Zack (11 page)

I had lied to my parents and grandparents, taken the family wheels without permission, almost gotten myself arrested and my head broken, smashed up the truck—and for what? To find a grandfather my mother wouldn’t talk to for reasons I didn’t know. It began to look like living in Fergus had ruined my brain after all.

I sipped some lukewarm coffee left over from the day before and dabbed the cut in my forehead—it had begun to bleed again when I cracked it against the truck wall during the storm—while I thought about my options. It didn’t take long. I had only two choices. I could continue my goofy quest or I could
point the truck north and go home. Maybe, I thought, I could get back in time to get the truck repaired before my parents returned and pretend nothing had happened. That idea died with the first mosquito of the morning as it tried to bore a hole in my forearm. I hadn’t really thought about the net result of leaving home, but I had known I’d really be in for it, regardless of the condition of the truck. They would find out. That was clear.

And besides, if I slunk back to Fergus I would have nothing to justify my lies and mistakes. My only hope was the remote possibility that no matter what punishment was eventually laid on me I could tell myself it was worth it because I had met my grandfather and seen where I had come from. To go home now would mean wasting Pawpine’s gold.

I headed south. Confident? Happy? Not on your life. As I shifted up through the gears I recalled a phrase from a novel, “It’s gone south.” The expression meant it’s screwed up.

Under different conditions I would have enjoyed the drive down the Trace. It was a sunny day, the air was fresh after the storm, the scenery was pretty and there were so few cars and campers on the road I could pretend it was mine.

But the closer I got to Natchez, the more real it all became and the deeper my nervousness grew. The Trace ended east of town at Highway 61, the same
highway Mom had sung about in her most famous tune, and when I turned onto that road I did something I’ve done all my life, something I had practised to perfection—I procrastinated.

On the edge of town was a strip of discount motels and fast-food restaurants. It was eight o’clock and I had driven all day. It wouldn’t look good, I rationalized, to arrive late in the evening at my grandfather’s house, dirty and underfed.

So I hit one of the greasy spoons on the strip and took away two jumbo hamburgers, a large order of fries, a fruit pie and a “maxi-jug” of ginger ale, then drove into a run-down motel called the Plantation Inn and parked under the sign that said Office/Vacancy in pink neon. The screen door creaked as I entered.

A moment later a middle-aged woman wearing a wrinkled apron pushed through a bead curtain and stood at the counter. Behind her a TV flickered—some game show or other—and I heard the muted cheers of the audience.

The woman crossed her pale arms on the counter-top. “Help you?” she said, deadpan. A drop of sweat trickled across her temple.

“I’d like a room for the night, please. Nonsmoking.”

She eyed me up and down with the enthusiasm of a rattlesnake, looked past me to the dented truck idling outside the door.

“We’re full up tonight.”

“Oh,” I said. “But the sign says you have a vacancy.”

“All the rooms is reserved.”

“You have nothing left?”

“I don’t think y’all’d be happy here,” she said with finality. “Y’all might could try The Oaks just down the road.”

She turned and slipped through the curtain, the beads rattling as they came back together.

What the hell’s with her? I wondered as I got into the truck. I turned around in the empty lot. Although I counted at least twenty doors in the motel, only three had cars parked in front.

At The Oaks I was told by the manager, “Got lotsa room, son. Pretty slow around here this week.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “The Plantation Inn was full.”

“All booked up, you mean?” he said, smiling and running a broad hand over his bare scalp. The stubble on his face was white against his coal-black skin. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

I registered and paid him in cash.

Once inside the small room, which was panelled with imitation wood and smelled damp and musty, I activated the air-conditioner, flicked on the TV, collapsed in the one armchair and watched a ball game as I wolfed down my supper. With the food sitting in my stomach like a stone, I stripped down and took a long cool shower. Then I dressed in fresh
clothes. I sat on the bed and picked up the phone.

First, I called Montreal. I tried to sound breezy and noncommittal as I answered the standard list of parent questions—the How-are-you and Did-you-remember variety. The blues festival was great, Dad told me. Mom was knocking them dead, getting standing ovations, making lots of contacts. He was practising his French, visiting art galleries and museums. Had my marks from school come in the mail yet? Mom wanted to know. Was I eating enough?

“No, and I’m still alive, Mom,” I told her.

After I said goodbye I phoned my grandparents.

“What’s with the phone company?” Grandpa complained. “You’re not fixed yet?”

I assured him that the company had promised they’d be out tomorrow to check the lines.

“I’ll bet,” he said. “Heard from your mom and dad?”

I gave him a quick summary and promised to call again tomorrow.

I failed to find anything worth watching on any of the four channels, so I undressed and slid between the damp sheets. The rooms on each side of me were empty and quiet. The air-conditioner whined and clunked, smothering most of the noise from the highway, charging the air with stale odour more than cooling it.

I couldn’t sleep. Would I find my grandfather tomorrow? And if I did, how would he react to my
springing up from nowhere without warning? What was the big secret that had come between my mother and him?

It had rained during the night, but not enough to clean the mud and dust from the Toyota, which looked forlorn and beaten under the late-morning sun. I tossed my bag into the cab, climbed into the truck and removed the Christmas card from my front pocket and read the name and address written inside it for the hundredth time. I consulted my Mississippi road map, poring over the inset map of Natchez, and started the truck.

“Well, Grandpa,” I said. “Here I come, ready or not.”

S
t. Catherine Street was a tree-lined and canopied tunnel running between Pine and Cemetery Roads, flanked by grand old houses that favoured white columns in front and galleries running down the sides. I parked in front of number 19 and walked up a flagstone path through a vast cloud of fragrant rose bushes. Gathering my resolve, I knocked on the big front door. My grandfather must be pretty well off, I mused.

The door opened to reveal an older woman, tall and straight as the columns on each side of her, wearing diamond stud earrings and a pink dress that set off her strawberry blond hair with white roots. Her thick eyebrows came together in a frown.

“Deliveries are made round the back,” she said, her voice refined, her speech smooth and drawn out.

I had taken care that morning to wear clean pants and a white shirt. I hadn’t thought I looked like a delivery boy.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said in my politest tone, “I’m looking for Mr. Lucas Straight.”

“Y’all have the wrong house,” she said, stepping back and moving to close the door.

“But—” I drew the envelope from my shirt pocket. “This is 19 St. Catherine Street, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But no one of that name lives here, or ever has. Or ever would,” she added with a withering frown. “I think you want the
other
St. Catherine Street, north of town. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

And the door closed. So much for Southern hospitality.

The
other
St. Catherine Street was a dirt road running alongside a meandering river outside of town between Cemetery Road and the Mississippi River. This, I said to myself as I drove past a clapboard shack with two decrepit cannibalized cars in the front yard, is more like it. A plume of yellow dust followed the truck as I drove slowly, reading the faded names on mailboxes that stood on the roadside in front of frame bungalows spaced far enough apart to allow glimpses of the river through thick-trunked and moss-shrouded trees.

My stomach ached. I was finally here; I could feel it, and my courage melted in the baking sun and drifted away on the hot breeze that carried the odour of tepid water and rotting vegetation from the river. Why wasn’t I excited, eager to shake my grandfather’s hand? Because the Family Mystery would loom over our meeting like an unfinished fight. Because I had no idea whether my grandfather would embrace me or push me down the stairs. For the second time since I had arrived in Natchez, I
procrastinated. Maybe I should just play it cool for a while, I thought, feel things out a little bit, before I let him know who I am.

The houses grew farther apart, the road bumpier and narrower. I followed a curve and was almost past the mailbox before I caught sight of the letters on it, CAS STRAI, which I took to be the remains of LUCAS STRAIGHT. I shut off the truck and let it coast to a stop on the shoulder.

The cabin was sided with weathered grey planks, its rusted tin roof shaded by those tall, wide-canopied trees I had seen many times in movies that take place in the South—live oaks. A gallery ran across the front and down one side of the house, and a picket fence that looked as if it hadn’t seen paint since before I was born enclosed a hard-packed swept dirt yard. The place had an air of neatness and cleanliness. An old man sat in a chaise that hung on chains from the gallery rafters, fanning himself as he read a book.

Completely rattled by now, afraid to confront the stranger, I groped for a plan. I got out of the truck, opened the hood and pulled the ignition wire out of the coil. I climbed into the cab, turned the key and heard the motor turn over valiantly without firing. I got out again and stood in the dust of the road, shaking my head in mock frustration. I looked at the cabin.

The old man was watching me. I pushed open the front gate and walked across the yard. I stood in front of my grandfather.

It was him, all right. It had to be. His nose, sharply bridged and flared wide at the nostrils, was a double for my mother’s, as was his high broad forehead. His thick upper lip was dented, like Louis Armstrong’s.

I took off my hat, swallowed hard, and said, “Hi, sir, I—”

He put his book aside. “How are y’all doin’ today?”

“Er, fine, thanks. And you?”

“Can’t complain.”

“I wonder if I could trouble you for a glass of water.”

“Help yourself to a glass of tea, son.”

I’m not even going to try to reproduce his accent. He spoke in a deep, raspy voice and dragged out his words, slipping in extra syllables, as if he had all day to complete a sentence.

There was a pitcher of amber liquid and a few empty plastic tumblers on a table beside the swing. A walking stick leaned against the house beside the table. When I had poured and tasted the iced tea he invited me to sit in the cane chair opposite him.

“Y’all want me to call a tow truck for you?”

“No! I mean, no, thanks, sir. I think I can get the truck going again.”

“Y’all from up north somewheres, ain’t you?”

“Ohio.”

I picked that state because their licence plates were blue and white, like Ontario’s. I thought he
might get suspicious if I told him the truth.

He nodded. “Thought so.” The fan began to move again and the chains holding the swing creaked.

“Sure is hot down here,” I commented. “And humid.”

The old man nodded. The fan wafted back and forth.

“Do you live alone here?” I asked.

Another nod. “Got lots of relations nearby, though.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I never have been good at small talk. So I set my empty glass on the table and stood up.

“Well, thanks for the tea. I guess I’ll get to work on that truck.”

“Give a yell if y’all need a hand,” he said.

The afternoon sun threw shadows across the road. I lay on my back in the dirt and pulled myself under the truck and looked at the oily underside of the engine for a while, dragging out my little masquerade and wondering what to do next. I shifted my position so I could see the porch. He hadn’t picked up his book. He was watching me. Maybe he’s suspicious, I thought. A young guy from up north turns up in his front yard asking questions, no wonder he’s wary.

I struggled out from under the Toyota, beat the dust off my pants and leaned over the outside fender, peering at the little four-cylinder engine like a surgeon working up a diagnosis. When I looked up at
the gallery the old man was smoking a pipe. A while later he stood, picked up the cane and walked stiffly down the steps and through the gate.

He was taller than I had thought, thin and wiry, with a slight stoop. He leaned on the cane as he moved, as if his right knee was locked. Before he got to me I reseated the cable in the coil and straightened up.

“Think I found the problem,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Would you believe it, a loose wire.”

And I’m your grandson, I almost blurted. Instead I got into the truck as he stood leaning on his cane and looking at the motor. I turned the key and the engine came to life. I revved it a bit for show.

Now what? I asked myself. Maybe I’ll just take off home and write him a letter. I had dug myself into a hole by pretending and I felt stupid, conscious that, if I revealed my identity now, he would probably think I belonged in a mental home. I sat there, furious at myself for being a coward but not angry enough to rouse my courage.

Instead I said, “Sir, do you mind if I ask your name?”

“Lucas Straight,” he said. He paused, and when I said nothing he added, “And yours?”

This was my chance. If I told him, what would he do? Tell me to take a hike? Scream curses? Like so many other times in my life I sat mute, my brain in
neutral. I took a deep breath. “Mike Wilkes,” I said, using Jen’s last name.

“Well, Mike,” he rasped around the stem of his pipe, “y’all seem right handy with motors.”