West With Giraffes(41)

“How did you get here, Woody?” she was murmuring. “How’d you survive the Dust Bowl plus a hurricane and come to be driving the giraffes?” When I didn’t answer, she smiled and dropped her hands. “Well, I’m lucky you did. I didn’t know who I could trust on the road, but I trust you, Woody Nickel.” She glanced the giraffes’ way. “I guess we can’t go visit them tonight. I miss them.” Resting her head back against her window, she sighed and closed her eyes.

From where I sat behind the wheel, I could see nothing out her window except Second Son’s shadow in the tree-filtered moonlight. I could see Red, though, the shadows nicely giving me that. I watched her for what seemed a long time, and when I opened my mouth to speak to her, I realized I’d never used her real name. Red? I almost said.

“Augusta?” I whispered instead, the word feeling peculiar on my tongue.

All I heard was her slow, steady breathing. She was asleep. Right at that moment, I wanted to kiss her myself. I wanted to pull her to me, place my hand on those flaming curls, and kiss her like a full-grown man, as if somehow my kiss to end all kisses I’d been practicing since the depot could fix everything. But then Red curled up like a dead bug across the bench seat, her red ringlets flopping onto my leg. I went still as death, straining to hear her breathe. When I couldn’t, I put my finger under her nose to feel her breath. When I still couldn’t, I panicked, reaching through her curls to touch her neck, waiting for the throb of her heartbeat. Still nothing. It wasn’t beating . . . then it was. Then it wasn’t again. Each time it skipped a beat, I didn’t breathe myself until I felt the next beat. I did it again and again and again. For the longest time, I didn’t twitch a muscle. I must have worn myself down and finally conked out. Because next thing I know instead of worrying over hearing the sound of Red’s last breath, I hear my ma calling to me—

“Li’l one, who you talking to?”

. . . Then I’m sprinting across my pa’s dirt farm in broad daylight, the dirt turning into a cornfield under my boots.

. . . I see giraffe heads above the stalks.

. . . I hear the roar of rushing water.

. . . And I hear the blast of a rifle’s report—my rifle—echoing on and on until it turns into a little girl’s giggle.

I jerked awake to find Seventh Son and Honey Bee staring at me through my window. It was dawn and Red was gone.

My heart thumping wild, I tumbled out of the truck. Seventh Son, rolling an eye toward Red’s cottage, smiled at me, an unsettling sight on its own. Pushing by them, I opened the trapdoors and got busy tending to the giraffes, who were stamping a little, like they were wondering where I’d been. I filled their water pails, shoved them in the trapdoors, then crawled up and popped the top for them to reach for the trees.

Balancing there, I could barely move under the weight of my thoughts. Bad enough my cornfield nightmare was back, but I was still stirred up over Red. And I don’t mean the kind of stir any boy feels when a red-crested beauty places his hand on top of her heaving breast. I mean the kind of stir from feeling Red’s off-kilter heart. From hearing her gasp so much like Ma had through dust lungs to final death rattle. From seeing the spark of life fade from Ma’s eyes, the only eyes that ever looked at me with pure affection.

Until Augusta Red’s.

I didn’t snap out of it until I heard someone talking below.

“C’mon down, boy.”

The Old Man was standing below holding a gunnysack.

“Let the darlings nibble,” he called up. “They fixed the tires, daylight’s burning, and if you’re up there looking for the girlie, she’s already gone.”

At that, feeling myself about to damn blush, I forced my mind off Red and eased to the ground.

“Come get some of Miz Annie Mae’s sausage, grits, and gravy,” he said as one of the sons shoved a full plate of vittles on top of the truck’s hood. “I already thanked them for the fine night’s rest. You should do it, too, if you get a chance. Show your good manners.” He opened the truck’s door and plunked the sack inside. “Mr. Jackson’s giving us some traveling onions from his garden for our ‘towering creatures of God’s pure Eden.’”

“Mr. Jackson?” I said.

“That’s our host’s name, boy. You don’t look too good. Eat. That’ll fix you up.”

So I ate, and the comfort of Miz Annie Mae’s food calmed me all the way down.

As the giraffes kept nibbling at the trees, the entire Big Papa clan showed up, led by Moses toting two perfect-looking tires. Setting up the seesaw again, they had those tires on the wheels so fast it didn’t even take the giraffes’ minds off their breakfast.

As Honey Bee’s uncs finished up, I felt her eyes on me again. When I looked down, there she was, standing inches from my ankles. She gave me a giggle and grabbed my skinny legs.

Chortling, the Old Man slapped me on the back. “She must think you’re a giraffe, what with that neck spot of your own,” he said, nodding at my birthmark. “That right, Honey Bee?” Honey Bee nodded as Seventh Son raised her up for one last chat with the real giraffes.

Then the Old Man and I crawled into our seats, the giraffes popped their heads out their windows, and we started rolling toward the detour road with Big Papa’s whole clan parading behind.