Chapter 45 #2
When he was through, he knocked on the hood, peered into the back window. “Can I get your windshield, miss?”
I strained my neck and inspected the dusty, bug-smattered glass, and nodded.
After he’d finished, he poked his head back in and said, “That’ll be two dollars and seventy cents.”
Mrs. Claxton crooked her head slightly toward me.
Flustered, I dug into the pocketbook for my wallet and then twisted sideways so he couldn’t see the contents. I dropped the bills on the floorboard, snatched them up and fumbled, passing him a five-dollar bill.
The attendant left with a muted thank you, then minutes later returned with the change.
Next door, a bell chimed from the diner. “We should grab something to eat while it’s still light, Cussy. I didn’t have time to pack our dinner this morning. Get out of the automobile.”
I climbed out and studied our surroundings as I waited beside her window. The air felt charged, and an uneasiness pushed up from my gut. “Let’s leave. I can eat later.”
“It’ll help with the headaches, and the baby needs nourishment.
Now, here’s what you’re going to do, chile.
” Mrs. Claxton jabbed a finger at the diner and went over her instructions.
“Ask for one fried bologna sandwich, one bag of chips, and one Coke.” She held up a knobbed finger and then rolled money into my palm.
“Don’t talk to a soul. Order, pay, collect the bags, and leave.
If you see your color returning, you get out of there quick. ”
“You need to eat too.”
“They will not cook their food for a Negro. Go on, be quick.”
“It’s burning up in the automobile. Just step outside and wait,” I protested.
“You would be getting me killed!” She lifted her stubborn jaw and wouldn’t budge.
“Do you at least have a cardboard fan in the glove?” I circled around to the passenger side, flipped open the compartment, and her old Green Book tumbled out onto the seat.
I glanced at the introduction page it landed on. The travel guide was published to keep the Negro from running into difficulties or embarrassments—make his trip safer, it read. I dropped the book as if I’d been stung. Mrs. Claxton leaned over and stuffed it back into the box.
Reaching across to the dashboard, I grabbed the odd cap and gave it to her. “Use this to fan yourself.”
“Put that down! It’s Jed’s,” she hissed.
I shrank back and tossed it onto the dash. “I’ll hurry.”
At the diner door, I read the white sign with red printing: ABSOLUTELY NO COLOREDS ALLOWED. I quickly checked the color of my hands.
When I pulled open the glass door, the bell announced me, and cool breezes greeted my damp face.
Curious eyes scrutinized me. Two farmers crowded at the counter, drinking coffee.
Nearby, two more shared a small wooden table, while a couple in a booth chatted and lingered over dirty dishes.
A jukebox in the corner played a low caterwauling tune.
I crossed to the counter, where an older woman was busy filling saltshakers.
She looked over my shoulder to the parking lot. “We don’t cook for Negroes.”
“It’s for me.” Studying the menu board on the wall, I ordered the double-decker fried bologna and cheese, offering her a friendly smile. It was returned with a cagey bother. I was an outsider and couldn’t mistake the suspicion and unwelcoming that flitted across her piercing eyes.
Again, I inspected my hands.
“Would you like to add dessert to that?” She adjusted her ruffled waitress hat, pulled the pencil away from a grease-stained Guest Check notepad, and pointed to a cake stand with a glass dome.
The four-layer caramel cake was missing several slices, its yellow cake dry, and the caramel icing had lost its luster and concreted.
“Made fresh today.” Her eyes dared me to say otherwise as she scratched her auburn hair with the tip of her pencil.
“Just the sandwich, chips, and Coke.” Whiffs of rancid oil, soured milk, and stale cigarette smoke wafted from her uniform.
She called out to the cook behind her, “Order, double-fried bologna an’ cheese.
” A young boy popped his head up from a grill while she began emptying the welled-glass ashtrays along the counter.
She stopped and refilled the farmers’ cups, then rested an elbow in front of them and whispered.
They glanced at me and looked over their shoulders toward the parking lot to our automobile.
The towheaded farmer shrugged and hunched back over his drink.
But his bearded friend continued to stare, his jaw twitching.
Growing uneasy, I turned to the automobile, the steamy day rolling across the broken asphalt. Mrs. Claxton’s head nodded to the steering wheel, and I know’d her ol’ bones were exhausted.
“Mustard?” The waitress set down the Coke and held up greasy condiment packets beside the sack.
“Yes, please,” I replied, peering back out the window, my eyes locked on her vehicle, more worriment nicking my thoughts.
“That’ll be seventy-two cents.”
Then the librarian’s head dipped down, and she slumped over the steering wheel.
The waitress pushed the bag across. Dropping the five-dollar bill on the counter, I grabbed the sack and drink and ran outside.
“Mrs. Claxton?” I set the bag on the back seat and the drink beside it. The woman’s eyelids drooped, and her face glowed with droplets stitched across the brow and down her cheek.
I snatched up the cup and dug out pieces of chipped ice. “Mrs. Claxton. Mrs. Claxton,” I cried out, leaning over the steering wheel, rubbing the cold across her lips and brow.
“Miss. I’m Sonny Harris.” The towheaded farmer crowded beside me, trying to glimpse inside the vehicle. “She’s overheated.” He tipped his ball cap and reached inside. “You need to get your help outta—”
“Take your hands off her.” I stepped in front of him and glared, fearful of what he might do to Mrs. Claxton.
“I’m getting her outta that hot automobile now. Move aside, dammit.” He pushed, and I stumbled back.
“Leave her be,” I demanded, tugging on his sleeve.
He jerked away from my grip. “She needs to get outta there!”
Groaning, the librarian roused as the man eased her out, took hold of her arm, his face reddening from the heat.
“Let’s get you inside the diner where the fans can cool you,” I said, taking her other arm.
The man stopped and wagged his head.
She pointed a wobbly finger to the patch of concrete with a sliver of shade. “There,” she rasped.
We helped her to the curb on the side of the diner. Drained, Mrs. Claxton rested her head on her knees.
“I’ll get her some water,” Sonny said and headed into the diner.
“Mrs. Claxton, what can I do?” I lightly shook her hot, dry arm, fearful of what was happening. “Please, sit up. Can I telephone a doctor?”
Someone had littered, and I picked up the diner bag and fanned her.
She grunted and slowly lifted her head, revealing reddened eyes and parched lips.
I fanned harder.
Sonny returned with a tall paper cup of ice water, an old metal bucket, and a dishrag, setting it down in front of us. Then he passed me Mrs. Claxton’s change I’d left on the counter.
“Thank you,” I said, grateful for his honesty.
I gave her the cup, and she drank slow. The water spilled out as I swished the cloth into the bucket and wrung it out. As I touched it to her face, she recoiled, then snapped to attention. “I’ll tend to it…ma’am.” She snatched it from me and pressed it across her brow and neck.
“If you could let her cool off inside, sir. Just for a moment,” I pleaded.
Mrs. Claxton looked up and shot me a warning.
Sonny tucked his thumbs into his overalls and stared off, rocking on the heels of his boots. He flattened his lips, then glanced at Mrs. Claxton and back to the road again.
“You seem like nice enough city folks. I hope your help feels better, ma’am. Wouldn’t want ya’ll to be stuck here so far from home.”
Something in the man’s weathered face showed a gentleness and a sincerity, but I suddenly got the allovers crawling around my neck when I followed his eyes to the diner’s window. His bearded friend stared out at us, something cold and dangerous brewing in his eyes.
He pulled up ol’ hauntings, reminded me of the preacher man who’d tried to drown those with odd markings.
Me. His attack still fresh like yesterday and still after all these years.
The Devil’s beastly slittail, he’d called me before trying to force me off the trail while I was delivering books to my patrons.
He’d beat on my sweet book mule and chased her off into the woodlands then lurched at me.
I’d struggled against his muscled grip as the preacher proclaimed he’d put his hot-white fire inside me to burn out my blue demons.
My beloved Junia had screamed out and thundered back toward us, kicking up the forest’s black earth and rot.
Then the mule chased him through the woods with her big chomping teeth and maddening cries.
When he came stalking again, she trampled him, rid me of the demon, and broke the devil man’s ticker.
My hands shook as I hovered over Mrs. Claxton, the old disgrace lingering and still gnawing at me.
The diner’s bell jingled. Curious, the waitress poked her head out, her face curdling as she looked on. The bearded man brushed past her and spat our way as he headed toward his truck.
The air suddenly felt dangerous, pricked, like an ugly evil had rooted in this town long before the first cornerstone had been laid.
Sonny took off his ball cap and wiped his brow. “Soon as you’re rested, ya best move along. This ol’ town can get a mite rowdy round these parts after dark. Hunters hunting them hushpuppies and all.” His eyes rested on Mrs. Claxton. “Wouldn’t want to see anything happen to you nice ladies.”
Water dribbled down Mrs. Claxton’s chin as she pulled the cup slowly away from her lips and looked up at him.
Hushpuppies. The word jelled as I realized I’d read it somewhere in an article or book. The fried cornmeal dumpling that escaping slaves tossed to distract and lead tracking dogs off their trail.
Mrs. Claxton flinched and said hoarsely, “Thank you, sir, for your generous hospitality. We’ll be leaving now.” She took another greedy gulp and wiped her face, flailing as she stood up.
Sonny reached out to steady her at the same time I did.
“Obliged. I’ll see to her, sir.”
“I’m feeling better now, ma’am,” she uttered low as she limped toward the automobile.
“Are you sure you can drive?” I settled her behind the steering wheel and glanced at all the knobs and dials. “I’ve never learned but I can try.”
“That would be just as dangerous as staying.” She took a couple of breaths and gripped the wheel. “Hurry and get into the back seat.”
“Here, take a sip of your Coke.” I passed it to her, and she dug out ice and rubbed it across her face and neck before swallowing several big gulps of the sugary drink. The ol’ woman exhaled loudly, then vigorously shook her head to collect herself.
When she pulled out onto the road, the bearded man in the truck followed while Sonny knocked his boot on the curb, teeth tucked tight in a grimace.
“Mrs. Claxton, that other man’s behind us. He’s a’huntin’.”
“Shh, let me concentrate.” She kept darting her bulging eyes to the rearview mirror.