by Homer Hickam
“That’s it!” Elsie cried. “The Grapes of Wrath! It’s perfect!”
Steinbeck frowned thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Well, I’ll give it some thought if I should ever write the blamed thing.”
“Oh, you must,” Elsie said, “and you will.”
“Well, maybe just for you, Elsie,” Steinbeck chuckled. “Maybe just for you.”
I was sixteen and trying to figure out where I fit in the world. I was also about to get my driver’s license, which, like all young men, I thought would help in that regard. To take the test, Dad let me get behind the wheel of his Buick and drive us to the state police outpost across the mountain from Coalwood. For some reason, Dad loved Buicks. It was the only kind he ever owned.
My father watched me critically as I carefully steered through the switchback curves of the mountain. “Watch the speed limit when the policeman takes you out,” he advised. “He’ll flunk you if you go one mile over it.”
I was sweating, not because of the upcoming test but because my dad was paying attention to me. He was capable of being a severe critic when it came to his second son. “I will, sir,” I promised.
“If you get your license, for God’s sake, be careful. If you got killed, your mom would probably figure out some way to blame it on me.”
In my defense, I pointed out a truism. “Mom drives too fast all the time.”
“You’re right,” Dad grumped. “She learned how to do that when she was with those damn bootleggers.”
Before I could respond, not that I had a response worthy of the name, he said, “I wasn’t with her or I would’ve put a stop to it. But I was elsewhere writing poetry.”
I thought Dad was making a rare joke but when I glanced at him, I saw by his expression he wasn’t. “You wrote a poem?”
“My first and last.”
“I don’t get it.”
He shook his head. “Gone this far, guess I ought to tell you the rest of it.”
I steered through a curve, then another one, grateful that his critical eye was off me and on something else. “It was night,” he began, “and we were in North Carolina. . . . You sure your mom never told you about this?”
“No, sir. Not a word.” Actually, she had but I wanted him to keep talking.
“You know what a snub-nose is? No? Well, it’s a little short-barreled pistol crooks like to use. Keep that image in your head.”
PART III
How Elsie Rode the Thunder Road, Homer Wrote a Poem, and Albert Transcended Reality
15
HOMER EVENTUALLY FOUND WINSTON-SALEM BY DEAD reckoning and the occasional road sign. By then Elsie was asleep, as was Albert snuggled in his quilt, and the rooster atop the alligator’s back.
At the train station, Steinbeck quietly removed himself from the Buick and came around to the driver’s side for a last handshake. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said. “Take care of Elsie. She’s pretty special.”
“As long as she lets me stick around, I will,” Homer said.
“You don’t sound too hopeful.”
“I don’t know, John. She’s a tough gal to figure.”
“I’d give you some advice if I had some. The only women I understand are the ones I invent for my books, and half the time, I don’t understand them, either.”
Homer grimly nodded, then said, “Adios, John Steinbeck. I look forward to reading more of your books. And thank you kindly for the rooster.”
Steinbeck walked away, then stopped and turned around. “There’s something special about that rooster,” he said, “although I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like he’s, well, something bigger than himself. A lot bigger.”
“He’s just a rooster, John.”
Steinbeck nodded. “Yes. Of course, you’re right.” He tipped his hat and walked away, Homer watching after him until he was safely inside the train station.
The rooster jumped up on his shoulder and nestled in. “Why are you here, rooster?” Homer asked but when the rooster didn’t answer, only snuggled in closer, Homer steered the Buick through the city, then turned in what he thought was a more or less southerly direction.
Hours later, Albert’s soft snores, the nestling rooster at his ear, and Elsie’s sighs as she slept, were all that kept him company as Homer drove through the darkness along a road surrounded by deep woods. He’d always been reluctant to ask for directions but without so much as a glow of a distant kerosene lantern in the surrounding gloom, he began to wish he had somebody to ask. For all he knew, there was no end to this road and it might go on and on forever, even to the ends of the earth and over it. Such nonsensical thoughts were just his mind playing tricks on him but he couldn’t help it. The forest, dark and mysterious, seemed to creep in closer with every passing mile.
To make matters worse, the Buick’s engine was beginning to miss the occasional stroke. Homer kept his eye out for a clearing where he might pull off the road and wait for morning to do repairs when he saw a tiny but well-lit gas station in a clearing. Beside it was a garage and some junked cars. When the Buick’s headlights caught a sign that read VARMINT’S GAS & REPAIRS, Homer felt he’d caught a bit of luck.
The lights in the garage revealed two men looking beneath the hood of a battered truck. The men, dressed in bib overalls, raised their heads and looked with some surprise as the Buick chugged in, choked, and died. One of them came over, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Sounds like you got a problem, mister,” he said. When he peered into the Buick, he gave a low whistle. “Except in the woman department. That’s one fine-lookin’ female there. She your sister?”
“My wife,” Homer replied. He didn’t like the comment but he needed help and therefore kept his irritation restrained. “Engine started to miss. Guess I can fix it but I’ll need to borrow a few tools if you’d allow.”
The other man, his oil-slick hair shining in the harsh garage lights, came outside. “What we got here, Varmint?”
“Since Mildred never showed,” Varmint replied, “maybe just what we need.”
When another man came out, this one from the gas station, Homer began to feel a little surrounded. The third man was wearing canvas pants and a dirty T-shirt and was about the same age as the other two, which Homer guessed was mid-twenties. All three were caked with dirt and had missing teeth. He was about ready to start the Buick—if it would start— and leave when Varmint said, in a friendly tone, “I can tell it irritated you what I said about your wife. I apologize. Guess I’m worn-out, hardly know what I’m saying. Look, you need help, I’ll help you. That’s what we do around here. You okay with that?”
Varmint’s expression was so sincere, Homer relaxed. “Sure. Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”
Just then, Elsie came awake, yawned, stretched, then took in the lights and the garage and the gas station. She stuck her head out the window. “Got to pee. Go in the woods or is there an outhouse?”
The slick-haired man pointed to the gas station. “Outhouse in the rear, ma’am.”
Elsie climbed out of the Buick, leaving the door open, and walked quickly into the shadowy passageway between the garage and the gas station. Homer lifted the Buick’s hood and peered inside. “Spark plugs are likely shot,” he said. “The ones they get at the company store are usually old before they get there.”
“Not sure we got any plugs that’ll fit your car,” Varmint said. “But we can pull ’em out, see if we can clean ’em, and maybe figure out what else is wrong.”
“How much for that?” Homer asked.
“Aw, hell,” Varmint said, “it don’t cost nothin’ to clean up some spark plugs. Let’s have a look.”
When Elsie came back, she was gratified to see Homer and one of the young men at work on the engine. She coaxed Albert out of the Buick to stretch his legs. When she walked him past the two other men who were just leaning against the old truck, the one with the oil-slick hair said, “Well, hello, lady.” The other one just stood watching with a slack jaw.
Elsie tri
ed to always be at least polite so she said, “Hello,” back.
“My name’s Troy,” the slick-haired man said.
“I’m Flap, ma’am,” the slack-jawed man said.
“I’m Elsie,” Elsie said, “and this is Albert.”
“What the heck is that thing?” Flap asked. “A crocodile or sumphin’?”
“He’s a Florida alligator. We’re carrying him home.”
“They got homes? What do they look like?”
“Well, I mean he’s from Orlando.”
Flap looked confused while Troy looked thoughtful. “Say, ma’am, unless I miss my guess, based on your alligator and other things I see about you, you’re a woman what’s a bit different than the average stripe. Am I too far off?”
Elsie considered the charge. “Well, I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
Troy turned his head and spat a stream of tobacco juice, then wiped his mouth. “You been known to take a chance now and again, toss the dice, do something real different, am I right?”
“I still don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, I think you do.”
Elsie didn’t like the way either Troy or Flap was looking at her. It was like Malcolm had done, only worse. Homer walked by carrying spark plugs in his cupped hands toward the garage. “How much longer?” she asked.
“Working as fast as I can,” he said and went inside the garage with Varmint.
Feeling his eyes exploring her, Elsie faced Troy. “Did you know Albert once bit off a man’s leg?”
Troy grinned. “I think you’re lying. He don’t look big enough.”
“It was a little man. Like you.”
Troy’s grin faded. “He comes at me, I’ll kill him.”
“Don’t get any closer and he won’t.”
Before long, Homer came out of the garage and he and Varmint inserted the plugs, then started the Buick up. Homer climbed behind the steering wheel, Varmint getting in the passenger side. “Got to test these out,” Homer said to Elsie.
“Come right back.”
“No more than five minutes,” he said, then steered the Buick onto the road and away.
In Elsie’s estimation, Homer had just shown some very bad judgment and so had she by not insisting on going with him. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered even though the night was warm.
16
FIVE MINUTES WENT PAST, THEN TEN. FOR PROTECTION, Elsie retreated with Albert inside the gas station, which was at least brightly lit. She knelt beside her alligator and patted his head, just to reassure herself. Flap and Troy came in, got themselves some pop out of a machine, and sat down in some chairs placed around an old black stove. “Never thought I’d see somethin’ like that thang in these parts,” Flap said, eyeing Albert. Troy kept his eyes on Elsie.
When a car stopped for gas, Elsie thought about going to ask for help but Flap said, “It’s cousin Stuart,” and then went off to fill up the tank. Troy, who’d moved over behind the counter, kept watching her. Elsie didn’t like anything about Troy: the way he smelled, his dirty clothes, or his hair slicked back by surely a gallon of motor oil. She also didn’t much care for the constant smirk on his face, like he knew something she didn’t know.
Troy glanced at the clock on the wall and said, “Well, I think your husband and Varmint must have had some trouble. I think you and me, we’d best go see after them.”
“You go see,” Elsie said. “I’ll keep Albert company.”
“Naw, you got to go. You know the license plate number so if we don’t find them, we can go to the police and tell them what to look for.”
“I’ll write the license plate number down for you.”
“I was never good at reading numbers.”
“Come to think of it, I don’t know the license plate number, either,” Elsie said. “I never looked to see what it was. It’s from West Virginia, that’s all I know. You can remember that, can’t you?”
When Troy walked out from behind the counter, Elsie tensed, prepared to run, but as soon as he took a step toward her, Albert opened his jaws and hissed louder than she had ever heard him, a sound easily the equivalent of at least ten teakettles spewing steam at the same time. Troy stopped short, reached in his hip pocket, and brought out a little snub-nosed pistol. “I told you I’d kill that thing if it came after me.”
“Walk back behind the counter, then,” Elsie said.
Flap came inside, wiping his hands with a greasy rag. “Well, golly, Troy, put that gun away!”
Troy’s smirk returned. “Just keepin’ that critter off me.”
“Something’s wrong,” Elsie said urgently to Flap. “I’m starting to think Varmint’s done something to Homer. Please, Flap. You seem nice. Will you go after the police?”
Flap shook his head. “We don’t need no police, ma’am. Heck, you got us all wrong, anyway. Ever’thing’s on the up-and-up, no cause to fret. Ol’ Varmint’s a good ol’ boy, wouldn’t pull a tick off a dog and squash it.”
“I told this pullet we needed to go hunt for ’em but she’s got an attitude,” Troy snarled.
Convinced that Troy was on the verge of attacking her, Elsie said, “I won’t go with you, Troy, but I’ll go with Flap.”
Troy and Flap exchanged glances and then Troy shrugged. “Suit yourself. You heard the woman, Flap. Take her to look for her husband and Varmint.”
“Albert will go, too,” Elsie said.
“Naw, ma’am,” Flap said. “Ain’t no way I’m gonna let that critter next to me in the truck cab.”
When Troy made another attempt to come from behind the counter, Albert hissed and snapped his jaws, causing Troy to jump back. “You leave him with me, he’ll be dead when you get back,” Troy threatened.
“We could lock him in the garage,” Flap said. “He’ll be okay there.”
Elsie gave Albert a consoling stroke, then, because she had no choice if she was going to get away from Troy and find Homer, nodded agreement. “All right,” she said. “Albert, you be good and I’ll be right back.”
After seeing Albert locked in the garage, Elsie climbed into the truck and settled onto its bench seat, which was nasty with grease. Flap put the truck in gear and drove onto the road. The headlights weren’t very bright and all Elsie could see was a little of the road ahead and the deep forest on both sides of it. She only trusted Flap a little more than Troy but she didn’t know what else to do. She said a silent prayer that Albert would be okay in the garage and that she’d soon be reunited with Homer. She was going to give him what-for for abandoning her, that much was certain.
After a few miles down the road, Flap turned off on a dirt road. “This is where Varmint lives,” Flap explained. “I thought we’d look there first.”
This made some sense to Elsie, although she still had her doubts that Flap was playing straight with her. She kept her hand on the door handle, ready to jump out and make a run for it if she had to. The dirt road was bumpy and curvy and after a few miles, Elsie said, “I think you should turn around,” just as a cabin came into view, a light in its window. Several old cars were parked in front, one of them up on cinder blocks.
Flap parked by the cabin, got out, walked around the truck, and opened the door. “Go inside,” he said.
“Who’s in there?” she asked.
“A friend. He’ll know where Varmint took your husband.”
When she hesitated, Flap reached for her. Elsie pulled away and got out on her own. She started to run but Flap pinned her arms behind her. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” he promised. “Just go inside, have a talk with the man in there.”
Flap pushed the door to the cabin open, its rusty hinges creaking, and forced Elsie inside where a man wearing a white shirt with red sleeve garters looked up from a small table. A stylish fedora adorned his head. Although he had a well-trimmed beard, he was young and Elsie thought, despite the situation, he was about as handsome a man as she’d ever seen. “Somebody for you to meet,” Flap said, releasing her
.
The handsome, bearded man was playing a card game, solitaire from what Elsie could see. Beside the cards and a half-full glass of clear liquid was a black revolver. “Who’s the frail?” he asked, then leaned back and gave Elsie the once-over. Elsie noticed his eyes were blue, even bluer than Homer’s, which were as blue as any she’d ever seen. But Homer’s blue eyes were crisp. This man’s blue eyes were warm. Very warm.
“She goes by Elsie,” Flap said.
The man scooted his chair back, stood up, and walked around the table. He brazenly touched Elsie’s hair. Startled, Elsie pulled her head back. “Easy, girl,” the man said, then asked Flap, “How much did you pay her?”
“He didn’t pay me anything,” Elsie said. “Who are you and why am I here?”
The man frowned. “She ain’t a hootchy-kootchy girl?”
“Couldn’t find one,” Flap said. “But maybe she’s better. No makeup, sweet and innocent. Charlotte’ll be fooled for certain.”
“I want to leave now,” Elsie said. “You’ve kidnapped me and that will get you in more trouble than you can shake a stick at.”
The man took off his fedora. His hair was a nice shade of brown and parted in the middle. He smiled at her and Elsie saw that he had good teeth, not even a hint of tobacco stains like Troy and Flap and Varmint. “Well, my apologies, ma’am,” he said. “I sent Troy and Flap after a pigeon but I don’t need one that’s been kidnapped. Flap, you’re a fool. Get on out to the car and finish the loading. I’ll deal with you later.”
Flap shrugged and went out on the porch, closing the door behind him. Elsie looked at the closed door and then back at the man and his white shirt and red sleeve garters and, now that he’d stood, his freshly pressed gray pants. Yes, this man was of a much different stripe than the trio from the gas station. “Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want with me?”
