West With Giraffes(74)
As we drove back down the asphalt, the Old Man and I eyed the flood’s havoc. By the time we got back to the highway, though, there was nothing to see. The flash flood had followed the wash away from the road, no doubt toward the washes of the closed highways west.
Red, though, still silent, had looked nowhere but straight ahead until we eased onto the highway, headed back to the run-down tourist court. Then she said, “Mr. Jones, would you be kind enough to drop me at the next city’s train station?”
With a look as close to gentle as I’d ever expect to see on Mr. Riley Jones, the Old Man said yes.
As the sun set, we pulled into the auto court, surely looking like a pack of drowned rats with a couple of hitchhiking giraffes. None of us were in the mood to make new friends, so the Old Man decided it best to close the road Pullman’s windows before making our way to the scraggly line of mesquite trees, hoping the giraffes were tired enough to oblige—and they were.
Every type of vehicle you could think of was parked around the little circular drive of the auto court—motorcycles, trailers, fancy sedans, long-haul trucks. Most everyone had already turned in early, considering we’d all been forced into this overnight stay. The only people we ended up seeing were the ones camping near the edge of the property where we’d be parking—some Okie families, their old Model T Fords packed high with belongings and family members, huddled together around their makeshift campfires.
The Old Man had hopped out at the office to throw some more money at the owner for dry towels and blankets. By the time he returned, arms full, I had parked us as good as I could behind the scraggly trees and was opening the top for the giraffes. Hopping down to grab the blankets, I turned to hand one to Red.
She was gone.
For the rest of the evening, under the cover of dark, we tended to the giraffes. The trapdoors, warped because of the flood, took some elbow grease to open and even more to get closed again. But the tending in between was pure pleasure, especially hearing Girl kick at the Old Man as he tried replacing the bloodied bandage with a clean one. “Get me some more onions, will ya!” he grumbled. “We got to end this day, swear to God.”
After the giraffes were chewing their cud like it was any another day, we decided we’d leave the top open through the night for the giraffes, and the Old Man went to talk to the manager about the Packard before we took turns sleeping in the truck cab for the night. As I watched him pass the first of the makeshift campfires, I recognized the Okies from last night’s Wigwam Auto Court, and I noticed what the Old Man didn’t. Sitting with them, wrapped in a homemade quilt, was Red. The granny had wrapped Red in one of their blankets, strung a clothesline, and hung up her clothes to dry and was sitting by her at the fire. I grabbed up her soggy camera bag and folded-up trench coat, and headed that way.
The granny waved me over. “You OK, dearie?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
With a smile, the granny left us alone as I eased down beside Red, placing the camera bag and coat at her feet. She didn’t touch either. She sat there staring at the campfire, her face chalk white like she’d upchucked again. After all we’d been through, I was surprised I wasn’t puking myself.
“The Old Man is talking to the manager about the Packard,” I told her. “We’ll be leaving before dawn. We’ll take you where you want.”
When she didn’t respond, I fumbled around for more words. I wanted to say what neither the Old Man nor I knew how to say. I wanted to thank her for plowing her Packard into the flood to save the giraffes and our own hides. I wanted to say I was sorry it meant the loss of all her film and the dreams wrapped around them.
Instead I heard myself asking what my clueless young self most wanted to know. After everything she’d risked to get this far—the lies she’d told, the customs she’d flouted, the husband she disobeyed, the laws she’d stretched––I blurted, “Why did you do it?”
She shot me a glare that could’ve turned fire into ice. “How could you ask that?”
This time I knew to keep my mouth shut.
She sighed, her eyes wandering back to the giraffes. “May I go see them?”
The Old Man was already asleep and snoring in the cab, but I wouldn’t have cared if he wasn’t. I stood up and so did she, the quilt wrapped tight around her. When we got to the rig, ready to climb up, she dropped the quilt, even though she had nothing on but her unmentionables, and just like her trousers, this was my first time to see such a sight in real life. I never saw my own ma in her bra holding up her massive bosoms, much less wearing only her drawers. But now, seeing Red not caring a whit about herself, it was all I could do to not pull her to me—not for what I was seeing, but for reasons I had no words for, ones that had more to do with how she must be feeling. That was another first for me.
I helped her climb up to the top again, grabbing a towel for her to sit on. Girl came over close, happy to see her, sniffing at her unmentionables, then Boy came up to do the same, but easier, sweeter, snuffling at her hair.
The next moment I have studied in my mind through the years, and the feeling from it has always remained the same. Red leaned over them both, her wild curls falling over her face, letting the giraffes nibble at them as if she was cherishing each little snuffle and nip from the two. It seemed like a thank-you she was offering the giraffes . . . and a goodbye.
I felt it so strong that I even said so at the time. “We’ll see you tomorrow. This is not goodbye or anything.”