sang every song we could think of until we saw the harbor lights, and then we knew where we were.”
“Does she make good pastries?” Hood wanted to know.
“Orange rolls every Saturday morning.”
Glendon said, “Do we have to talk about the rolls? A minute ago I was glad to be here.”
“I had a Danish one time, that Lewis give me,” Hood said. “He called it a Danish, and there’s a widow makes doughnuts for people she likes.” He regarded me a moment. “If she’s pretty, and good at pastries, then how come you’re here instead of back home?”
I said, “Would you like to answer that one, Glendon?”
“Not right now.”
Hood remarked, “When I get a wife, you can bet I won’t be off without her. I’ll take her with me on a sorrel mare, or we’ll drive someplace. Go to the city, go see the pictures.”
“She’ll like that,” I said.
“Yes, she will, only she won’t be driving. I’m the driver. I ain’t having none of that.” Drawn by something, Hood got to his feet. “Say, look—somebody’s coming.”
The automobile was a glinting dot pulling a train of dust. It might have been six miles away. It was the only bright bit on the brown curved earth.
“Could be anybody,” I said.
“Could be,” said Glendon, but it seemed to me a little of the burden had grown on him again.
We kicked down the fire and tucked the bedrolls into the Packard. We didn’t act like men in a hurry, though we surely were. All the while the strange automobile crept closer, dragging its dust like a comet.
14
The auto did not catch up with us that day, or the next. I drove faster than I cared to. We bought cornmeal and frijoles in dustbound villages, petroleum from a farmer who had a scaffolded tank and whose wife came out with fresh cold water. We bought a floury loaf of brown bread and a ripe cheese that made no friends. Glendon stayed out of view while we ran these errands. I was unaware Hood noticed this until we were stretching our legs at a vacant crossroads and he said, “Do you gentlemen want to tell me who you’re running from?”
Glendon spoke up. “An old acquaintance of mine.”
“He got a grudge against you, Mr. Dobie?”
“Yes, he does.”
“What kind of grudge?”
But Glendon felt he’d given enough. “I assume it’s the angry kind. We’d rather not see him, that’s all.”
“What happens if he sees you?” Hood asked—he did tend to persist.
With a glance at me Glendon said, “You’re a clever lad, Hood, but there’s a confidence or two you ain’t properly earned. The man has a complaint against me. Now you can fret about it or not as you like, but that’s all you get. A child’s ears shouldn’t hear these things.”
Hood said nothing to this, but I was watching his face, something like excitement building in his eyes and the trim of his mouth right up until Glendon made that comment about a child’s ears. I never met a child who liked being called one; sure enough it turned a switch, and Hood nodded
all right then
and climbed back in the car.
* * *
Kansas continued flat. I still hungered for a hillside or building to break the tedium. Sculptors call this
relief
and they are right. I learned to take pleasure in the windmills spinning bravely along the route, announcing farms. Hood also loved the windmills and named the brands by heart: there’s a Dempster, he’d say. There’s a Aermotor. There’s a Monitor. He knew them by profile and the action of their blades in flight. Some rose thirty or more feet into the sky and to me seemed grand signals of optimism or defiance; many were mounted only on stubby legs reaching nine or ten feet in the air. I asked Hood what Kansas did for water before the windmill came—he replied, Before the windmill there wasn’t no Kansas.
All this time the Packard performed heroically. Time to time we’d stop and wait for our dust to settle and look back for the strange auto. Sometimes it was there, other times not. Once a brown
“Does she make good pastries?” Hood wanted to know.
“Orange rolls every Saturday morning.”
Glendon said, “Do we have to talk about the rolls? A minute ago I was glad to be here.”
“I had a Danish one time, that Lewis give me,” Hood said. “He called it a Danish, and there’s a widow makes doughnuts for people she likes.” He regarded me a moment. “If she’s pretty, and good at pastries, then how come you’re here instead of back home?”
I said, “Would you like to answer that one, Glendon?”
“Not right now.”
Hood remarked, “When I get a wife, you can bet I won’t be off without her. I’ll take her with me on a sorrel mare, or we’ll drive someplace. Go to the city, go see the pictures.”
“She’ll like that,” I said.
“Yes, she will, only she won’t be driving. I’m the driver. I ain’t having none of that.” Drawn by something, Hood got to his feet. “Say, look—somebody’s coming.”
The automobile was a glinting dot pulling a train of dust. It might have been six miles away. It was the only bright bit on the brown curved earth.
“Could be anybody,” I said.
“Could be,” said Glendon, but it seemed to me a little of the burden had grown on him again.
We kicked down the fire and tucked the bedrolls into the Packard. We didn’t act like men in a hurry, though we surely were. All the while the strange automobile crept closer, dragging its dust like a comet.
14
The auto did not catch up with us that day, or the next. I drove faster than I cared to. We bought cornmeal and frijoles in dustbound villages, petroleum from a farmer who had a scaffolded tank and whose wife came out with fresh cold water. We bought a floury loaf of brown bread and a ripe cheese that made no friends. Glendon stayed out of view while we ran these errands. I was unaware Hood noticed this until we were stretching our legs at a vacant crossroads and he said, “Do you gentlemen want to tell me who you’re running from?”
Glendon spoke up. “An old acquaintance of mine.”
“He got a grudge against you, Mr. Dobie?”
“Yes, he does.”
“What kind of grudge?”
But Glendon felt he’d given enough. “I assume it’s the angry kind. We’d rather not see him, that’s all.”
“What happens if he sees you?” Hood asked—he did tend to persist.
With a glance at me Glendon said, “You’re a clever lad, Hood, but there’s a confidence or two you ain’t properly earned. The man has a complaint against me. Now you can fret about it or not as you like, but that’s all you get. A child’s ears shouldn’t hear these things.”
Hood said nothing to this, but I was watching his face, something like excitement building in his eyes and the trim of his mouth right up until Glendon made that comment about a child’s ears. I never met a child who liked being called one; sure enough it turned a switch, and Hood nodded
all right then
and climbed back in the car.
* * *
Kansas continued flat. I still hungered for a hillside or building to break the tedium. Sculptors call this
relief
and they are right. I learned to take pleasure in the windmills spinning bravely along the route, announcing farms. Hood also loved the windmills and named the brands by heart: there’s a Dempster, he’d say. There’s a Aermotor. There’s a Monitor. He knew them by profile and the action of their blades in flight. Some rose thirty or more feet into the sky and to me seemed grand signals of optimism or defiance; many were mounted only on stubby legs reaching nine or ten feet in the air. I asked Hood what Kansas did for water before the windmill came—he replied, Before the windmill there wasn’t no Kansas.
All this time the Packard performed heroically. Time to time we’d stop and wait for our dust to settle and look back for the strange auto. Sometimes it was there, other times not. Once a brown
Similar Books
