The Steep and Thorny Way(80)

I craned my neck toward him as best as I could. “And what did your father say to that?”

“He told me, ‘Let’s pray for a lightning strike or a windstorm to smite down that tree, then, for I would like to see that oak destroyed, too.’”

I sputtered a laugh. “I haven’t heard any windstorms over the past few days.”

“This was just yesterday, when the Dry Dock was closed on account of it being Sunday.” Joe adjusted the lever for the throttle on the steering column and sent the Model T roaring toward the brick buildings of town. “So, I went out to his toolshed and grabbed his father’s old two-man crosscut saw—his father was a logger, you see. And I strolled up to Pop and said, ‘I prayed to God to get rid of that tree, and I believe he led me to find this old saw of yours. What do you think?’”

I smiled. “Don’t tell me your father honestly believed that fetching that saw was an act of God.”

“He nodded when he witnessed the saw in my hands, and he said, ‘Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn’t He?’ And the next thing I knew, Pop, the saw, and I were on this road, walking to town.”

Joe rolled the Model T to a stop across the street from the Dry Dock and Ginger’s. “And without a word,” he continued, turning his head to his left, “we went to work, and the tree crashed down.”

I leaned forward and saw a mere stump of a tree, no more than four feet high. Beyond it lay the felled trunk and a forest of downed branches.

I gasped. “You and your father . . . ?”

“It’s gone now, Hanalee.” Joe gazed out at the wreckage of limbs and leaves. “The lynching tree is gone.”

I covered my mouth and blinked. My throat tightened. “As much as I love seeing trees standing upright and healthy . . .” I grabbed my chin and rubbed the bottom half of my face. “Oh, Jesus, Joe. That toppled oak is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever witnessed.”

Joe swallowed and nodded, and before anyone from the Dry Dock could come out and yell about the tree, or him, or me, he adjusted the clutch lever and cruised the car to the farthest end of town, slowing down to a stop at a shady spot along the curb in front of the Lincoln Hotel.

He set the brake and leaned back against the seat. We both sighed and stared ahead out the front windshield. A boy with a nose wrapped in bandages. A girl stuck in a cast. Both of us bruised and sore and uncomfortable. The statue of Honest Abe watched us from the rhododendrons to our right.

“Just look at us, Hanalee,” said Joe with another sigh. “We look like war casualties.”

“We look like survivors.”

“Hmm.” He slipped his hands off the steering wheel. “I suppose that’s true.”

I scratched at my leg through my skirt, just above the opening of the cast. “Is it true? You’re really leaving town tonight?”

“Yep.” He lowered his face. “I’m catching a train to Seattle this evening.”

“Are you heading to work in that doctor’s office?”

He played with the lower buttons of his starched white shirt. “I’m going to give that job a try. See what it’s like.”

“What does your father think about that?”

Joe shrugged. “If I stay here, I’ll have to change my ways.”

“Even after helping you chop down that tree yesterday . . . ?” I asked. “Even after saying the Lord works in mysterious ways . . . ?”

“The tree was for you and your father. Not for me.”

I stopped scratching at my leg. “Uncle Clyde and Mama think Washington might be a fine destination for us, too.” I tipped my head to the left and squinted at him through a glare of sunlight winking through the leaves of the cherry trees across the street. “Would you be upset if we followed you up there?”

He snorted and leaned back. “Not at all. I don’t know a soul up in Washington.”

“You sure you’d be all right seeing me again?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’ll take you to jazz clubs on Jackson Street.”

I grinned. “Is that the place to be?”

“That’s what your stepfather claimed, anyway. He said the area’s interracial. Tolerant.”

“Really?”

He nodded and swiveled toward me in his half of the seat. He picked at a scratch at the top of the upholstery, below his right thumb. “Are you taking Fleur up there, too?”

“I don’t know. She’s worried about upsetting her mother and Laurence if she comes with us.”

“Tell her to just head up there for the rest of the summer. Get her out of Elston while everything’s still settling down here. If she likes Washington and her mother’s happy to have her safe with you, maybe it could become a permanent arrangement.”

“That’s a good idea.” I gave a small nod. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Give it a try.”

“I will.”

Across the street, on top of the barbershop, a man crouched on the roof and hammered loose boards into place. A car drove past us, another black Model T, but I didn’t recognize its occupants—a couple, young and white and handsome.

I cocked my head at Joe, and he lifted his chin and looked me in the eye. For a moment, neither of us said a word, and I nearly found myself asking, What are we, Joe? What do we mean to each other? Why did our paths end up crossing?