The rest of the week dragged out for Nate. At school, all the students’ minds were on the upcoming summer vacation, and the teachers were just plain worn down from the year. They weakly pretended to teach, and the kids, in turn, checked their behavior just short of high crimes and misdemeanors.
Saturday eventually came and brought Nate's Uncle Henry and the yellow Cadillac to carry him to Jim Frank’s place for the afternoon. At Thompson’s, Nate was filling up the gas tank and Henry was inside visiting with Hank Thompson when Maddie Flanagan’s heavy, blue Chevy skidded in, nearly taking out Nate, the Caddy, and the two gas pumps. The Chevy came to rest next to the number two pump in a rolling cloud of oyster-shell dust. Maddie looked at Nate and casually spit a stream of tobacco juice into the crushed oyster shells.
Hank Thompson strolled out of his store with Henry close behind. Maddie’s unorthodox approaches were routine, but not devoid of interest nor undeserving of comment.
“Nice landing,” Hank said. “You know, a lesser person would’ve slowed down before turning off the highway into where flammable liquids are stored and dispensed in large quantities.” The oyster-shell dust swirled for a few more seconds and then settled down. “I’m surprised Plastic Jesus there doesn’t have one hand over his eyes.”
Maddie leaned her head out the window and spit another stream of tobacco juice into the ground. She just stared back openly at Hank Thompson.
He continued. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find him hitchhiking on the side of road one day, tuckered out from the stress of riding with you.”
Maddie idly rubbed some dust off the statuette. “Me and Plastic Jesus do fine.” She swung the door open and lifted her legs out, dropping them heavily onto the ground.
“You ought to think about getting rid of that car and getting an automatic,” Henry said. “That clutch has to be tough on your...” he paused.
“Old legs,” Maddie finished the sentence for him. “Sound like Doc Lightcap.”
“You been to see the doctor?” Hank Thompson sounded concerned.
“You a cop?” Maddie sat and rested from the strain of putting her legs out. “Yeah, I seen the doctor.”
“What’d he say?”
“None of your damn business.” Maddie shifted herself forward and spit some more tobacco juice.
Hank Thompson waited. Maddie had a way of being contrary. If someone asked her the time of day, she’d probably tell them to go to hell, then say it was three o’clock.
“He said I’m old and might not get much older, then he charged me five dollars. Give me a dollar’s worth of gas while I use your rest room.”
She got out slowly and shuffled heavily to the side of the building where the rest rooms were.
“I can get it,” Nate said. The Caddy’s tank was full so Nate called out the total to Hank Thompson, who went back inside with Henry. Nate pumped a dollar’s worth into Maddie’s car.
Maddie came back while Nate was putting the cap back on the tank. “That’ll be a dollar.”
Maddie gave Nate that same open, blank look she’d given Hank Thompson earlier. “I know how much a dollar’s worth costs,” she said while making a taunting face at him.
She shoved a crumpled dollar at Nate, started the Bel-Air’s engine, and jerked out onto State Road Forty-one without looking. A chicken truck coming the other way honked and swerved, just barely missing her and sending a black man, who was walking on the shoulder, diving for safety into the nearby ditch.
Hank Thompson came out again. “Damn, that old gal’s going to blow my place up one day.”
The chicken truck was still slightly careening as the driver brought it back under control.
“There’s a man in the ditch over there,” Nate said.
“Good Lord,” Hank Thompson said,” She’s killed someone.”
Nate was about to say that he didn’t think so when the man’s head appeared.
“You okay,” Hank asked.
The man carefully inventoried himself. He was dressed in a well-fitting, black suit, and he carried a worn, but expensive, leather suitcase. In fact, everything about him seemed to be high quality and expensive. He pulled out a white handkerchief and dusted off his polished shoes.
Hank Thompson pulled up mid-stride and stood, taking the stranger in. “That was Maddie Flanagan. She’s kind of a terror on wheels.”
The black man spoke in a soft, refined voice, and merely said an exaggerated “Oh” as if Hank’s explanation made everything perfectly clear.
Hank Thompson laughed awkwardly, realizing that if someone had just nearly been impaled on the grill of a chicken truck, the explanation left a little to be desired. “Okay?”
“I seem to be in one piece,” the soft, refined tone replied. “Excuse me, sir, I’m new in town and could benefit from knowing where people of color gather and where work may be found.”
Nate was fascinated by the man and the way he spoke. He wasn’t like anyone Nate had ever seen or heard before. The black man spoke respectfully to Hank Thompson, but maintained his own sense of dignity throughout.
“What’s your name?” Hank said.
The stranger started to answer, then paused, wondering how this related to his question, then answered, “Washington.” It wasn’t clear if that was his first or last name.
“What work do you do,” Hank Thompson asked.
The black man smiled. “I’m a gentleman’s gentleman, currently without gentleman.”
Hank Thompson’s face was blank.
“That’s to say, I’m an unemployed butler and chauffeur.”
Hank Thompson chuckled and Henry laughed outright.
“Not much butlering to be had in Davis Corners,” Hank Thompson said, “But you can find the colored section of town just on the other side of Governor Street, about three miles down this road.”
“I’m not limited to butlering,” Washington said, pausing a little around the word ‘butlering.’ “Any enterprise requiring a man of social manners and the ability to maintain its vehicles would be appropriate.”
Hank Thompson looked back at Henry and both men shrugged.
“Three miles down, ’cross Governor Street, maybe somebody there’ll be able to help,” Hank said.
Hank Thompson and Henry went back inside.
Nate thought that Washington looked hot standing on the side of the road, dressed in black. “Want some water?”
Washington crossed the road. “Yes, thank you.”
Nate liked him. He liked the way Washington had kept the upper hand in the conversation without getting Hank Thompson mad at him. Nate thought about his encounter with Grandmother Tillman on Sunday and was now embarrassed by the position he had taken about Jim Frank’s statue.
Nate turned on the faucet and picked up the hose used to fill radiators. He let some water run out until it turned cool. Meanwhile, he made a paper cup by folding over the bottom of one of the disposable oil funnels Hank Thompson kept out by the pumps and filled it for Washington. Washington seemed not only grateful for the water but also appreciative of how Nate had avoided the indignity of making him drink from the hose.
“What happened to your gentleman?”
“A grand jury indicted him and froze his funds. Wealth ill-gotten is precariously kept.”
“Aren’t any rich folks in Davis Corners,” Nate said.
“Yes, well, the service industry certainly is depressed these days by the absence of those willing and able to pay to be served.”
Nate laughed.
“I amuse you?”
Nate blushed. He hadn’t meant to make fun. “No, well yeah. I mean it’s just I never heard anyone talk like you. You talk so fancy and all.”
Washington raised one eyebrow. He was tempted to probe whether his being black made it amusing to Nate. He sipped on the water and let it go, instead.
“Perhaps there’s a museum or some kind of cultural center here,” Washington said.
“Not in Davis Corners.” Nate thought for a few minutes. “You fix cars?”
“Maintain them would be a more accurate description. I can tune an engine, change the oil, and keep a vehicle looking like something you’d want to be seen in.” Washington sounded nostalgic. “But I’m not a mechanic, if that’s what you were asking.”
“Sounds like you like working around nice cars.”
“There’s so little quality and craftsmanship left, so little that’s of value.” Washington let out a sigh. “A luxury automobile is about the last example of where aesthetics and engineering come together to create true elegance.”
“You mean like my uncle’s Cadillac?”
“The Cadillac is a fine car, but it’s the low end of what I’m talking about.” Wahington’s face lit up. “I’ve driven Cadillacs, Bentleys, and Rolls Royces. All the top-of-the-line limousines, I’ve driven them.”
“Ever wish they were yours?” Nate said.
“No one owns quality. You can experience it, appreciate it, and take care of it, but nobody can own it. Most of the people I drove for never appreciated what they had. For one thing, they were riding. A person riding can’t know how smooth the gears shift or how well the vehicle handles. They’re riding, thinking about other things, not concentrating on the road and the vehicle.”
Washington finished the water and carefully disposed of the cup. He gave Nate a look that invited any more questions or suggestions.
“I hope you find a new job,” Nate said.
“Thank you.”
Washington turned and starting walking in the direction Hank Thompson had pointed him.
Nate got an idea. “Wanamaker’s.”
Washington turned and looked at Nate.
“It’s the funeral home,” Nate said. “They have big cars and everyone’s always dressed up nice like you.”
“Funeral home,” Washington said, his refined voice now having a thoughtful, or perhaps rueful, tone. “And where might I find Wanamaker’s?”
“Same direction,” Nate said. “You’ll pass it before you get to Governor Street.”
“Well, thank you, young man,” he said and headed toward town.
Nate watched him for a while as he walked away, getting smaller and smaller the farther he got. He wondered if Washington would find work in as unlikely a place as Davis Corners or would he just keep drifting on. Nate thought that if he kept drifting, he’d just keep getting smaller and smaller, as he was doing now, until he would just disappear altogether.
Henry slammed open the screen door and strolled out with his cigarettes and beer in a brown bag. “We’re burning junk time, let’s roll.”
Chapter 6
Copyright (C) 2009 Michael A. Hughes
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