Albert and she said it made her laugh.”

  “Did you mean it to be funny?”

  “No, but I guess it turned out that way.”

  “That’s the best kind. Just tell your story and don’t worry about if it’s funny or not. If you try to write funny, it usually isn’t. That’s why comedians on the radio don’t write novels. If they do, they just turn out to be a series of punch lines.”

  “You’re teaching me so much!” Elsie enthused. “And, now that I think about it, I have a great idea for a novel. It would be about a young woman who grows up in the coalfields and then goes to live in a fancy house in Orlando where she meets lots of interesting people who make her laugh and feel good about herself.”

  “You could title it When Elsie Met Buddy,” Homer groused.

  Elsie made an unseen face at him. “It’s fiction, Homer.”

  “Is it?”

  When Elsie didn’t reply and lapsed into wounded silence, Homer felt bad for attacking her. It was just that he was so blamed jealous. He tried to think of something to say that would rescue the situation and came up with, “Maybe you should just write about Albert.”

  “An excellent idea,” Steinbeck said.

  “I’m not going to write anything,” Elsie grumped.

  Homer knew better than to say anything else. He just clamped his mouth shut and drove on while hoping to come across a market or a roadside grill. When neither presented themselves, and the sun began to fade, he started looking for a cheap motel or a decent field in which to spend the night.

  After topping a hill, Homer saw two sawhorses blocking the road ahead. He drove down to them, then stopped. Three men wearing suits and fedoras and a general air of authority stepped into his headlights. One of the men strolled over, deliberately moving aside his coat to reveal a holstered pistol on which he rested his hand. One of the other men moved to the passenger side and switched on a flashlight, Steinbeck blinking into the beam. The third man walked behind the Buick as the first one asked, “This the one, Claude?”

  “West Virginia license plate. Yeah, got to be it.”

  The man closest to Homer leaned in. “Get out of the car.”

  “What’s this all about?” Homer asked.

  “It’s about you getting out of the damned car!”

  Elsie piped up from the back seat. “We’re only passing through on the way to Florida.”

  The man look surprised. “You got a woman in there with you? Guess that’s no surprise. Women can be red, too.”

  Homer was confused by the comment. “She’s got some Cherokee in her but she’s mostly white,” he said.

  The man was apparently not interested in Elsie’s ancestry. “I told you to get out and I meant it, comrade.” He pulled the pistol from its holster.

  Homer had never been called comrade before. In fact, he’d never known anybody to be called that except in the newspapers, usually in stories about Russians and such. He was about to ask for an exp
lanation when two cars pulled up, one on each side of the Buick.

  The three men in suits regrouped behind the sawhorses while a fellow in a plaid shirt and a cloth cap leaned out from behind the wheel of the car on Homer’s side. “What’s this?” he asked. “You the law?”

  “Citizen’s committee,” the apparent leader of the men replied. His associates’ hands moved to their holstered pistols, their fingers nervously working on the butts. “You boys turn around and go back where you come from. We don’t need your kind here.”

  “What kind is that? Men who want to work?”

  “No, a buncha dirty reds. You boys turn around or you’ll catch it.”

  “We’re not gonna catch anything because the way I see it, we’re Americans who have a right to be on a taxpayer paid-for road and we’re going to go down it.” Before the three men could react, the man wearing the cloth cap floored the Ford. It lurched forward, knocking down the sawhorses. The driver of the car on the other side laid on the horn and yelled at Homer, “Get going, you stupid sumbitch!”

  Obediently, Homer pressed down on the gas pedal, steered around the remnants of the blockade, and kept going. The other car was close on his tail.

  “What’s happening?” Elsie asked in a small voice.

  “This is the labor trouble I was telling you about,” Steinbeck said.

  A few miles down the road, Homer saw the Ford pulled off to the side of the road. The man with the cloth cap was out of it, waving Homer in. Homer started around but the chasing car cut him off and he had no choice but to stop. The man in the cloth cap came over and clicked on a flashlight, shining it in Homer’s eyes, then Steinbeck’s, then Elsie’s, then Albert’s, which flashed back red. “A crocodile?”

  “He’s an alligator,” Elsie explained.

  “You from the party, right?”

  “Party?” Homer asked blankly.

  “He’s a coal miner,” Elsie said.

  “The coal miner?” The man put his hand inside. “Glad to see you, brother! We been waiting!”

  Homer politely took the man’s hand, then let it go. “Waiting for what?”