The Longest Road (7 page)

“Maybe you was just in the wrong place,” said the farmer.

“I sure was.” Morrigan shook hands all the way down to the tiny blond girl who finally, shyly, answered his smile. “Good luck. But I'm sure hopin' for you that you find a good place short of California.”

“I won't be far behind you folks,” Daddy said, also shaking hands. “Whatever's out there can't be worse'n this.”

As they drove off, Laurie didn't look back. It was too sad, watching the family pack up their lives and years and hopes into an old truck. But for one thing she envied them. They were together, and they'd stay together.

Morrigan was driving. They'd all drunk their fill of cold, sweet water from the well. Now they stashed the jars where they'd stay coolest and settled down for the drive to Clinton. Morrigan started humming. It turned into words mocked by the curl of his lip and the bitter edge of his voice.

“California water tastes like cherry wine.

California water tastes like cherry wine.

Oklahoma water tastes like turpentine …”

They drove through Woodward in the twilight. It had a courthouse, Carnegie library, American Legion Hall, brick business buildings, and several parks. A pretty little town, Laurie thought wistfully, a good place to live and feel you belonged. Would their family ever settle in a place like this again, have a real home?

“We're gettin' east of where the storm was worst,” Daddy said, as the headlights flickered wanly on the road. “Fences aren't drifted over and there's grass amongst them Roosian thistles that sure are lookin' healthy. When they dry up, tumbleweeds'll be scootin' across the land like they was people. Farther we can get tonight the less drivin' we'll have in the heat of the day. How's about we travel till nine o'clock or a flat tire, whichever comes first?”

“Fine by me,” said Morrigan.

The flat tire came at eight-thirty, according to the kitchen clock Daddy had wired to the dashboard. Luckily, they were near another dry wash where enough limbs had dropped from cottonwoods to build a fire. By its light, the men jacked up the car and fixed the flat while Laurie and her drowsy brother got out the bedding and plates and utensils. Laurie put on the coffeepot and, at Morrigan's insistence, got the cans of salmon and peaches out of his old canvas sack, opened them, and set the cans on a tea towel with bread and what was left of the slaw.

Buddy was hungry now. He must have been sick from heat and the motion of the car—and from leaving home. As they ate by the cheerful dance of the fire, Laurie couldn't help but think how different that day and the night to come would've been without Morrigan.
Did you send him, Mama? Do you know what's happening to us? Do you still love us or is it like the preacher says, that folks in heaven don't grieve anymore? Is being with God so wonderful that you've forgotten us? I don't believe that! I don't believe it at all!
Even worse than Mama's dying was thinking that maybe she didn't care about them now, that she couldn't love anyone but God.

No matter how Laurie tried to deny that shattering fear, it took away her appetite. She nibbled at some bread and ate a little salmon because Morrigan put it on her plate. When he offered peaches, she shook her head.

“No, thank you very much,” she said the way Mama had taught them. Manners don't cost anything, Mama used to say. Laurie had to remember, remember everything, so she could teach Buddy.

Morrigan's right eyebrow climbed to his dark hair. “My singin' turn your stomach, honey?”

“Oh, no! I just—” Daddy had gone to the car for something. It was parked just off the road and he was out of earshot. Laurie blurted, “Do you think dead people know what's going on with people they used to love? Do you think they care?”

Buddy quit chewing. His eyes fixed on Morrigan. Had he been wondering the same thing? She'd have to get better at guessing what went on inside her little brother. He wasn't going to tell her, and she was all he'd have. If Morrigan laughed or said she was silly—

He considered for a moment, brow furrowing. “Why, Laurie, if there's anything left of us at all, it has to be love. That's one thing I agree with in the Bible—love is stronger than death.”

The way he said it made her believe it. She'd believe anything he said. She brushed at tears. “I don't want Mama to feel bad, Mr. Morrigan. But it—it'd be so lonesome if she didn't care about us anymore—”

Setting down his plate, he put one arm around her and one around Buddy. “She cares. She loves you. But where she is, she can see past what's going on now. She knows you'll do fine, both of you, and that when you've lived out your good lives, you'll be with her again.”

“Do—do you really believe that?” Buddy asked.

“I believe it more than anything I've ever said.” Morrigan gave Laurie a blue bandanna handkerchief that had his smell on it. “That coffee sure smells good and I've got a can of evaporated milk.” He glanced up at Daddy who had returned with a clean shirt for tomorrow. Daddy was particular about how he looked and kept his shoes shined even when the soles were mostly cardboard patches. “Is it okay for the youngsters to have coffee this late if we put in plenty of Borden's?”

“If they want some, I guess it's fine.” Daddy chuckled at Buddy's delight.

The golden peaches tempted Laurie now. She had some with a cup of creamy rich coffee and felt content and lazy, as if her bones had dissolved. She was by no means sorry that there wasn't enough water to heat for dishes.

“I'll take care of these.” Morrigan collected the plates, forks, and spoons. From fallen bark, he tore off the fibrous lining and wiped the things clean before discarding the fuzzy scourers a good way from camp.

When he returned almost soundlessly, first a shadow, then with the firelight on him, Buddy said, “Could you play your guitar again, sir?”

“Son,” rebuked Daddy, “Mr. Morrigan's tired.”

“My strummin' fingers are a mite sore,” said Morrigan. “But I can sure play you some tunes on the harmonica.”

He got it out of his bundle, which was astonishing in the way it seemed to hold just what was needed. The french harp was about six inches long, plated with scrolled silver that flashed in the firelight. Sitting cross-legged, Morrigan made music you couldn't believe come from such a little contrivance: trains thundering down the tracks, whistles blowing, coyotes laughing like the ones in the distance, hooty owls, and the mournful wailing of the wind.

The man's body moved to the music, sort of a pulsing, and his long brown fingers could flicker across the front of the harp, causing a poignant vibration like a sob. He used his tongue to make trills and tremolos. It was magic. The only thing Laurie didn't like, because she loved his voice, was that he couldn't play and sing at the same time.

“Want to try it?” he asked, wiping the harmonica off on his shirt. Buddy had fallen asleep and Daddy was yawning but Laurie carefully took the instrument, admiring the curlicues around the name, Hohner, and blew into it. She only got a rustle.

“You'll have to puff harder than that, honey. Don't worry, you're not goin' to wake the neighbors.”

She blew with more assurance. The sounds were pretty even if she didn't know how to put them into a tune. Oh, lovely! If she had one of these, she'd practice till Morrigan would be proud and surprised. Well, someday she would. When she grew up—

“Better tuck in,” said Daddy. “We need to roll out early so we can get to Pa's before the worst heat.”

Reluctantly, Laurie handed back the harmonica. “Can you play the dust song on this?” she asked. “The one about ‘It's been good to know you'?”

“Sure.” He did, winding up with a spirited flourish. That might be an end-of-the-world song and a dust song, but it was mainly about folks gaining comfort from each other in the stifling darkness of the storm—able to say that it had been good—good to know each other, good to have shared their lives.

Just as it had been a saving grace to meet John Morrigan when they had even though the winds were soon going to blow them different ways. She'd never forget him, or his songs, and so she wouldn't lose him. “Thanks, Mr. Morrigan,” she said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Laurie.” He smoothed her hair, smiling, and the smoldering firelight made his green-gray eyes almost golden. “Sleep tight now.”

He went off into the night. She thought he was answering a call of nature but as she began to drowse, she heard him playing, muted by distance, as if he had things to say to the night and the wind. It was with his music gentle in her ears that she fell asleep. For the first time since her mother died, she didn't dream of the end of the world.

4

They were on the road before sunrise. Morrigan said laughingly that he was just like a rooster, dawn made him sing, and he sang merrily—about the boll weevil who was looking for a home and took the farmer's, “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” “Cotton-Eyed Joe,” “Hobo Bill,” and “Orange Blossom Special.” As a town that had to be Clinton came into view, he led off in “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” and they all joined in.

“Clinton's a pretty prosperous little town,” Morrigan said. “It's at the junction with Highway 66 that runs all the way from Chicago to California, tucked in here at the bend of the Washita River and it's got the big state tuberculosis hospital. Hear tell colored folks are in the regular wards since there's no other place for them.”

“Didn't this used to be part of the Cheyenne-Arapaho Reservation?” Daddy asked.

“Till it was opened up to homesteaders in eighteen ninety-two.” Morrigan shrugged. “That's how it was in Oklahoma, you know. First it was roamed by the real wild tribes like Comanches and Kiowas. Then what they call the Five Civilized Tribes, includin' my Choctaw and Chickasaw kin, got driven off their homes in Georgia and Florida and states like that and got dumped in the eastern part of what by then was bein' called Indian Territory.” He pulled a wry grin. “Uncle Sam promised them this country as long as grass grows and water runs. Well, Uncle kept sending more tag-ends of tribes to the Territory, and then used the fact that some Indians fought for the South in the War Between the States—hell, plenty of 'em were so plumb civilized they had colored slaves—well, the government used that excuse to grab most of the western part of the territory.”

“Did Indians have slaves?” Laurie was both intrigued and scandalized.

“Sure. My Indian great-grandparents on both sides owned colored folks. Just because a race of people get shoved around don't mean they're softer-hearted than anybody else, honey. Anyhow, starting in eighty-nine, there was one land openin' after another and all kinds of skullduggery, especially after oil was found. Whether the Cherokee Nation or the Choctaw Nation or the Seminole Nation or the Chickasaw Nation or the Creek Nation—and they were nations, with their own laws and courts and constitutions—well, whether they liked it or not, and most didn't, their Indian Territory was lumped with Oklahoma Territory and made into a state in nineteen-o-seven.”

“I remember that,” frowned Daddy. “Guess I thought the Indians would be tickled to be part of a state.”

“Not hardly! I reckon you can see in Oklahoma better than you can anywhere else in the whole United States how the Indians got swindled from start to finish—how their governments were run into the ground and the land they'd owned in common was broken up into little allotments.”

“Didn't a lot of them get rich off oil?” Daddy asked.

“Some did, but a sight more got cheated.”

“Did you have an oil well on your place?” asked Buddy, eyes big. Most of this was news to Laurie, too. It certainly wasn't in her history books.

“Nope, but my grandmother did.” Morrigan's laughter was bitter and proud at the same time. “She never would cash the oil checks on account of she was so mad that the government gave her an allotment when she'd wanted the land to all stay owned by the Choctaw Nation. Her white second husband cashed the checks, though, and the minute she died, he sold her allotment and went off and married an Osage woman for her headrights. The Osages held on to their oil rights as a tribe and shared the royalties out according to inheritance. Step-grand-pop got him a woman with three headrights. Far as I know the old devil's still buyin' a Cadillac every year and drinkin' the best bourbon his bootlegger can rustle.”

None of the Fields could think of anything to say to that. A little way on the other side of town, Morrigan pulled over and sat with his lean brown fingers loose on the wheel. “Well, folks, guess this is where we part company. I hope everything works out fine and it won't be long till you can get back together.”

“Good luck to you, John.” Daddy offered his hand. “We sure have appreciated your help and your singin'. You're always welcome to share whatever we've got.”

“Who knows?” Morrigan smiled and his eyes rested on Laurie. “I'm just like a tumbleweed, blowin' all over the country. Could be we'll meet again.”

Laurie's throat ached. He'd only been with them less than a day, yet it seemed she'd known him forever, that he was intended to be part of her life. How could he just disappear? Vanish down the road or swing onto a train?

But if he hadn't come—if he hadn't known what to do for Buddy, helped Daddy with the flats and convinced him not to drive in the heat of the day—if he hadn't made music and sung, how awful the trip would have been. And she had learned most of the words of his songs she'd liked best. She was glad he'd come, thankful, even if it hurt so bad to think she'd probably never see him again. It was almost as if Mama had begged God into sending them an angel, and angels, of course, never stay long.

He started to climb out of the car. “Mr. Morrigan,” she ventured. “Could you sing that song about ‘So Long, It's Been Good to Know You'?”