watching the bank traffic and trying to keep Caine from grabbing my nose. I looked past Caine’s little finger and through the glass and realized I knew the young man inside, the agent from Lloyd’s Bank who was doing business with Willie. It was Thomas Eliot from St. Louis, the kid in love with Carolina. He was older and taller and wearing glasses, but there was no doubt.
I couldn’t resist what came to mind. It was just too good and Ray would have loved it. I knocked on the glass until I got their attention. I told Star to play along, no matter what I did and no matter what Willie said, to stay silent and just nod if she had to acknowledge anything. She agreed. When we entered the office, Thomas Eliot was telling a joke and had his back to us. He had reached the punch line when he turned and saw something only he and I could see, an impossible time warp to him, but just family relations to me. He saw a young woman, Carolina to him, almost exactly the same age as the last time he’d seen her — impossible — and she was with the same dark-haired boy she’d been with that day. It was too much for him. Instead of finishing the joke, he laughed to himself. It was a laugh to keep from falling apart, a tiny laugh of last defense, and Willie said, “Dammit, Tom, if you were plannin’ on tellin’ me a joke, then end it with a bang, not a damn whimper.”
I never told Carolina about it, but I smiled the rest of the way. Mowsel was waiting on the docks to see us off. His hair curled out from under his cap and around the collar of his old jacket. Willie left him with a thousand instructions and only stopped when Trumoi-Meq smiled and displayed the proud gap of his missing tooth. It seemed to be a signal Willie had long understood as the end of negotiations. I had only spoken to Trumoi-Meq twice between New Year’s Eve and our departure — once to say we had much to say to each other and once to promise someday to do it.
On the crossing, I asked Geaxi what she might do. I knew she would eventually become restless at Carolina’s. She said she had heard of something new in aviation called “barnstorming,” and thought she might look into it. I said, “But you’re still only a twelve-year-old girl.” She said, “Exactly.”
Carolina told Daphne before we left to keep the black coupe until Caine was old enough to come back and drive it. Carolina and Opari talked constantly about everything and Opari and Star never stopped asking Carolina about America, even baseball, and they all became mothers to Caine. Willie took care of Nicholas and Eder. They were secure belowdecks and beneath the waves.
The voyage west to America was cold and wet and we kept mostly to ourselves, as always. Just before we docked in New York, I took a walk on the deck, alone, and stared out at New York as it came into view. I was leaning on the railing and behind me a voice said, “Excuse me, son, would you mind looking after my things while I step inside a moment?” I turned and there was a thin old black man in a perfectly fitted and pressed black suit. “Not at all, sir,” I said. “I’d be glad to.” He turned and walked quietly through the door behind him, never looking back. His “things” consisted of two books and a train ticket to Ithaca, New York, stuck in one of the books as a marker. The books were
Just then, the old man came back through the door and smiled. “You religious, son?” he asked.
“Yes and no,” I said.
He laughed, and looked familiar when he did it. “Where’s home, kid?”
I hesitated for a heartbeat; I hadn’t thought of it that way since. since I’d asked an old Jewish man the same question, a stranger who was taking me there anyway. I could still hear his voice in my head, so I answered the old man the way Solomon would have answered. I said, “St. Louis, kid. St. Louis.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEVE CASH lives in Springfield, Missouri, where he was born and raised and educated. After an attempt at gaining a college degree, he lived on the west coast, in Berkeley, California, and elsewhere. He returned to Springfield to become an original member of the band the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. He is the co-author of the seventies pop hits “Jackie Blue” and “If You Wanna Get to Heaven.” For the last thirty-three years he has played harmonica, written songs, performed with the band, helped in the raising of his children, and read books.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
