cheeseburgers, fries, a box of Fig Newtons, and a six-pack of Coca-Cola in the floorboard behind Sherylynne’s seat, they crossed the Sabine River into Louisiana.
“Another fifteen miles,” Sherylynne said. She sat forward on the seat, picking at the buttons on her shirtfront.
At first he thought she was tense with eagerness. But then she slid back down in the seat, hands clamped between her knees, glancing furtively, almost fearfully, out the window, watching the landscape sliding past—trailer houses, clapboard houses on piers, ditches of alga-green water, ragged pines, hackberry, cypress, underbrush smothered under kudzu—everything hazy in the heavy, humid air.
“You nervous?” he asked.
She half turned, looking at him aslant. “Of course I’m nervous. Who wouldn’t be?”
They passed a bank of grain elevators, then drove through Vinton itself—several blocks of decrepit one-story buildings strung out along either side of Highway 90—a post office, feed store, drugstore.
“I hadn’t realized how…” She trailed off.
“How what?” he said.
“I don’t know…how…how run down? Something…”
They left Vinton. A few miles farther she said, “Okay, slow down now. See that mailbox up there on the left? That’s it.”
A sandy, pot-holed track ran fifty yards off the highway to a little boxlike house with a screened-in porch on front. An older GMC pickup stood alongside.
Harley brought the car to a stop. Sherylynne sat for a moment, watching the house until he thought she might be waiting for him to come around and open the door for her. Then she got out. Harley followed. A shadowy figure appeared behind the screen door.
“Mama?”
The screen opened a little. A woman Harley assumed was Sherylynne’s mother eased her head out, tilted up to one side, mouth open. Harley was surprised that she looked older than he expected, her face small, hard, knotty.
“What in the world…?” she began, her little red face blooming into a smile of surprise. She stepped down from the porch onto the concrete step, arms open.
“Mama, it’s so good to see you!” Sherylynne said, clasped in the woman’s little birdlike grip.
“Sherylynne, honey…” her mother began, taking a half-step back, clutching Sherylynne’s upper arms, looking her up and down, her eyes wet.
Sherylynne stood back, half turning to Harley. “Mama,” she said, voice breaking a little, “this is Harley that I wrote you about. Harley, this is my mom.”
Her mother’s expression fell just a shade as she took him in. “Martha Riley,” she said distantly, offering her hand.
Harley stepped up alongside Sherylynne and shook her mother’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. He could see she was sizing him up.
“Harley…yes…” Her mother looked briefly from one to the other. “Well, now. Y’all come on in.” She took another look at Harley, then they followed her inside the screened porch and on into the living room.
“I was just about to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but I’ll thaw out some catfish and make us all a nice dinner.”
“No, no,” Sherylynne said. “We picked up some burgers and fries in Orange. They might need heating up a little by now.”
“Oh, you needn’t a-done that,” her mother said.
Sherylynne glanced toward the hallway leading off the kitchen. “Farrell shipping?”
“He’s prob’ly going through the Panama Canal about now,” her mother said with a little nervous giggle.
“Are you doing okay here by yourself?” Sherylynne asked.
“Oh, yes. My brother, Willard, he comes by now and then. He’s the one brought the catfish. He does that.”
“I wish you’d get a telephone.”
“Well, you know. Farrell says they cost too much, all the calls and whatever.”
“He still picking up jobs, hanging out at the union hall in Orange?”
“And sometimes Beaumont and Lake Charles, yes.”
“I’ll bring the food
“Another fifteen miles,” Sherylynne said. She sat forward on the seat, picking at the buttons on her shirtfront.
At first he thought she was tense with eagerness. But then she slid back down in the seat, hands clamped between her knees, glancing furtively, almost fearfully, out the window, watching the landscape sliding past—trailer houses, clapboard houses on piers, ditches of alga-green water, ragged pines, hackberry, cypress, underbrush smothered under kudzu—everything hazy in the heavy, humid air.
“You nervous?” he asked.
She half turned, looking at him aslant. “Of course I’m nervous. Who wouldn’t be?”
They passed a bank of grain elevators, then drove through Vinton itself—several blocks of decrepit one-story buildings strung out along either side of Highway 90—a post office, feed store, drugstore.
“I hadn’t realized how…” She trailed off.
“How what?” he said.
“I don’t know…how…how run down? Something…”
They left Vinton. A few miles farther she said, “Okay, slow down now. See that mailbox up there on the left? That’s it.”
A sandy, pot-holed track ran fifty yards off the highway to a little boxlike house with a screened-in porch on front. An older GMC pickup stood alongside.
Harley brought the car to a stop. Sherylynne sat for a moment, watching the house until he thought she might be waiting for him to come around and open the door for her. Then she got out. Harley followed. A shadowy figure appeared behind the screen door.
“Mama?”
The screen opened a little. A woman Harley assumed was Sherylynne’s mother eased her head out, tilted up to one side, mouth open. Harley was surprised that she looked older than he expected, her face small, hard, knotty.
“What in the world…?” she began, her little red face blooming into a smile of surprise. She stepped down from the porch onto the concrete step, arms open.
“Mama, it’s so good to see you!” Sherylynne said, clasped in the woman’s little birdlike grip.
“Sherylynne, honey…” her mother began, taking a half-step back, clutching Sherylynne’s upper arms, looking her up and down, her eyes wet.
Sherylynne stood back, half turning to Harley. “Mama,” she said, voice breaking a little, “this is Harley that I wrote you about. Harley, this is my mom.”
Her mother’s expression fell just a shade as she took him in. “Martha Riley,” she said distantly, offering her hand.
Harley stepped up alongside Sherylynne and shook her mother’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. He could see she was sizing him up.
“Harley…yes…” Her mother looked briefly from one to the other. “Well, now. Y’all come on in.” She took another look at Harley, then they followed her inside the screened porch and on into the living room.
“I was just about to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but I’ll thaw out some catfish and make us all a nice dinner.”
“No, no,” Sherylynne said. “We picked up some burgers and fries in Orange. They might need heating up a little by now.”
“Oh, you needn’t a-done that,” her mother said.
Sherylynne glanced toward the hallway leading off the kitchen. “Farrell shipping?”
“He’s prob’ly going through the Panama Canal about now,” her mother said with a little nervous giggle.
“Are you doing okay here by yourself?” Sherylynne asked.
“Oh, yes. My brother, Willard, he comes by now and then. He’s the one brought the catfish. He does that.”
“I wish you’d get a telephone.”
“Well, you know. Farrell says they cost too much, all the calls and whatever.”
“He still picking up jobs, hanging out at the union hall in Orange?”
“And sometimes Beaumont and Lake Charles, yes.”
“I’ll bring the food
Similar Books
