One
Sheets of night rain slapped steadily against the windows, obscuring my father’s vision and making a cozy cave for my sister and me in the back seat. The occasional car passing in the lane going north gave off sporadic blurs of light that kept us in the dark. The sticky wetness assured us it was indeed summer but the books and games we’d brought had become tedious and increasingly difficult to see. We didn’t have to ask to know we should have been there by now.
“If this gets any worse, we’ll have to pull over again,” Daddy told my stepmother, “and we already lost time when the rain stopped us before.”
“If you got to stop, T, you got to,” she said. “I don’t want a accident.”
Daddy yawned without closing his eyes or taking them off the road. “Any coffee left?”
I could barely hear the sloshing of liquid as she shook the thermos. “No more than a swallow.”
I wished my sister or I were old enough to drive, or that my stepmother at least would learn. My father usually sped from Chicago to Jackson in record time, pushing past the limit in every state but Ohio and taking familiar short cuts away from major clogged highways. We had left the same time as always but the heavy summer rain followed us and kept us off schedule. I don’t remember his being this tired even so close to the end of the journey.
“If we don’t stop so I can rest, I’m gonna need more coffee.”
This got everyone’s attention. The Movement might have come South but we knew however north we were in Mississippi, one basic rule of being black and traveling South remained: it’s safer to bring your own food and beverages for the journey. If not for delaying rain, the two large thermoses of coffee my stepmother had brought for my father would have lasted to Jackson.
“Okay, pretty girls,” Daddy pitched his voice to the back seat. “Keep an eye out for a café or diner, some place to get coffee.”
I spotted the small greasy spoon first. D-I-N-E-R spelled out in flashing red letters and then DINER all at once. Daddy pulled into a wet parking lot, swinging into the closest spot to the door. Then, tossing a section of the Chicago Sun-Timesover his head, he sprinted to the door and left our sight. The three of us kept our eyes on the spot that had swallowed my father. We exhaled in unison when he came out a couple of minutes later. He wasn’t carrying coffee.
When he opened the car door, my stepmother burst out, “What happened? Did they refuse to serve you?”
My father gave us his charming grin. “Naw. As soon as I got inside, I told the counter guy that I only wanted coffee to go.” He paused as if he was telling one of his endless jokes. “He told me to wait outside and he’d bring it to the car.”
I couldn’t figure out why Daddy had laughter in his voice. Before I could think much more of it, a white guy in a white apron and white paper cap came out of the diner and headed directly to the driver’s side of our car. When my father opened the window, we could see rain dripping down the young guy’s face.
“Heah’s your coffee,” he twanged.
“Thanks, fella,” Daddy said. “And I did tell you four sugars, didn’t I?” The guy shook his head. “That’s okay,” Daddy smiled. “I’ll just go in and get some more.”
“No!” the guy shouted, holding his hand on the car door. “You don’t need to do that. I’ll bring it out to you.”
When the guy left, my stepmother turned to my father. “Since when did you take four sugars, T?”
“Just wait for it,” he said with an easy laugh, rolling up the window. When the diner guy came back, my father rolled down the window for him.
“Thanks,” Daddy said as the guy handed him four packs of sugar. “I should’ve gone in myself. I noticed you didn’t put in enough cream. I take quite a bit, you know.”
“That’s okay,” the guy quickly said, holding up his hand. “You just stay here. I’ll get you some.”
As the car window closed, my stepmother broke out laughing. “T! You ought to be ashamed of yo’self! You know you like your coffee black!”
“Yeah,” Daddy chuckled. “Black and just a little bit sweet, like you”
The diner guy’s clothes were clinging to his body when he returned with a small metal pitcher of milk. My father made him pour a little at a time, keeping the guy pouring in the pouring rain as he checked the coffee after each splash. When the pitcher was nearly empty, the guy was sloshing where he stood in the muddy parking lot.
“Thanks,” Daddy finally said. “This was great service. I’ll recommend this place to all my friends in Chicago.” Dismay pulled down the guy’s face at my father’s words. Or maybe it was the way our car quickly peeled out of the parking spot.
We drove off, leaving the guy standing with the pitcher in the muddy lot. Daddy stopped along the highway to pour out the milky sweet coffee. The laughter and retelling kept the four of us awake all the way to Jackson where Aunt Yvonne waited up for us on her front porch to lovingly serve my father hot coffee just the way she knew he liked it.
Two
The first summer of my teen years, our father couldn’t take the time off to drive us to Jackson because he had to take on extra carpentry jobs, making up for a long strike and bad weather over the winter. For the first time, Jeanne and I traveled alone on the famous City of New Orleans. Although we started with the train in Chicago, our car was switched to another engine in Memphis. While the rest of the train continued to New Orleans, we took the tracks that led to Jackson, Mississippi and Aunt Yvonne. Our stepmother had packed a shoebox with fried chicken and pound cake because we knew dining cars wouldn’t serve us past Cairo, Illinois. Before boarding the train, we’d used our allowance to buy cookies and candy along with a couple of soft drinks. Jeanne, the elder, carried the money for the cab when we got off the train along with instructions to look out for my safety as well as her own.
We settled in seats close to the rear doors of the train car, Jeanne taking the window and me next to her with the two books I figured would be enough for the trip. I expected to spend most of it enjoying the adventure with my sister.
But Jeanne left me by the time we crossed the Illinois border. Thinking she might have gotten delayed in the bathroom, I curled up against the window to read the first of my books, my mind shutting out the afternoon sun. I didn’t realize how long she had been until she stood over me with two strangers, teenage guys but clearly older than we were.
“This is my sister,” she told them, gesturing my way. I stared mutely.
One of the guys sat next to me. “Hi,” he said smiling. My nervous eyes widened and I looked up at Jeanne.
“We’re going to go to that other seat up there,” Jeanne pointed vaguely toward the front of the car and grabbed the other guy’s hand. My eyes followed them and their laughter to seats almost at the door.
“Whatchu reading?” The other guy turned over my book and leaned in closer.
“Um, um,” I stutter. “It –it’s –“ I cleared my throat. “It’s a mys- mystery.”
He took my hand and widened his smile. “That’s sweet.” I felt trapped against the window. “Your sister seems to be real fun.”
I nodded.
“You fun, too?”
I shook my head.
He laughed. “I bet you could be, high yella girl like you.”
I shook my head again, faster and more insistently.
“Just wait a bit and I’ll show you,” he said.
I must have looked startled as well as confused.
“Go head and read,” he said. “I’ll let you know when the time comes.”
My eyes fell on my book and I thought about him not being there next to me. His looming nearness invaded my space and his man smell assaulted my concentration. I had trouble following the clues in the book and never thought to look for clues around me. I don’t know how much time passed but I was slowly falling into the story of the book again when he spoke.
“It’s coming up,” he said. I had too much room for thinking in his pause but he spoke again before I began to panic. “Okay, here goes.” He turned off the overhead lights as the train entered a tunnel.
I was unprepared when he mashed his mouth to mine. My breath froze on an inhale and sped away from me. I felt one of his hands sliding up and down one of my arms while his lips grinded. I gasped a breath, maybe two, and breathed in his scent. My eyes opened in the darkness but couldn’t see his closeness. I felt his soft stubble briefly touch my check near my lips as his head turned left and right. I felt an unfamiliar turning, like hummingbirds, somewhere near my stomach. It felt like forever. Without warning, he let me go just as the train was coming out of the tunnel. I caught up with my breath and my eyes darted away from him. I heard him shift and glanced his way.
“Well, Red,” he said while standing up. “Hope you had fun.” He laughed like my father as he walked up the aisle to the other seat, passing Jeanne coming back towards me. She was laughing the way she did when teasing me.
Something in my look took the laugh off her face. “What?” she demanded.
I stared silently before I quietly told her, “Don’t ever leave me like that again.” But, as always, she did, though not for several years afterwards. I picked up my book and stayed by the window, looking at my reflection until dusk. Flipping on the overhead light, I turned to the mystery book and re-read the clues I’d missed before.
Looking back, I was lucky to get my first adolescent kiss from such a relatively harmless stranger who didn’t even open his mouth when he did. I wonder what would have happened if I’d known his name and he had known mine before I never saw him again. I wonder how I would feel about it if he hadn’t left me with my father’s laugh, filled with joy and all the pleasures of life.
Although I was a fast reader, I finished only the one book by the time we arrived in Jackson. When the cab pulled up late that night, Aunt Yvonne was pacing on her front porch, ready to wrap us in her comfortable warmth and familiar love.
Three
Standing alone in the Denver airport, I listened while others in the long line bitched and cursed the flight delay as we slowly moved toward the food vouchers offered to soothe us. Men and women in business attire spoke to their cell phones. Everyone else seemed to be in couples or groups. I added silent responses to their conversations
“Last time I was delayed in Denver, we had to stay overnight,” I heard one man say to his phone. “I might have to rent a car.”
I stood alone thinking that if the delay was that long, I might miss Aunt Yvonne’s funeral, making the journey worthless. Rather than think about this, I acted as if the man and I had been in conversation and responded to what he had said as he disconnected his call.
“Is it likely we’ll have to stay overnight?”
“It’s always possible in Denver.”
“How long do you think we’ll be delayed?”
“Probably until morning but I can’t wait that long.”
I broke off to let him grab his vouchers and ask for directions to car rentals. He took the opportunity to escape me. I listened to families and traveling companions discussing their options, quieting restless children, but no other conversation starters presented themselves for me to share.
Pulling my carry on, I strolled the food possibilities, looking for a comfortable place for my solitary meal. While eating at one of the approved restaurants, I debated reading the one book I had in my carry on or just eating quietly. I had had enough foresight to pack underwear but the book wouldn’t last me overnight. When I left Minneapolis, I thought I would have two short flights with one short layover; the entire trip should have been less than three hours. And I really didn’t want my mind to have time to think or mourn what I had lost. When the announcement came for the hotel, I called my cousin who explained that the funeral was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. I wanted to feel relief but only managed disappointment.
Without company on the journey or Aunt Yvonne waiting impatiently on her front porch at my final destination, nothing really was the same about this road trip. The view outside the airport was a distant frosty Denver night and grounded planes that only made me miss cozy summer evenings with shimmering headlights keeping steady rhythm with the miles. I may have been served a fine free meal with a “tip me” smile while sitting at a table, but the food didn’t fill me as well as cold fried chicken and pound cake in a shoebox or entertain me as well as bad coffee served with the façade of forbearance in the rain. Instead of my father at the wheel laughing and sipping from a thermos while we played in the back seat, rather than the City of New Orleans and my sister dragging me unwillingly into dark places and new insights, I was alone with a book and other people’s conversations.
This time I would have no amusing or remarkable personal stories to tell that help illuminate historical realities, no surprising tunnels with revelation at the end as metaphor for rite of passage. Just a sterile hotel room and crowded lonely airports for the journey. And at journey’s end: lost luggage and Aunt Yvonne for the last time.
