I didn’t know what I wanted to do past May or a year or ten down the road, but I sure as hell knew it didn’t involve suppertimes spent listening to a litany of each and every thing I’d done wrong that day.
I felt sorry for Catherine. Sometimes she got caught so squarely in the heat of the words thrown across the table, she got the hiccups and went upstairs without finishing her food. I even saw her sucking her thumb a few times, and she had given that up at age four.
I started going up almost every night after dinner and playing checkers with her. Reading to her. And even when we started out on opposite sides of a checkerboard, she’d end up somehow snuggling up to me with an arm around my neck. Our folks never were much for hugging us—or each other, that I knew of—but I think the need must be built into little girls the way corn needs sunshine to grow. Catherine loved me spending time with her so much, it almost felt like I wasn’t doing it just to get away from Mom and Dad.
Maybe that wasn’t the only reason I did it. But it was a fact that whenever I came down those stairs, the grandfather clock ticking in the front hallway sounded like a time bomb to me.
One Friday night in the middle of April, I managed to sneak outside without being noticed and hunker down in an old metal chair. Then I tried to will the weather warmer because I hadn’t taken the time to grab a jacket, and I intended to stay put until the rest of them were in bed. I couldn’t even remember what I’d eaten at the meal just finished—I’d been working too hard to avoid eye contact.
The screech of the screen door made my butt pucker.
“John?” Dad’s thunder. “Company. The Bricken boy’s at the front door.”
That wasn’t the last thing I was expecting to hear, but it was probably close. I stood up so fast my chair clanged over backward.
Dad seemed to think it was curious too. He’d parked himself near the entryway and was thumbing through an old copy of LIFE. Standing up. Like that’s what he always did Friday night after supper.
The door stood open, and Paul’s silhouette was outlined by the street lamps behind him. Dad had left him standing on the porch.
“Hi, Paul!” I said, louder than I intended. “Take a step back—the screen opens out—and come on in. Two steps forward, then one step up.”
Over his shoulder, I could see a team out front. Mr. Bricken sat in the carriage box, staring straight ahead.
I glanced toward Dad, and his face ducked back down to his magazine. I said to Paul, “Come on in and sit down.”
“No, thank you.” His face told me nothing. “I just have a minute. Father wants to get home. But I need to ask you another favor, I’m afraid.”
I couldn’t think what I’d done for him before. It took a while to connect with that day a month earlier when I’d stood with him and described The Race That Wasn’t. “Oh. Well, sure. Name it.”
My dad moved a couple inches closer.
Paul took a long breath. “I’m buying an automobile. A Ford Model T from Stuart Kassen, and I’m supposed to pick it up in Carrollton tomorrow. If Sam and I come get you in the morning, could you come along and drive it home for me? I’ll pay you for your trouble.”
Dad gave up the pretense and stood there, slack jawed and blinking.
I started slow and tried to gather words as I went. “Well, golly, Paul, I’d like to help you out. But, you know, I’ve only driven an auto once. And then not very well. I gotta ask—”
“I’m sure you have questions. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather answer them tomorrow. As for driving, surely we can figure that out together. Will you help me? Like I said, I’ll pay you.”
“Sure, I’ll come. But you don’t need to pay me. Just come by in the morning. I’ll be ready.”
I guess he heard the grin in my voice, because he smiled back.
“Your dad’s waitin’, so go on, if you need to. Step to your left, and I’ll let you out.” I watched him make his way down the walk at the same pace I would’ve taken. He must have memorized the distance on the way up.
What the hell? A Model T Ford? What the holy, holy hell?
I shut the door and turned to face Dad. He has a habit of combing his hair back with his fingers when he’s nervous, and just then it was sticking out every which way. He looked like he’d just met up with the family ghost and it had asked him for money.
“What the hell was that all about?”
“You know as much about it as I do.”
He threw a guilty look toward his shoes.
Mom came out of the kitchen, wringing her hands around a dish towel. “What was that all about?”
“Paul Bricken needs me to do him a favor. He and their colored man are gonna pick me up in the morning.” I took a step toward the stairs like we were done. Like that was it. Like that was possible.
“Oh, and has he forgotten he has a job now, piddlin’ that it is? Jonas? Did you ask about that?” Before Dad could answer, she went on at me through him. “Didn’t Jim ask him to work tomorrow at the elevator? Did he forget that?”
“No, of course I haven’t forgotten,” I lied. “I just reckon Little Jim can cover for me. He owes me a day.”
I hoped with everything I had that Little Jim would be home that evening for me to ask. I’d get no sleep at all if I had to wait until morning to find out how deep I was standing in it.
Mom flicked the dish towel onto her shoulder and crossed her arms. “And is the Bricken boy paying him to miss work? Or is he supposed to work for them for free the rest of his life? Or maybe he’s just made out of money now?”
“Well, no, he’s not paying me—”
“And why not? Why didn’t he ask him to?” Still going through Dad. “God knows his people could afford it!”
“Well, actually, he offered to pay me.” I knew Dad would tell her if I didn’t. “But I—”
“But you turned him down. I heard it myself.” Dad had taken back the reins. “Well, maybe once you have to earn a living instead of freeloading off us, you’ll learn the value of a dollar!”
“You’re the one who sent me out there to . . . babysit him, summers I was thirteen and fourteen, and there was no talk of paying me then. Was that okay just because you got to decide?”
I hadn’t noticed Catherine sitting on the bottom step, but she must have been there all along. She started bumping her butt up the stairs one at a time, thumb in her mouth.
I tried, “I just wish you wouldn’t get so worked up. I don’t understand—”
“No, you don’t!” Dad again. “You don’t seem to understand much of anything!”
I couldn’t win.
I stalked to the door and was on the other side of the sill before Mom said, “And just where do you think you’re going while we’re still talking to you?”
I belched onions. That’s what we’d had for supper—something with onions. “I’m going over to ask Little Jim to work for me tomorrow. Paul Bricken is buying a Model T Ford, and I’m driving it home for him.” I slammed the door so hard the porch shook.
Goddamn it. I’d left without grabbing a jacket again. If I caught pneumonia, I’d never hear the end of it.
The next morning, I was out in the yard kicking at nothing, wearing a coat, hat, and gloves, and still wishing it were warmer. Goddamned April anyway. Paul hadn’t told me what time he planned to come by, but I wasn’t going back in that house even if I froze to death.
My nose was barely numb, though, when Sam turned the corner driving the Bricken team. I took the front hedge like a hurdle and bounced into the backseat of the carriage next to Paul. I said, “Good morning!” and he clipped off an answer.
Sam clucked to the horses, and we rode to the edge of town with no sound but hooves clopping. I studied Paul’s profile and could see he was wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. I was starting to wonder if I would ever take a breath again without swallowing somebody’s troubles.
I gave Paul an elbow and tried to sound cheerful. “Well, man, are you ready for a big adventure?”
“Not too big, I hope.” His lips barely moved. He took a pamphlet from his breast pocket and shoved it at me. “Here. Read this, and when you find the part we need to know today, read out loud to me.” His voice was as cold as my red, nipped nose, and it knocked me back a bit.
I turned the book over in my hands. Ford Model T Instruction Book was stamped front and back, the word Ford strung out across a pyramid with wings.
“Well, now, Paul, I turned down your offer of money ’cause I planned to do this as a friend. But if you’re gonna talk to me like a hired hand, I might reconsider.” I heard Sam clear his throat and didn’t know if it was to comment or for necessity. I cleared mine back at him, just in case.
All at once, the air came out of Paul and he looked about twelve years old and scared to death. “It’s just . . . I’m nervous, John. Heck. Afraid is what I am.” He rubbed his left thumb and index finger together—back and forth, back and forth. It looked like habit. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy. At least those who know what I’m doing. The rest will think so when word gets out, which should take all of”—he snapped his fingers—“that.”
His voice was pinched. “I just don’t want to make an ass of myself. I want today to go off without a hitch, and I want to get the dang thing home and figure out what comes next.” The finger rubbing went double time.
A clucking sound came from Sam that I doubted was aimed at the horses.
“Okay,” I told Paul. I looked at both sides of the instruction book again. “Just calm down. Nothin’ to worry about. If anybody looks like an ass today, it’s gonna be me.”
He busted out in a choppy laugh.
“Ain’t neither one of you got the sense God gave a head a cabbage,” came from the carriage bench, and we both broke up. A lot of people would have been steamed at a colored man for throwing an insult at them, but I’d spent enough time around Sam that he was just like a regular person to me. We joshed each other all the time.
Besides, he was right. Probably neither one of us did have the sense God gave cabbage.
I was finally able to drink in that clear air I’d been looking for earlier. But curiosity can pester worse than a mosquito, and it wasn’t more than a minute till I nudged Paul and said, “You know I gotta ask. Why you doin’ it?”
His eyebrows moved toward each other.
“You don’t have to tell me. But you know I’m not the only one gonna ask.”
“You’re right.” He sat with his head down. “And I will tell you. But nobody else needs to know all of it.”
I wondered why Sam didn’t count, but still I knew what he meant. There were times I wished for somebody to lay it all out to, without it getting around.
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe we can figure out together what to tell everybody else.”
When Paul smiled, he looked like a different person altogether. He was a good-looking fellow, if you didn’t look too close at his eyes. I wondered if being handsome meant anything to him at all.
“Okay,” he said. “But I’m making this up as I go. I haven’t said it out loud before.”
I nodded, like that counted for something, and he went on. “I’m nineteen years old. I know I’m always—well, probably always—going to depend on other folks to take me where I want to go. And I’m tired of depending on Father, explaining everything even before I do it.”
“I can see that,” I said, then caught myself. “Aw, I don’t mean see, but—”
He held up a hand to shut me up. Then a cough came from up front, and Paul nodded toward it. “Or there’s Sam. Which is almost the same thing, really, since he works for Father.”
His head fell back, and he faced the blank sky. “I guess I figure a new automobile might provide an incentive for other folks to take me places, if I ask. Give me a little more independence.” He brightened up. “Heck, maybe some people will even volunteer to drive me after a while.”
All of a sudden, I felt ten pounds lighter. Something had been gnawing at me, and now I knew what it was. Part of me had worried just how much Paul was planning to depend on me.
I told him it made good sense.
“I’m glad.” He chuckled. “I guess . . . I . . . don’t know.” He shrugged.
“Uh-huh.” I listened to birdsong until the next question spilled out. “Okay, but I gotta ask too. Where’d you get that much money?”
I was halfway expecting None of your business, but Paul looked glad I had asked. He said, “Well, I got a little when Grandfather died.”
Sam bowed his head for a few seconds.
“But you see, my parents always give me money for Christmas and birthdays, and I’ve spent hardly any of it through the years. That’s mainly the money I’m using now. Even though Father clearly doesn’t approve of my owning an automobile.”
I weighed those words. “That wouldn’t be part of the reason you’re buying it, would it?”
He was quiet long enough for me to wonder if I’d stepped in something. Then he fairly exploded laughing.
I joined in, and pretty soon even Sam got going.
A doe in the field north of the road startled and ran.
We studied the manual the rest of the way to Carrollton. I read, and Paul interrupted to have me repeat some sections. He asked a lot of questions, and explaining the answers made it all come clearer to me. I could tell he was the smarter of us, but at least I was smart enough to recognize that.
Inside Kassen’s dealership, everything went okay, but there was one moment only I could enjoy. Stuart Kassen put a pen in Paul’s hand and then looked like he’d been kicked in the gut. It was plain he didn’t know if Paul could sign his name. Funny, he hadn’t hesitated to sell the car to a blind boy in the first place.
I took Paul’s wrist and positioned his hand. “Here,” I told him, like it was something we did every day.
Now that the auto belonged to him, Paul became more confident with every question. It became downright comical, watching him grill Stuart. Had Stuart filled the radiator with soft water? Had the gasoline been strained through a chamois skin before it was put in the tank? Who had adjusted the carburetor? Was Stuart positive it was Ford’s head tester himself?
I leaned against the wall and shrugged each time Stuart looked to me for help.
By the time we headed out to the driveway, I do believe the man was glad to see us go. He gave a wave and handed us off to a small herd of men who had found themselves not too busy that day. They circled the Model T and made appreciative comments, but nobody asked anything. They looked at Paul like they didn’t know where to start.
There was absolute quiet when I guided Paul to the driver’s seat and put one of his hands on the spark lever and the other on the throttle. But when he started making adjustments, somebody gasped.
I walked around front and turned the crank. Once, twice, then hallelujah! A small cheer rose from the onlookers as I sprinted around to the left side of the car. Just like we’d planned, Paul slid over on the bench in the same movement as me jumping into the driver’s seat. I took over the pedals and steering wheel and lever, and we were off—a little faster than we wanted, maybe, but I kept it reined in okay until I could get used to the controls and slow down.
At least two Wakenda men slept happy that night.
CHAPTER TWO
Five weeks passed before I saw Paul again. In the meantime, the tail end of April dragged by and the better part of May dogged after it. I went to school and hung my legs out in the aisle because they were a foot too long to fit under my desk. I went to the lunchroom and heard other guys talking about either getting married that summer or the jobs they had waiting for them. Or both. I said hello to Mary Albrecht every time I passed her in the hallway and got tongue-tied if she so much as asked how I was.
I’d be in the classroom stewing about what I was going to do with my grown-up life, and then I’d be called up front to clap the erasers clean. I didn’t know how old to feel.
And then I graduated, and it was with more
pomp and circumstance than the Second Coming would warrant.
Mothers cried, babies cried. It was damn loud in that gymnasium on top of being hotter than Hades. There were speeches, there was music, and the knot in my stomach twisted a little tighter every time mention was made of our future. Most parents appeared proud afterward. Mine looked grim.
The Monday after was May 16, and I went to work full-time at the elevator. Jim wasn’t all that happy about it. I’m not sure he had enough work or money to have Little Jim and me both around, but I’d practically begged. I might have worked for free. Hell, I almost did. Getting out of helping Dad was worth it. It wasn’t a fix, but at least it was a safety pin.
Unless the doomsayers are right and the world really does come to an end this week, I thought. If that happened, I wouldn’t have to worry about a job or anything else. Ever again.
At home, my folks had banished all speculation about Halley’s Comet from the supper table. Anywhere else, though, the nonsense going around was impossible to avoid. Everybody knew the earth was on course to pass through the comet’s tail, probably Wednesday night, but even the experts didn’t know exactly what kind of hell was going to break loose then in the eastern sky and all around us. The men at the elevator had been especially generous with their prognostications of everything from the Black Death to scurvy.
Wednesday afternoon, the Brickens’ colored man, Sam, stopped by the elevator and told me “Mr. Paul” wanted to know if I could drive him to Carrollton on Saturday.
I said, “Sure, if we’re all still alive.”
Sam fixed me with a dead-level stare that he held steady until it was funnier than ten jokes from a laughing man. I busted up and saw the corner of his mouth almost twitch into a smile before he clucked at the horses and went on.
It wasn’t really a surprise to look out the window Thursday morning and see nothing had changed, but it was still something of a relief. I was fairly sure it would be better for life to go on.
Seeing America Page 2
