West With Giraffes(39)

As Moses wiped his hands, the sons and the uncs got off the seesaw one by one, easing the giraffes and the rig to the dirt, the tires touching the ground with a bounce—and staying round. At that, all the parts of the seesaw went back the way they came in the hands that brought them, the men moving silent and solemn.

The Old Man and I were knocked dumb with this new feat of moxie and muscle. Seventh Son tapped the Old Man on the shoulder, held out his squished fedora until the Old Man took it, and then disappeared over the railroad tracks, too.

The Old Man, absently dusting off his hat, found his voice and turned toward Big Papa. “What do we owe you?”

Big Papa twirled his hoe in what I now think was a display of family pride. “Don’t want your money.”

“Well, then, how can we thank you?” the Old Man asked.

Seventh Son returned over the railroad tracks with the little girl from the shotgun shack’s window riding on his shoulder, and Big Papa broke into a smile.

“Honey Bee’d like to meet these creatures,” he said, “if you’d be of a mind.”

Honey Bee whispered into his ear.

“And Honey Bee would like to know their names,” Big Papa added.

Despite himself, I could tell the Old Man was charmed. With a glance my way, he said, “Well, Miss Honey Bee, they hadn’t told us their names yet. So why don’t you call this one Girl and the other Boy. That suit you?”

So Honey Bee got her own private audience, Seventh Son lifting her high enough for both giraffes to have a nice get-acquainted snort-fest with her.

Big Papa then said to the Old Man, “The old tire won’t get you far. We can fix both of your’n tomorrow. Getting dark. We’ll put you up. Got a growing motel concern.” He pointed to a dirt road about thirty feet ahead, leading off toward the piney woods, another COTTAGES FOR COLOREDS sign perched by it. “Besides,” Big Papa went on, “Honey Bee’d like you to stay. And Honey Bee gets her way around here. Right, Honey Bee?”

The little girl nodded.

“After all you’ve done for us, we’d be honored to partake of your hospitality,” answered the Old Man, sticking out his hand for Big Papa to shake, which he did. Sprouting a big smile, the Old Man then headed toward the dirt road with Big Papa and Moses, turning into the charming Mr. Jones I saw with the ladies at Round’s Auto Rest.

“Best you come, too, missy,” Big Papa called over his shoulder, and Seventh Son and Honey Bee stepped Red’s way.

Red’s eyes darted between the COTTAGES FOR COLOREDS sign and Seventh Son. “Oh, uhmmm, no, thank you . . .”

But Big Papa was already gone, walking and talking with the Old Man. So, to the sound of a giggling Honey Bee, I put the rig in gear and turned on the dirt road as Seventh Son picked up the flat tires with his free hand and herded Red the same direction, her big trench coat dragging in the dust.

We were headed toward three little cottages, set apart against a nice stand of leafy maple trees along the edge of the woods—Big Papa’s motel concern. As we passed the first cottage where a shiny blue Olds sedan with old shoes tied to the bumper was parked, out stepped a Black couple dressed to the nines to gawk at the passing eyeful that was us.

At the second cottage, Moses deposited Red, leaving her clutching her camera on the tiny porch.

Then, heading toward the third cottage set farther back, we passed a Y in the dirt road leading to a two-story whitewashed house with a barn twice as big as the house. The Old Man motioned me to wait as everybody but me and the giraffes trekked down to them. In a few minutes, Moses and the Old Man returned, and as I rolled the rig to the third cottage, the Old Man hopped on the passenger-side running board, opened the door, got in, and started talking fast: “It occurred to me that some Texas farmboys might take exception to staying overnight at these good people’s colored motel. Would that be you?”

I shook my head.

“Would you tell me if you were?”

I shook my head again.

“Good. Wouldn’t want to hear it. I still want you staying with the rig. The sons want to take turns watching through the night, and I’m sure not saying no. He sent ‘Second Son’ over, he said, for the first watch. But you’re staying with the giraffes. I told ’em it’s your job.”

“That’s why a son’s standing there with his scythe?” I nodded toward Second Son—so I assumed—already standing by a massive maple as I pulled to a stop.

“That’s why,” the Old Man said as he got out. “You can sleep in the truck cab. If anything goes awry, things’ll be hard enough to explain to the Boss Lady without adding any undue amount of explaining. So stay put. Now, Miz Annie Mae and the daughters-in-law are cooking up a feast the likes of which I’ve never seen,” he added, cocking his head toward the big house. “And we’re getting the bounty, me up there and you out here.”

By the time I’d parked the rig past the third cottage, popped the top, and finished watering the giraffes, here came the Old Man and Miz Annie Mae’s vittles carried on a platter by Seventh Son, Honey Bee still riding on his shoulders. He set the platter on the rig’s hood and went to fetch Red.

While Red took pictures of Honey Bee feeding the giraffes pancakes, I got to feast on food so good it was almost worth being stranded to get it. It was a bounty, all right. When Red put down her camera, she gobbled even faster than me. As we finished, pretty much licking the plates clean, the giraffes started nibbling at the trees, and Honey Bee held out the last pancake to me, which I’m ashamed to say I gobbled up, too. As the sun set, Honey Bee and Seventh Son turned to go, herding Red to the second cottage as they went. The giraffes were contentedly chewing their cud, and the Old Man, picking his teeth and looking mighty contented himself, moseyed toward the third cottage to turn in, too.