Carrying Albert Home

by Homer Hickam

  “I can’t,” Homer said. “I’m on official business and, anyway, there’s no room.”

  “We’ll ride on the bumper, on the hood, anywhere. Please, I’m begging you. If we don’t get out, we’re going to die here!”

  “I hope you do,” Elsie said. “You can rot for all I care.”

  “Oh, ma’am, we’ve changed!” Slick cried. “We’ve been brought so low we’ve even found the Lord. Huddie and I are always saying God’s name out loud.”

  Elsie turned away from the ragged pair. “Homer, you’re a kind man,” she said. “You’d feel sorry for killing a hornet after it’s stung you, but please don’t help these creatures.”

  “But they look like they mean what they say,” Homer said.

  Elsie looked at him with an incredulous expression as Homer laid down his conditions to the nefarious pair. “We’re headed to Key West but will be coming back in a couple of days. If I can, I’ll pick you up and carry you to Miami. But you have to ride the entire way in the trunk. It’s the best I can offer. After that, you have to promise me we’ll never meet again.”

  “Oh, bless you, sir, bless you,” Slick simpered. “The trunk is fine. Give us a lift and I swear you’ll have seen the last of us. If we ain’t here on the road, see those shacks down yonder on the beach? That’s where we stay when we ain’t working.”

  “You don’t seem to be working at all,” Elsie pointed out. “You seem to be standing around.”

  “Yes, ma’am, a crime, ain’t it? I mean we make an entire dollar a day for doing not much of anything. But lots of these fellows, even though they are otherwise heroes of the Great War, are actually psychos, drunks, and bums. This is just a Roosevelt make-work project, if you get my drift. There’s a couple guys, you see them there actually turning a shovel, they do all the work that gets done. The rest ain’t worth the powder to blow ’em to hell, beg pardon, ma’am.”

  “Maybe you should help the ones who are working,” Elsie said.

  Slick put his cap back on and tipped it to her. “Yes, ma’am, you’re right. We will, too, won’t we, Huddie?”

  Huddie’s eyes were unfocused. At the sound of his name, he grunted. Slick waved his hand in front of Huddie’s face. “You see? Huddie’s done checked out of his brain.”

  “All right,” Homer said. “See you in a couple of days.”

  Slick put his hands together in a prayerful pose. “Please don’t forget us,” he begged.

  As Homer drove off, Elsie said, “Forget them, Homer.”

  “Now, Elsie . . .”

  “They’re bad men,” Elsie said. “Why you want to help them is beyond me.”

  Homer shrugged. “I guess I feel sorry for them.”

  Elsie shook her head. “You’d feel sorry for a wolf that was chewing off your leg because it wasn’t a prime cut of meat.”

  The Buick didn’t travel far before a man in khakis and sunglasses waved it down. “Mornin’, ma’am. Sir. Those two you were talkin’ to, you mind tellin’ me who they are?”

  “I don’t mind,” Homer answered, “if you’ll tell me why you’re interested.”

  “I’m Delbert Voss, boss man of this work crew. I was forced by the higher-ups to put your friends to work but they seem shady to me.”

  “They seem shady to everybody,” Elsie said. “And they’re not our friends. I’d keep an eye on them if I were you.”

  The boss man patted a pistol at his waist. “Yeah, figured them for criminals of some type.”

  “Who’re you with?” Homer asked.

  “Federal Emergency Relief Agency,” the boss man answered. “How about you?”

  “Railroad,” Homer answered. “Track inspector. Heading to Key West to check out some new track.”

  The boss man took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a red bandanna plucked from his back pocket. “How long you gonna be down south?”

  “Just a couple of days.”

  “Word is there’s a storm coming. Locals been boarding up their shacks and sinking their boats in the shallows. Most of them are idiots but they must know somethin’ to survive this shithole they got down here.”

  Homer looked out the window and saw only blue sky and a few puffy clouds. “Looks okay to me,” he said, “but I’ll start paying attention.”

  Afterward, standing beside the Buick on the ferry to the next key, Elsie asked Homer, “Are you worried about the weather?”

  Homer studied the horizon. “Well, the railroad didn’t say anything about a storm and it looks peaceful enough. But if the local people are worried, maybe we should be, too. When we get to Key West, we can ask the folks there what they think.”

  Elsie took Homer’s arm and put it over her shoulder. “Well, I trust you to get us through no matter what happens.”

  “You can be sure of that,” Homer answered, although he truthfully wasn’t sure of anything. Now that he’d been alerted, he sensed something threatening about the fluffy clouds in the sky, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He hugged Elsie closer and she leaned her head on his shoulder. Since he’d begun working for the railroad, he felt they had finally become true lovers, their intentions at last the same. He had sent the Captain the hundred dollars he’d borrowed along with a note explaining that he wouldn’t be coming back to Coalwood. He’d put a lot more in the letter, telling the great man how much he appreciated all that the Captain had taught him, and that he guessed kismet had meant all along for him and Elsie to live in Florida with Albert. Disappointingly, the Captain had not written back but Homer knew how busy the great man was.

  For the rest of the day, while Elsie admired the scenery and Albert slept and the rooster dozed atop the reptile’s head, Homer drove across lonely spits of land connected by bridges and ferries until they finally reached Key West, a pastel village of houses with peaked metal roofs and wide overhangs, gingerbread trim, large balconies, long porches, and louvered shutters. “What an enchanting town,” Elsie declared. “What do you think, Albert?”

  Albert had come awake during the last ferry ride and had his head hanging out of the window. He made his yeah-yeah-yeah happy sound.

  The main part of Key West was quiet and sleepy, the only person on the street a man dressed in a white shirt, shorts, and sandals who stared at them as they drove by. He had a square, intelligent face bearing an inquisitive expression and a dark mustache. He waved them down. “Is that a 1925 Buick convertible touring car?” he asked politely. “If so, you made a wise purchase.”

  “Yes, sir, it is, and I did,” Homer answered. Elsie gave the man a demure smile. He smiled back at her.

  “You’re a railroad man, aren’t you?” the man asked.

  “How did you know?” Homer asked.

  “My agent in Miami told me you were coming. I like to keep up with who’s coming to my island, especially government and railroad men. Typically, I don’t like either one but considering your girl here and your car and the fact that you have an alligator with a rooster on his back, I would guess you might be at least interesting. Name’s Ernest. Some people call me Hem.” After a brief pause he added, “As in Hemingway.”

  Homer answered, “I know who you are, sir. My boss told me we might be lucky enough to meet you. I’m Homer Hickam and this is my wife, Elsie, and the alligator is Albert. The rooster doesn’t have a name. Do you live here all the time?”

  “Mostly. Big limestone house over on Duval Street. You’re welcome to swing by. Do you like cats, Elsie?”

  “Oh yes, sir, I do!”

  “I have some that have six toes.”

  “How can that be?” Elsie asked, skeptically.

  “Something called genetics, I’m told. Homer, let’s confirm between us that you will dine with me tonight. Come toward dusk. I want to hear all about your Buick, your alligator, your rooster, and your lovely lady, who has such a winning smile. If you have trouble finding the place, just drop by Sloppy Joe’s and ask anybody for Papa Hem’s house. One of those splendid lowlifes will walk you ove
r for a quarter.”

  “Mr. Hemingway is delightful,” Elsie commented after they’d driven on. “I wonder what John Steinbeck would think if he knew we were going to sup with him?”

  “John’s a kind man so he would probably wish us well,” Homer said, silently kicking himself for not asking Hemingway about the weather. The author looked like a man who probably kept up with everything.

  “I read one of his books,” Elsie went on. “To Have and Have Not. I forget what it was about except there was some killing and a little romance.”

  Homer was half-listening. He couldn’t drag his mind too far from the weather. Or his job. “The new section of track is over by the old fort,” he said. “I want to go ahead and take a look.”

  “Aren’t we going to check in at the railroad hotel first?”

  “No, I want to see the new track.”

  Elsie gave him a look of despair. “Are you never going to learn to enjoy yourself? Look at this beautiful place. Let’s check into the hotel, then walk around town. You can look at the new track tomorrow.”

  “I’d better look at it now,” Homer said, stubbornly. “If there’s a storm coming, we might have to leave before I can inspect it.”

  “You are such a worrywart,” Elsie said. “Look at the sky! It’s blue as your eyes.” She reached over the seat and gave Albert a few love pats. The rooster got up and moved away from her hand. “Albert, your father is a sourpuss who can’t have any fun. A shame, really.”

  “Leave Albert out of this,” Homer said, smiling. “But you’re right, Elsie. I should have more fun and I promise I will.”

  “Right after you inspect the new track.”

  “Yes, right after I inspect the new track.”

  “Worrywart,” Elsie sang to Albert. “Sourpuss!”

  The new section wasn’t hard to find. Not only was it near the old fort but it was also a spur that had been added near the Key West depot. After rousting out the foreman, Homer walked the track with the measuring stick he had placed in the trunk, checked the distance between the tracks, and studied the spikes and the rails. “A barely tolerable job,” he concluded. “There are at least three sections I’ll want pulled up and put down again.”

  “If I had better-quality men, I would have laid a better track,” the foreman whined.

  “It’s your job to make them better,” Homer said. “To be a leader, you have to know how to motivate your men.”

  The foreman turned sullen. “They get paid. Ain’t that motivation enough?”

  “Not for most men,” Homer said. “They want to know what they’re doing is important. Captain Laird said to make a man his best, he’s got to believe his best is truly necessary.”

  “Who’s Captain Laird?”

  “A great man who taught me pretty much all I know. Pull up these last three sections and put them down again. I’ll be back to make sure it’s done right.”

  “Sure, okay,” the foreman said, shrugging. “But it’ll be a few days before I can get started. Most of my guys are staying home to wait out this storm.”

  “We heard something about that,” Homer said. “Is it supposed to be a big one?”

  “Maybe even a hurricane. I tell you what, Mr. Hickam. If I was you, I’d take your missus and get out of the Keys real quick.”

  Homer politely thanked the foreman, told him again he expected him to pull up the sections of the track that were inferior and lay them down right, then drove Elsie to the railroad company hotel. It was a pleasant place, though simple, and Homer and Elsie and Albert found the accommodations suitable. The rooster had disappeared somewhere. Based on the ragged, hungry-looking characters Homer had observed on the streets of Key West, he wondered if this time his feathery friend might find more trouble than he could handle.

  Toward evening, Homer and Elsie heard a knock at their door. When Homer opened it, the hotel clerk handed him a telegram. Homer was surprised at its content. “The railroad wants me to drive back to Miami as soon as possible.”

  Elsie was lounging on the feather bed. “Does it say why?”

  “The storm. They’re afraid it might turn into a hurricane.”

  “I remember Uncle Aubrey saying hurricanes are like tornados,” Elsie said, “only a lot bigger. They go around like a whirlpool and in its center, which is called an eye, he said the wind doesn’t blow at all. But once the eye has passed the wind starts blowing again, only in the opposite direction. Are we going to stay long enough to go over to Mr. Hemingway’s?”

  “We are since we can’t leave until morning. The ferries are closed at night.”

  “Oh, fun,” Elsie said. “Let me find Albert’s leash.”

  After applying the wheels and the pull handle to Albert’s washtub, Homer and Elsie set out. Just as Hemingway had said, the first person Homer asked, a man leaning against the wall outside the bar called Sloppy Joe’s, not only knew where the house was but led them to the uneven brick wall that surrounded it. “Can I pet your alligator?” the man asked and, after receiving permission from Elsie, gingerly stroked Albert’s tail. “That’ll make some story back at Joe’s,” he said, then held his hand out. Homer filled it with a quarter and he wandered off in the general direction of the bar where he’d been found.

  A knock on the door brought Hemingway himself. Dressed in slacks and a linen shirt and sandals, he greeted them effusively and walked them inside, insisting that Albert be wheeled inside as well. A maid scurried out of sight as a woman in a white dress with a green-and-white polka-dot tie, a loosely fitted belt of the same material, and white linen sandals came into the foyer. “So this is the couple you met, Papa,” she said, holding out a gloved hand. “I am Pauline. The wife.”

  Homer shook the lovely woman’s hand and Elsie curtsied. “I love your dress!” Elsie said. “What is it made of?”

  “Shantung silk,” Pauline answered. “Very practical and serviceable in the tropics.”

  Homer felt underdressed, although he had worn his best work khakis. Elsie, however, looked marvelous in the sundress with a floral pattern she had purchased from a shop near the railroad hotel.

  Elsie introduced Albert and Pauline knelt beside him. “Oh, jolly,” she said. “Does he bite?”

  “Scarcely ever but he likes his ears scratched,” Elsie said, showing Pauline where Albert’s ears were. When Pauline scratched him there with her long, manicured nails, Albert preened and stretched and sighed with pleasure.

  “You know,” Hemingway said, thoughtfully, “I might have to get me one of those.”

  “None else are like Albert, sir,” Elsie said. “He is a very special boy.”

  “I believe you,” Hemingway said. “What would he like to eat?”

  “He favors chicken, sir,” Elsie answered. “But he doesn’t have to eat.”

  “Nonsense. If we eat, so does he. Jim!” At the call, a servant dressed in all white appeared. “Wheel the alligator into the kitchen, Jim,” Hemingway said, “and cook him up some chicken.”

  After Hemingway conducted a brief tour of the foyer, parlor, and dining room, dinner was served. They ate heartily of the succulent fish called a dolphin along with spiced beans, rice, and a delicious, robust cornbread. Wine was liberally served and, before long, Elsie became quite loose with her tales of growing up in the coalfields.

  “You make the place sound inviting,” Hemingway said, “although you must have seen your share of tragedy.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Elsie answered. “Men were forever getting killed in the coal mine and my little brother Victor died of not much of anything except the lack of care. One day he was in the creek playing, the next day he had a fever that took him from us. If I had only thought to get ice to cool him, he might yet be alive.”

  “Ice was not available in our little town,” Homer pointed out.

  Hemingway reached over and took Elsie’s hand. “Do you know Dylan Thomas? I have always admired his take on death. Like he, I intend to go raging against the dying of the light.”

&nb
sp; “Dear,” Pauline said, “please don’t tax yourself with such thoughts. And I fear you might be distressing our guests.”

  “Nonsense, woman!” Hemingway growled. “These two were not born with silver spoons in their mouths. They’re working class! I’m certain they can handle talk about the sharp stones of death.”

  When a moment of quiet prevailed, Homer, who didn’t care to be reminded of his abandoned coalfields, said, “Elsie is interested in writing, Mr. Hemingway.”

  “Is she, by God! Well, what have you written, young woman?”

  “I wrote a short story about Albert. Well, it was actually a letter to my mother but another writer, a Mr. Steinbeck, who we met in North Carolina, admired its description.”

  “Not John Steinbeck!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hemingway’s dark eyebrows plunged. “He has a simple style that has proved popular, although I know not why. What kind of man is he?”

  “He seemed kind.”

  “He was brave, too,” Homer added, providing a condensed version of what had transpired at the sock mill.

  “I don’t think of Steinbeck as a man of action,” Hemingway mused, “but perhaps I am wrong.” He called for the maid to clear the table. “How is the alligator doing in the kitchen, Myrtle?” he asked upon her appearance.

  “He ain’t no worse than t’others you’ve fed in there, Hem,” Myrtle answered, pertly.

  Hemingway laughed heartily and beckoned his guests into a drawing room where there was a fireplace, not lit, and some comfortable leather chairs. Three of the long-haired, six-toed cats he had promised Elsie lounged nearby. After presenting them by name, then scratching each behind the ears with long stretches and purrs from the felines in response, Hemingway ordered port for himself and Homer. “Paulster, why don’t you give Elsie a complete tour of the house and also visit the other cats?”