The Waking (42 page)

I get in the passenger side. “I like your truck.”

He throws it in reverse. “Only thing I ever bought especially for myself.”

It even smells new. “It’s nice.”

“
Don’t get to drive it much.” He turns us through the tunnel of trees. “No fun without company.”

“
Yeah.”

We take Highway 29, cruising along just under the speed limit, our arms leaning out the windows, puddles on the road shining in the sun. “Gonna be a hot one,” Hughes says.

“
Yeah.”

“
I filled your canteen.”

“
Thanks.”

“
Even threw in a few Twinkies. Hope you like them.”

More sugar. “I do.”

“
Good.”

I watch the green hills flying by. “Have you always lived in Lee County?”

“
Uh-yep. Haven’t been too far from Beulah. That’s where I grew up. There’s three towns named Beulah in Alabama, did you know that?”

“
No.”

“
Guess we don’t have much imagination down here, huh?”

“
Guess not.”

He puts on a pair of sunglasses. “My wife and I used to take trips down to Pensacola a long time ago. Might head down there to celebrate my retirement, do a little fishin’ on the Gulf.”

While I listen to Hughes tell me about the finer points of fishing, the Texas rigs and jigs and spinner baits, the bluegill and the shellcracker and the bream, it’s what I don’t hear that speaks the loudest. He isn’t angry about anything. He’s not complaining, not whining, and he doesn’t have a chip on his shoulder. He could have, maybe even should have. The government sent his son to die in Vietnam, he’s living in the South, probably dealing with rednecks on a daily basis, and it took him maybe thirty or more years to get a promotion he probably deserved a long time ago. He isn’t that religious from what I can tell, yet he isn’t hateful. The man isn’t anything but content, even without a wife or son, working for the government that took his son leaving him with a small house and a little yard. He’s truly content. It’s not like he doesn’t care, far from it. It’s just that he cares about what matters, and here recently, it’s been me.

We pull into a Wal-Mart in the town of Valley, Alabama, but before I can get out, he says, “Wait.” He pulls a business card from the ashtray and hands it to me. “Just in case, you know, you ever need anythin’. And if you ever want to, you know, let me know how you’re doin’.”

“
Thank you.”

He looks through the windshield. “Let’s see, it’s about eighty-five, ninety miles to Atlanta from here. You might make it in two, maybe three days.” He turns to me and takes off his sunglasses. “Stay on Twenty-nine if you can. Troopers on Eight-five tend to be a little narrow-minded. How are you fixed for money?”

“
I’m okay.”

“
I could, you know, give you some more, maybe enough for a bus ticket all the way back to Pittsburgh. I called Greyhound last night, and they told me it’d only cost a hundred and fifteen to get there. There’s a bus leaving Lanett at six-thirty tonight, and we could do some, you know, fishin’ until then. What do you say?”

I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say.

“
It’d take about twenty-four hours for you to get to Pittsburgh on that bus cuz it ain’t a straight shot. Think it goes up through Atlanta then over to Cincinnati then across Ohio. You’d be home tomorrow night in time for supper.”

This is tempting, but something about the coins sliding around in my boot tells me I should be walking. And I don’t want to get him into trouble. “Couldn’t that get you into more trouble?”

“
I’ve already been aidin’ and abettin’ you, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’d just be a loan, and you have my address, right?”

Twenty-four hours in a bus. I’d go crazy. And the police might be looking for me the closer I got to Pittsburgh. They might be watching the bus stations. “Thanks for the offer, but …”

“
Yeah. I understand.” He turns away. “I’d be worryin’ myself silly for twenty-four hours wonderin’ if you’d been picked up somewhere.” He sighs. “I still my worry. Is there anythin’ I can do for you, Emmanuel?”

“
You’ve already done it.”

“
I ain’t done much.”

“
Yeah, you have. You fed me, gave me a place to stay, and you’re now pointing me in the right direction.” All the things a father is supposed to do. “And you didn’t arrest me like you could have. I’d be off to New Orleans or to Pittsburgh by now if you did.”

He nods.

“
So … you’ve done more than enough for me. I hope I can repay you some day.”

He turns. “You don’t owe me nothin’.” He looks up. “You
could
share one of them big hot pretzels they sell inside though. I always feel kinda foolish buying one by myself, you know, cuz it’s somethin’ a kid would eat.”

“
I’d like that.”

We go inside Wal-Mart and get four hot pretzels, covering them with mustard from at least ten plastic packs, sucking down cherry Slurpees and generally being sloppy.

And happy. Hughes seems so happy, like he’s back with his boy again. Only I’m not his boy, and it gets to me. I feel a gorge in my throat, and the last piece of pretzel sticks there, and no amount of cherry Slurpee can make it go down.

“
I gotta go,” I say, not wanting to look into his eyes.

“
Yeah,” he says, and he wipes mustard off his lips. “Yeah.”

He follows me outside to the truck, and neither one of us speaks. Why is this goodbye so much harder than any of the others? I feel like weeping, I feel like staying, I feel like saying, “Forget Pittsburgh, let’s go fishing!”

And despite my every effort to contain them, the tears start to fall.

“
You’re feelin’ it too, huh?” he says in a hoarse voice.

“
Yeah. I, uh, I never knew my daddy.”

He clears his throat. “He’s missin’ somethin’ then.” He reaches out a hand.

I grab it and pull him to me, giving him a quick hug. “Thank you.” I step back.

“
Uh-yep.”

“
We’ll have to go fishing sometime.”

“
Uh-yep. I’ll have everythin’ we’ll need ready for you.”

I nod. “And I’ll bring my son, too.”

“
I’d like that.” He clears his throat again and exhales deeply. “You got everythin’?”

I reposition the backpack. “Yeah.”

“
Just stay on Twenty-nine, and you’ll be fine.”

“
Bye.”

I walk away, two quarters sliding back and forth in my boot, as my tears dry in the Alabama sun.

20: On the Road, Valley, Alabama, to Roanoke, Virginia

After half an hour of walking through Lanett, Alabama, I rest near some railroad tracks just before the bridge over the Chattahoochee River into Georgia. The river looks like it wants to spill its banks all the way to where I’m standing. The railroad tracks look tempting, especially since the skies above are looking as gruesome as they were down in Mobile. But I’m through riding trains. I have a sturdy set of legs, a full canteen, and Twinkies. What more could a man need to go for a walk?

How about an umbrella?

It’s not …

It starts to drizzle, and then it pours.

What is it with you and rain, Manny?

I don’t know. I must be a magnet.

As I trot across the bridge into Georgia, I hear a tinging sound coming from my backpack. Thinking it must be the lighter hitting the canteen and not wanting to set the backpack on fire, I slow and hold the backpack in front of me, unzipping the main compartment until I see … a silver snuff can lid, the one with the deer on it.

I stop in the middle of the bridge and pull it out, and it shines despite the darkened skies. Why would Hughes give this to me? The lid is solid silver and literally worth a bundle, maybe two. I guess he had to give it to someone. I could give it to my son, after setting it in stone or something. Yeah, it’s a gift from one father to a son not his own to yet another son—

Not his own.

Don’t start.

I only come out when you’re confused, or hadn’t you already figured that out?

But I’m not confused.

You’re crying again.

It’s the rain.

I wipe my face for good measure and find a few hot tears.

You gonna cry all the way through Georgia, too, boy?

No.

You are getting soft.

Tears don’t make a man soft. They make him human.

I’m rolling my eyes over that one. Who died and made you a philosopher?

I smile.

Everything.

I put the lid into the backpack and zip it tightly, and The Voice zips his lips, too. I don’t mind the Voice as much as I used to, not that we’re best friends or anything like that, because in a way, the Voice keeps me honest. I don’t know if it’s me, or my conscience, or my soul, or even some angry soul or ancestor from my past. But we’re getting along as I’m moving along.

The rain stops as I pass through North West Point. Funny name for a town. Is there an East West Point or a West West Point? And by the time I get to Long Cane, I see folks out and about in front of their houses. It’s not quite like stepping back in time, but it’s close. I see old style curly kits, nearly every man wearing a baseball hat or hat of some kind, lots of striped shirts and rolled up jeans, and even folks playing horseshoes, the pit splashing up whenever someone gets a ringer.

When the sun’s standing highest in the sky, I get to La Grange, more railroad tracks tempting me. I’m doing okay so far, and though I should probably take my boots into Boston Shoe Repair in front of me, I don’t. They’ll make it. I see a sign on Bull Street that makes me smile. Ebony Hair Design, just a half block from 29. I haven’t left 29 since Valley, and I’ve been doing fine. Do I walk a measly fifty feet away?

Why are you so superstitious all of a sudden?

Because strange things have been happening to me.

There’s an explanation for every one of them.

Explain my jump from the McKees Rocks Bridge that didn’t kill me.

Luck, sheer luck.

And Luke happening to have a heroin addict cousin so he knew what to do.

Coincidence.

And Rose getting me a job.

A woman that desperate, she would have hired the next live body.

And me catching that first train outside Tunica.

Luck.

Finding Red?

He found you, remember?

It was a big train yard. What about the train stopping at the right place just before the bridge in Mobile?

Water on the tracks, I don’t know.

Explain the lighter.

It caused a cop to find you.

He didn’t arrest me.

But he could have.

True, but he didn’t. And now I have fifty cents in my boot to make a phone call.

You got fifty cents in your boot to give you a blister is what you have. How do you know it’s for a phone call?

What else can you get for fifty cents?

I don’t know. A soda. You’ve got to be thirsty for more than water. And it’s probably your own money anyway, and you just forgot you put it in there. It don’t mean nothing.

Well, if it don’t mean nothing, it won’t hurt nothing either.

I step away from 29 and walk into Ebony Hair Design, an old standing ashtray holding the door open. When I see a row of black ladies under hair dryers and three more in the chairs getting trimmed, I almost walk out.

“
You lost?” a stylist asks.

“
Uh, no.” I have thirteen sets of eyes on me. Though that’s my lucky number, I’m feeling strange. “Um, do you have a payphone?”

“
There’s one around the corner,” another stylist says.

“
Out on Twenty-nine?”

“
Yeah,” the second stylist says. “You probably walked right past it.”

“
Oh. Thanks.”

I walk back out to 29 and look up and down the street. Across the street is a payphone.

You looked pretty foolish, boy.

Shut up.

You ain’t supposed to see no sistuhs till their hair is done.

It’s because I left 29.

No, it’s cuz you don’t know that a sign that says “Ebony Hair Designs” is a place for women only.

I cross the street while the scratchy voice laughs in my head, take the phone out of its cradle, and fish in my boot for the change.

Who you gonna call?

Leave me alone.

Why don’t you call Penny? You have her number, right?