The Essential Ellison Part 80

No gravel-spreader or snow plough had come out yet, and it was a safe bet none would till morning. In the meantime, conditions were getting unbearable. With only one lane open at all-and that covered with a veneer of ice-and snow drifting in from the sides constantly, there was no telling how long even their fifteen-mile-an-hour pace could be maintained.

They would have to find a motel. Someplace to eat, where the children could get warm, where they could bed down to restore their strength, for the balance of the journey to Chicago.

They would have to find a motel...

He tossed the thought like a wild mare shedding its rider. Then he looked into the rear-view mirror, and saw the futility of the thought.

His chocolate face with its keen eyes and wide, white mouthful of teeth stared back at him. And Alma was even blacker.

He screwed his hands down tighter on the wheel.

There had been only three colored motels between Macon and this lost point somewhere in the Kentucky darkness. Three motels, and all of them disgusting. Kin Hooker sometimes wondered if there was any point to fighting. This conclave in Chicago, now. He had been selected by all of them as the Macon, Georgia, representative. He was to receive his instructions, and then one day...

He decided not to think about it. It was all in the future; a special kind of future that he never really thought would come to pa.s.s, but which he dwelled on in hungry-souled moments.

Right now, the problem was to keep alive.

"Kin, we gonna make Chicago tonight?""I don't see how, honey. It's a good four hundred miles, and frankly, my back is sore as h.e.l.l right now."

"What we gonna do? You figure we can sleep in the car?"

He shook his head, keeping his eyes riveted to the faint twin-beams of brilliance cast so feebly through the swirling curtain of snow. "You know we'd have to keep the engine running, and even so the heater wouldn't do us much good tonight; looks to be dropping fast out there."

"They gonna be a stop along here somewhere?"

He tossed her a fast glance. She knew it had come to this, too. It always did. They didn't talk about it, because you can't talk about the facts of life constantly without growing bored and despairing. "I don't think so. Maybe. We'll see."

He turned back just in time to apply the brake before he hit the rear of the farm truck. It was an old truck without taillights, and as he slapped the brake, then pumped quickly, the car lost its feeble grip on the road and began to spin. He turned into it, and they managed to straighten without losing acceleration.

But for a shuddering time without measure, now that the danger was past, he sat rigid behind the wheel, his eyes locked to the road in shock, trembling uncontrollably.

It was decided, for him, then. They would have to stop at the very next motel or restaurant. He knew what would happen, of course. He was not a stupid man; in the secret crypts of his thoughts he often d.a.m.ned himself for not being a "handkerchief head," illiterate and content to let Mr. Charlie run his life. But he had grown up in Michigan, and it had been a good growing-up, with only a scattered few of those unbearable incidents he now wished to forget. Oh, there had been the constant watching of caste and conversation, of course, but that grew to be an instinctive thing. In all, it had been satisfactory, till he had been inveigled into going to work in Georgia.

Then he had learned the ropes quickly, as he was wont to phrase it. He had learned what a whitey meant when he said, "The line of communication between the n.i.g.g.e.r and the Caucasian." It was not plural; there was only one line. The line that read: I'm the Ma.s.sa' and you're the One-Step-Up-From-A-Monkey, and don't forget it.

McKinley Hooker was not a stupid man, and now, because he had been chosen, he was an emissary to a conclave in Chicago. A very special conclave, so he had to make it.

There had been many years of taking orders, and now he had a new set of orders, the final wrinkles of which would be ironed out at Chicago. So he had to get to the Chicago conclave, and find out what the final instructions were to be; then he could carry the word back to his people in Macon.

Perhaps...perhaps it would be the beginning. The real beginning, where those who searched for the word would find the word, and the word would be power. Perhaps. If all the gears meshed properly, then perhaps.

If he managed to stay alive through this January h.e.l.l. He cursed himself for bringing Alma and the children along; but it had been clear all the way up from Georgia, and they had never seen Chicago. If they could only get to a motel. If...

Far ahead-or what seemed far ahead-lost in the crisscrossing lines of snow, he thought he saw a flamingo-flash of neon. He strained forward, and wiped at a spot on the winds.h.i.+eld where the defrosters had not cleared away all moisture. The flash came again. He felt both a release and a tension in his stomach muscles.

As they drew closer the red flasher could be seen whirling atop the restaurant's roof, casting off its s.p.a.ced bdip bdip bdip bdip of crimson. The redness swathed the ground in a broken band and was gone, to reappear an instant later.

The sign was forbidding, it said: EAT.

Alma turned her head slowly as Kin decelerated. "Here? You think they'll serve us?"

He rubbed his jaw, then quickly dropped the hand back to the wheel. He had a day's growth of beard, and none of them looked too well-starched, after being on the road. "I don't know; I guess they'll just have to feed us; you can't turn people away on a night like this."

She chuckled softly. He was still a big-town colored, in many ways.

They turned onto the snow-hidden gravel, and Kin pulled carefully around two gigantic semitrailers parked near the entrance. Then as they drew around the bulk of the vehicles, the sign that had been blocked-off winked at them. MOTEL FREE TV SHOWERS and underneath, in a dainty green worm of neon: VACANCY.

The semitrailers bulked huge, like sleeping leviathans, under their wraps of snow. It was getting worse. The wind keened around the little building like a night train to nowhere.

He stopped, and they sat there for a moment, letting the windows fog up around them.

Alma was worried, her brow drawn down, her hands in their knitted gloves interlocked on her lap. "Should we say stay here while you go in?"

He shook his head. "It might have some effect if all of us went in together. Stir their hearts."

They woke Raymond and Patty. The little girl sat up and yawned, then picked her nose with the lack of self-consciousness known only to a child upon awakening. She mumbled something, and Alma soothed her with a few words that they were going to stop to eat.

Patty said, very distinctly, "I have to go pee-pee, Mommy."

It loosened their tenseness for a jagged second, then the implications dawned. This was another problem. Well, let's tough it out, Kin thought wryly, a prayer rising silently from somewhere below.

When they opened the doors, the sharp edge of the wind slashed at them, instantly dispelling the body warmth they had maintained in the sealed car. The children began to s.h.i.+ver, and an involuntary little gasp came from Alma, barely discernible over the raging of the wind and the constant downdropping of the snow.

"Let's go!" Kin shrieked, lifting Patty and charging at the motel-restaurant's front door.

He hit the door at a skidding run, turned the k.n.o.b and flung the door wide. Alma crowded in behind him, and slammed the door as Raymond moved in on her heels.

They stood frozen for a split-second, till the shock of the bitter cold left them, and then, abruptly, their senses returned.

They stood there, the four of them, in the middle of the restaurant, and slowly, everyone had turned to stare at them.

Kin felt a worm of terror leave its home and seek warmth elsewhere. It crawled toward his brain as he saw the eyes of the men in the restaurant fasten on them. He knew what they saw: a n.i.g.g.e.r, a n.i.g.g.e.r's woman, and two little pickaninnies: He shuddered. It was not entirely from the cold.

Alma, behind him, drew in a deep breath.

Then, the thick-armed counterman, leaning across the Formica counter-top, furrowed his brow and said, very carefully, so there was no chance for misinterpretation, "Sorry, fellah, we can't serve you."

Then all the suppressed hopes that this time, just this one time of such importance, it would be different, that someone would let it slide, disappeared. It was going to be another battleground, in a war that had never really been fought.

"It's pretty bad out there," Kin said, "we thought we might get something hot to warm us up. We've been driving all day, all the way from-"

The counterman cut him off with a harsh Midwest accent, not a trace of drawl in it. "I said: I'm sorry but we don't serve Nigrahs here." The way he said it was a cross between Negro and n.i.g.g.e.r. His voice was harder.

Kin stared at the man; what sort of man was it?

A thick neck supporting a crew-cut head. It looked like some off-color, fleshy burr on the end of a toadstool stem. Huge shoulders, bulging against the lumberjack s.h.i.+rt, and a pair of arms that said quietly musclebound and muscled. Kin was sure he could take the counterman.

But there were others. Four men, obviously truckers, with their caps slanted back on their heads, their eyes coolly inquisitive, their union b.u.t.tons on the caps catching the glow of the overheads.

And a man and woman at the end of the counter. The woman's pudgy face was screwed up in distaste. She was a Southron, no question. They were able to look at you in a way like no other way. They were smelling hog maws and chitterlings and pomade. Even if it wasn't there.

Even as they talked, a waitress came out from the kitchen, carrying a plate with steak and home-fried potatoes on it. She stopped in an awkward mid-stride and stared at the newcomers. Her head jerked oddly and she turned to the counterman. "We don't serve 'em, Eddie," she said, as though he had never known this fact.

"That's what, I been telling' em, Una. See, fellah, we-uh-we don't serve your people here. Gas, we got it, but that's it."

"It's winter out there," Kin said. "My wife and kids-"

The counterman reached down and took something from under the bar that he kept concealed. "You don't seem to hear too good, fellah. What I said was: we ain't in business for you."

"We need a room for the night, too," Alma inserted, a quavering bravado in her voice. She knew they would get nothing, and it was her way of having them turned down for everything, not just a lousy meal. Kin winced at her petty game-playing.

"Say, now, get outta here!" the waitress yelled. Her face was a grimace of outrage. Who were these darkies, anyhow?

"Take it easy, Una, just take it easy. They're goin'. Ain'tcha, fellah?" He came out from behind the bar, holding the sawed-off baseball bat loosely in his left hand.

Kin backed away.

It was going to be fight this big clown, and maybe get his brains knocked out, and even then not getting food and sleep, unless it was at the county jail...or going back to the car, and the cold.

There could be little decision in the matter.

"Let's go, Alma," he said. He reached behind him and opened the door. The cold struck him suddenly, sharply, like a cobra; he felt his teeth clench in frustration and pain.

Eddie, the counterman, advanced on them with the ball bat and his arms like curlicued sausages of great size. "G'wan now, and don't be makin' me use this on yer."

"Is there a colored place near here?" Kin asked, as Alma grabbed Raymond and slipped past into the darkness.

"No...and there ain't gonna be, if we c'n help it. We got a business to run here, not for you people. G'wan to Illinois, where they treat a n.i.g.g.e.r better'n a white man."

He came on again, and Kin backed out, closing the door tightly, staring at the 7-Up decal on the door. Then the wind raced down the neck of his coat, and he hurried to the car.

The three of them were huddled together in the front seat.

"Daddy, I gotta go pee-pee," Patty said.

"Soon, honey. Soon," he murmured at her, sliding in. He turned the key in the ignition and for a moment he did not think the overheated, then chilled, motor would start. But it kicked over and they pulled ahead, past the forms of the trucks, like great white whales sleeping in shoals of snow.

The road was worse now.

Cars were strewn on either side of the dual-lane like flotsam left after the tide. Kin Hooker bent across the wheel, slipping automatically into the rib-straining position he had known all day.

His thoughts were clear, now.

For almost two years now, since they had started the idea, he had been undecided. Certainly it would be decisive, and a new world, and worth fighting for. But so many would be killed, so many, many, many who were innocent, and who had nothing to do with this war that had never been fought.

But it was all right, now. He had received his instructions, and he was going to make that conclave in Chicago. Somehow, he would drive that distance.

And even if he didn't. Even if he and Alma, Raymond and Patty should overturn out here, if they should freeze to death, or be cracked up, there would be others. Many others, all heading to Chicago this day, and all waiting for the final word.

It was coming.

Nothing could stop it.

Whitey had had it his way for so long, so terribly long, and now the time had come for a change of owners. It had come to this and there was no stopping it. He had been uncertain before, because he was not a man of violence...but suddenly, it was right. It was the way it would be, because they had forced it this way.

Kin Hooker smiled as he studied the disappearing highway.

Like a million other dark smiles that night, across a white countryside.

A wide, white smile in a dark face.

Shattered Like a Gla.s.s Goblin So it was there, eight months later, that Rudy found her; in that huge and ugly house off Western Avenue in Los Angeles; living with them, all of them; not just Jonah, but all of them.

It was November in Los Angeles, near sundown, and unaccountably chill even for the fall in that place always near the sun. He came down the sidewalk and stopped in front of the place. It was gothic hideous, with the gra.s.s half-cut and the rusted lawnmower sitting in the middle of an unfinished swath. Gra.s.s cut as if a placating gesture to the outraged tenants of the two lanai apartment houses that loomed over that squat structure on either side. (Yet how strange...the apartment buildings were taller, the old house hunched down between them, but it seemed to dominate them. How odd.) Cardboard covered the upstairs windows.

A baby carriage was overturned on the front walk.

The front door was ornately carved.

Darkness seemed to breathe heavily.

Rudy s.h.i.+fted the duffel bag slightly on his shoulder. He was afraid of the house. He was breathing more heavily as he stood there, and a panic he could never have described tightened the fat muscles on either side of his shoulderblades. He looked up into the corners of the darkening sky, seeking a way out, but he could only go forward. Kristina was in there.

Another girl answered the door.

She looked at him without speaking, her long blonde hair half-obscuring her face; peering out from inside the veil of Clairol and dirt.

When he asked a second time for Kris, she wet her lips in the corners, and a tic made her cheek jump. Rudy set down the duffel bag with a whump. "Kris, please," he said urgently.

The blonde girl turned away and walked back into the dim hallways of the terrible old house. Rudy stood in the open doorway, and suddenly, as if the blonde girl had been a barrier to it, and her departure had released it, he was a.s.saulted, like a smack in the face, by a wall of pungent scent. It was marijuana.

He reflexively inhaled, and his head reeled. He took a step back, into the last inches of sunlight coming over the lanai apartment building, and then it was gone, and he was still buzzing, and moved forward, dragging the duffel bag behind him.

He did not remember closing the front door, but when he looked, some time later, it was closed behind him.

He found Kris on the third floor, lying against the wall of a dark closet, her left hand stroking a faded pink rag rabbit, her right hand at her mouth, the little finger crooked, the thumb-ring roach holder half-obscured as she sucked up the last wonders of the joint. The closet held an infinitude of odors-dirty sweat socks as pungent as stew, fleece jackets on which the rain had dried to mildew, a mop gracious with its scent of old dust hardened to dirt, the overriding weed smell of what she had been at for no one knew how long-and it held her. As pretty as pretty could be.

"Kris?"

Slowly, her head came up, and she saw him. Much later, she tracked and focused and she began to cry. "Go away."

In the limpid silences of the whispering house, back and above him in the darkness, Rudy heard the sudden sound of leather wings beating furiously for a second, then nothing.

Rudy crouched down beside her, his heart grown twice its size in his chest. He wanted so desperately to reach her, to talk to her. "Kris...please..." She turned her head away, and with the hand that had been stroking the rabbit she slapped at him awkwardly, missing him.

For an instant, Rudy could have sworn he heard the sound of someone counting heavy gold pieces, somewhere off to his right, down a pa.s.sageway of the third floor. But when he half-turned, and looked out through the closet door, and tried to focus his hearing on it, there was no sound to home in on.