Seeing America

by Nancy Crocker

  “What the—?” was all I managed.

  “Aw, something my ma used to say. Don’t have any kids to use it on, and don’t think I’d risk it on Alma.” He chuckled and handed over the plate.

  I downed the first biscuit in one bite and stuffed the second one in behind it. Eating a good meal the night before had made me that much hungrier come morning. “Whadfimindat?” I asked him.

  He just looked amused and waited.

  I swallowed. “What time is it?”

  “Why, you gotta be somewhere?” The sheriff took the saucer and traded me the cup of coffee.

  “No, I just— Never mind.” Always thinking about the schedule. How many miles can we make today? What towns and when? Where’s the next food? Fuel? Piss on it. That was going to be my new attitude. Just piss on it all.

  The sheriff nodded like he’d heard me. “Get yourself situated, and empty that chamber pot in the outhouse when you go. Then let me know when you’re ready. I got plenty at my desk.”

  We headed for the rail station half an hour later, and when we got there, I sneaked a look at the big clock inside. It read half past five. We were almost ahead of the sun.

  We hadn’t gotten ahead of Ed, though. The little stationmaster rolled toward us like he was on wheels as soon as we were through the door. “Aha! I see you’ve come to your senses and arrested this hoodlum!”

  “Oh, calm down, Ed,” the sheriff said. “You see nothing of the sort. We came to get the handcar to go back out there.”

  For a second, it looked like Ed’s head would explode. Then he sputtered, “Y-you will not! W-why, the very idea of you coming in here—”

  “Give it a rest, Ed.” Sheriff Windom pulled his shirt away from his chest and nodded at the badge pinned there. “Official police duty. You got no sway over that.”

  The little man’s neck had to hurt, craned back like that to look the sheriff in the eye. Maybe that’s why he gave up so fast. He flapped his arms once and let them slap to his sides before he walked away.

  “Ed, wait!”

  The sheriff turned him around. His cheeks were drooping like a basset hound’s, and he didn’t even muster the question.

  “Any trains going past the creek out east the next couple hours?”

  Ed looked out the front window so long I thought his mind had wandered. Then an engine came chugging into view, and he pointed to it. “Last one before noon.” He slumped away and disappeared behind a door marked Office.

  I almost wanted to go after him and invite him to yell at me just to lift his spirits.

  On a side rail out front, there were three handcars, which made me feel a little better about taking one. Ed could look out while we were gone and see he was still a wealthy man, handcarwise.

  Sheriff Windom had been carrying a covered peck basket, and now he set it down on the platform. We climbed on.

  A mile or so outside of town, we stopped to borrow a hog feeder lid from a farmer the sheriff called Pete. He helped us wrestle it onto the handcar. The only way it would ride was if Sheriff Windom stood on one edge while most of the rest stuck straight out behind like a turkey gobbler tail.

  Pete waved us away with a chuckle. “Just bring it back. Ain’t gonna rain today anyway.”

  Once we got going, we sailed along twice as fast with half the effort I’d put in alone. At least that’s how it felt. We got to the little side spur where I’d found the handcar in what seemed like no time.

  I told the sheriff, “The creek’s just up ahead.”

  He grinned and said, “Really? Same place it’s been since Hector was a pup?”

  I guess that was pretty stupid.

  We unloaded the hog feeder lid by the creek, and I told the sheriff to sit and rest while I took the handcar back where I found it.

  He laid down with his gun belt and the peck basket beside him, pulled his hat over his face, and said, “Call me George. Least till we get back to town.”

  George was asleep when I came back, and I didn’t know what to do. He’d already done so much it didn’t feel right to wake him up to do more. But being so close was making me edgy, wondering how the boys had made out overnight, if they were okay. I deliberated turning the feeder lid on edge and rolling it along by myself. The sheriff—George—would figure out from the tracks where I’d gone. Either that or he’d think somebody else came along and took a snake for a walk.

  But he snorted and sighed and sat up before I decided anything. He looked all around and smiled. “Kinda nice to wake up without all the screaming.” He sure seemed to take it well, being married to a crazy person.

  A jolt went through me. Selma Clark—hers were the eyes the sheriff’s wife’s reminded me of. Crazy old woman, crazy all her life. You’d walk past her family’s house in Wakenda and she’d be at a window, staring out and screaming something you couldn’t hear. Little kids dared one another to go closer.

  I had to wonder. Selma Clark never got anywhere close to married—the very thought was funny and cuckoo both—so how did this handsome, smiling man get hitched up to Alma, the Wild-Eyed Yeller?

  And some think the nighttime sky is mysterious.

  We moved along, carrying the metal disk between us like we were trying to signal somebody in those heavens with the sun’s reflection. It was awkward going, walking crooked with the lid tilted my way because of the difference in our heights. Sheriff George hummed a song. Maybe the going was easier for him.

  When the Model T first came into sight, looking like a big bug crawling backward out of the creek, it was all I could do not to take off running. George must have sensed it, because he picked up the pace.

  There had been nothing around to make a fire, so there was no campsite to speak of. We came upon Paul and Henry in their bedrolls, sleeping like babies without a care in the world. Damn them.

  Clang! Clang! Clang! We had set the feeder lid on edge, and George banged it like a gong with the butt of his revolver. “Get up, you lazy sinners! We need the sheets for tablecloths. It’s almost time for dinner!”

  Henry shot to his feet and into his fighter’s stance. I’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t.

  But Paul just opened his eyes and froze.

  “Hey, Paul.”

  His jaw relaxed.

  Henry’s eyes focused and he stared at George, then the feeder lid, then me. “Where the hell you been? We was worried sick—well, Paul was, anyway—and we didn’t know if a bobcat got you or—”

  “Are you okay, John?” Paul sat up and spoke in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry. We’re both sorry we—”

  I cleared my throat. “Paul. Henry. This is Sheriff Windom from Burlington. He was good enough to put me up for the night and come out here this morning to help.”

  Henry stepped forward and shook hands, as serious as a judge in his none-too-clean drawers.

  Paul stood up with his blanket wrapped around his waist.

  George stepped toward him. “I’m guessing you’re Paul.”

  Paul’s head knocked back like he was shocked at the height the voice came from.

  Henry scrambled into his britches while the sheriff holstered his gun and went to survey the car’s situation. His face was fierce when he whispered, “Why’d you bring the law?”

  I laughed out loud, and George turned to see. I waved that it was nothing. We had a whole state between us and Kansas City, and Henry looked nothing like he had when we’d lit out from there anyway. He didn’t even remember sleeping in the Junction City jail while he was sick. But now he was worried. I laughed again.

  Paul was dressed and putting his bedroll together. “John, what happened when you left here?”

  “Well, there was this band of wild Indians,” I started, “and we got to talkin’, them and me, and they said it sounded like I knew it all, just everything, and they begged me to come back to their village and tell them what to do and how to do it. They offered to make me their chief, but I told them . . .”

  But I couldn’t rub it in any more tha
n that. I had my payment, knowing they’d worried about me. “Oh, well. When I got to the railroad tracks, I found a handcar just a little down the line,” I told them. “Took it into Burlington, met the stationmaster, and he introduced me to the sheriff here.”

  George turned around with a sly smile.

  “It was too late to head back, so we got up a plan and, well, here we are.”

  “What’s the hog feeder lid for?” Henry asked.

  “Same idea as the boards,” I said. “Except more surface area, keep it from sinking. We hope.”

  George walked over to us. “I hope you boys don’t mind getting dirty. I’ve studied twelve ways to Sunday, and the only way this is going to work is you three get in there and lift the front axle while I stand on the bank and slide the feeder lid under the front tires.”

  I was about to unassign Paul the job, but I gave myself a piss on it reminder instead.

  Then Henry said it for me. “Why’n’t we put Paul on the bank instead?”

  “Why?” the sheriff asked. He looked like an oak outlined by the sun. “He feeble?”

  “No, sir. He’s blind,” Henry explained.

  “He deaf and dumb too?”

  Henry said, “Well, no, sir. He’s—”

  “Then why’s he using your mouth to talk?” George grinned at me. “And what’s being blind got to do with it, unless you’re explaining how the auto got there in the first place?”

  Henry’s ears got red, and I turned away to smile.

  Paul looked confused. “We’re going in? Into the quicksand?”

  “Either that or donate your Ford to the state as some kind of statue,” George told him. “It is your car, isn’t it? I’d strip down, if I was you. Clothes aren’t going to help.”

  None of us was what you might call modest. But it felt mighty strange—naked as jaybirds wading in hand in hand, Paul in the middle like he was going to be baptized. Baptized, bare as a hairless baby possum, in sand that got deeper every step. George was good enough not to laugh, but his grin muscles were working overtime.

  We got to the front of the car and put Paul’s hands on the axle. He and I were buried up to our waists. On Henry, the wet sand was halfway up his chest. I hoped pushing up on the car wouldn’t tamp him down all the way under. Not worrying isn’t as easy as it sounds.

  We were out of breath from dragging through the muck, so we rested before we tried anything else.

  George yelled, “Ready?”

  We nodded.

  He got into a crouch with the feeder lid as close to the front wheels as possible. “On three. One. Two. Three!”

  The axle lifted about an inch at first, but the quicksand sucked at it as if to claim it for good. We grunted and heaved in a tug-of-war. The bed we stood on was none too solid either, and we tilted and banged into one another’s shoulders as we pushed.

  After about ten seconds that felt like an hour, George said, “Want to rest and try it again?”

  We all yelled, “No!” We weren’t about to give up that inch we’d gained so far.

  My teeth clenched so hard they ached. And just when I was afraid we would have to take a second shot at it—slurrrph—the tires broke free of the muck. George shoved one edge of the feeder lid under. The big piece of metal started to tilt toward us, toward sinking.

  George yelled, “Lift again!”

  This time was easier, with no enemy pulling against us.

  George shoved the lid forward until it thunked all three of us in the chest hard enough to take our wind away. “Sorry! Step back now!”

  It was like Mother May I in sorghum molasses. My thighs ached with the effort of taking even a couple steps. Henry had one of Paul’s elbows, and I grabbed the other. But then we stopped and beheld Model T on a platter.

  It had worked. The feeder lid had too much surface area to sink. To sink very fast, anyway.

  George wore a mighty grimace and gripped the back rim of the feeder lid. “Get out!” he yelped. “You’re not done!”

  Of course. The weight of the car was trying to push the feeder lid forward, away from the bank, and it was working against George in a new tug-of-war. My legs burned, straining through the muck as I pulled Paul along behind. We were winded again when we finally rolled up on the bank.

  But George hollered, “Get over here. Now!” I heard pain in his voice.

  We all scrambled. Henry got there first and grabbed the feeder lid.

  George gargled out, “No! Grab the axle. We gotta pull the car, not the lid out from under it!”

  Henry’s face registered confusion.

  Once all three of us were in place, George let go of the metal disk, grabbed hold of the axle, and grunted, “One, two, three,” and we pulled and strained with all we had.

  And then the Ford’s front tires sat on solid ground for the first time in twenty-four hours, and we were laying on a creek bank huffing like we’d run ten miles.

  George climbed to his feet and towered over us. “Grab that feeder lid, Henry, before you have to go back in to get it.”

  Henry was still gasping for air, but he crawled over and spun the disk onto the bank before he broke down and laid on his side, panting again.

  George stood over us and started laughing.

  “What?” Henry knew it had to do with him and didn’t like it. That was all there in one word.

  George waved his hands in front of him and said, “Oh, no, Tar Baby. Don’t say nothin’.” He broke up.

  I looked at the other two and down at myself. Our faces and arms were burned Indian brown by the sun. Our nether halves were covered in a thick coat of muck drying fast. We looked like we’d been dipped in chocolate and pulled on pink undershirts afterward. I started laughing too.

  Paul could picture the silliness of it and joined in.

  “What?” Henry said.

  That set us off harder.

  I had to wipe my eyes when I could finally tell him, “Look in the mirror, buddy.”

  “What the hell? You know there’s—”

  I pointed to myself and then Paul.

  Henry frowned, looking back and forth. About the time the other three of us calmed down, he exploded laughing.

  We laid around resting and drying our husks for half an hour or so while we decided what to do next. Then George remembered the peck basket he’d been toting all morning and came out with boiled eggs, cornbread, biscuits, and honey. Paul and Henry dove in headfirst.

  George watched and chuckled. “Thought you might feel a little peckish. Sleeping out in the open air will do that to you.”

  They ate like they were wolves and it was raining sheep.

  Even Paul forgot his manners for a while. Then he said, “John? Did you get some?”

  “You all go ahead. George fed me at the jail this morning.”

  Henry took the last corn muffin and tossed it to me. “Have one anyway.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sheriff George looked on like a favorite uncle.

  We found out from him that a bridge spanned the creek about a mile north. I asked why the road took such a bend away from the railway.

  He said, “You rather build a twenty-foot bridge over water or a fifty-foot bridge to span sand too?”

  “The water goes all the way out to the bank there?” Paul asked. His voice sounded like Santa Claus was on his way.

  George said, “Yeah, son. Why?”

  In answer, Paul pulled a tile of dried sand from the top of one foot.

  “Mm-hmm,” George said. “You boys could do with a little water, now that you mention it.” He took his hat off and wiped his forehead before setting the hat back on. “Tell you what. It’s no more than a mile. Put your boots on and walk, and I’ll drive your car and keep it clean inside.”

  Henry shrugged.

  I said, “Paul?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Okay.”

  I wondered what was going on behind that mask.

  We tried half a dozen ways of fixing the hog feeder l
id so it would ride in or on the car, but it was just too big unless somebody held it there. George couldn’t do that and drive.

  “You all carried it out here,” Henry said. “Paul and I can carry it a ways, I figure.” He still hadn’t gained back all the weight he’d lost when he was sick, and the sight of his ribs served as a reminder of what had set him on the road to good behavior to begin with.

  George folded himself in behind the steering wheel and looked the instrument panel over. “What do I do?”

  Paul’s milky eyes bugged. “You’ve never driven?”

  “Heck, no. Only auto in Burlington belongs to Ed Stillwater, and John can fill you in why nobody borrows that. Why’d you think I wasted most of a day to come out here and help?”

  “Because you’re nice?” I guessed.

  He laughed. “Right. Now just give me the lowdown. Nothing’s going to happen, Paul. Believe me.”

  Henry and I talked over each other, giving him the shorthand lesson, and he nodded when he was ready. We gathered our clothes from where we’d flung them and dumped them in the backseat to put on after we’d washed. I grabbed the crank and, on second thought, snatched our shirts out of the car. No use burning skin that had never seen sunlight.

  It was a whole new sensation, swinging the crank naked, and I was glad the car blocked everyone’s view. The engine coughed and spat sandy dirt at us like it was disgusted by what had gone on and it finally had a chance to tell us. Only then did it catch, sputter a little for punctuation, and start chugging. I tossed the crank in the back and saluted.

  “See you in the funny papers,” George said. A few jerks and catches later, he was gone. I do mean gone. He took off full throttle north and left us with our mouths collecting dust.

  We stared after the Ford as it got smaller and smaller, standing there in our boots, holding our shirts and wearing nothing but dried mud for pants. Dirt-crusted peckers. That’s what we had, and that’s what we were.

  “Oh, shit,” Henry said.

  That about summed it up.

  Paul cleared his throat. “How far is it to Burlington?”