Chapter 2

Red Hawk came up through the windshield just as dusk was beginning to rise from the fields. The air was humid and warm, and thicker than we're used to in Albuquerque, which is as far above sea level as Denver. There was one motel in town, and we'd made reservations a couple of months before, though that probably hadn't been necessary; not being on any major highways, the town doesn't have much traffic and in fact had lost two motels since I'd lived there.

We'd gotten, after haggling with the owner, two adjoining rooms, one for me and Cecelia, and one for Darlia. He hadn't liked the idea of a child in a room by herself, and had charged us extra for the privilege. I'd gotten him to agree that if there was no trouble, he'd refund the extra. In a way I couldn't blame him; so many adults tear rooms up that a nine-year-old doing so wouldn't be unusual, and regardless of her behavior it's unusual for a child to have a room alone. But we were going to be there a month, and Cecelia and I weren't ready to dodge Darlia for that long whenever we wanted privacy.

We checked in just about sunset. We were tired; no matter how easy you take a road trip, sitting in a car for hours and days wears you out. I don't know how truckers do it; they must have the same kind of anatomy that led the Lakota to initially nickname a blond lieutenant colonel Iron Backside. A few years later that officer became famous for all time when he got himself killed on the Greasy Grass – the river whites call the Little Bighorn. My dad was a full-blood Lahtkwa Indian, and though I grew up with white culture I'm just Indian enough in my thinking that I'm not sorry Custer got what was coming to him.

We moved our luggage into our rooms. It would have been nice if there'd been a connecting door, but this wasn't a hotel, just a motel that had been there since the 60s. It was clean, though, and someone had been maintaining it well.

There wasn't a restaurant connected with the place, so we got back in the car and headed for the northern end of Red Hawk. When I'd lived there in the late 80s the Hawk House Café had had mighty good food. I thought I'd give it a try – we would, actually. The last time I'd been there I'd been single, and now I was 11 years married, with a daughter who had just turned 9. I kept thinking of Red Hawk, its places and its memories, in the singular, even though in the years since I'd left I'd gotten pluralized.

The food was still good. It was standard Oklahoma rural cooking – catfish, chicken fried steak, burgers, steaks, that kind of thing. I had the catfish, Cecelia had a burger, and Darlia ordered a steak. The waitress – who was so young she had to have been a kid when I lived there, though of course she might not have been in town then – wondered whether a child could eat a whole steak.

"I might be able to," said Darlia, speaking to the waitress as an equal. "If it's too big I can't, but whatever I can't I can put in a doggy bag."

The waitress smiled. "You know, you might be able to at that – you're husky enough. But I'll have the cook trim one down for you."

"That would be cool," my daughter replied.

"It would also be great, honey," said Cecelia. "Sometimes you might wish to emulate me, instead of your father." She was smiling when she said it; she might correct Darlia, but never in a hurtful manner.

"It would be great," said Darlia, and the waitress smiled and went away with the orders.

We were about halfway through our meal when the cook came out to check on Darlia. But I spotted him first, and jumped up, bumping the table and sloshing sweet tea out of our glasses. "Vernon!" I hollered, getting everyone's attention even though I was only looking at one person.

He stopped in the middle of the floor, staring at me. "Dat you, Darvin?"

"It sure is, Vern. If I'd known you were still cooking here, I'd have busted into the kitchen when I come in."

"I jus' bet you woulda too, Darvin. You never was too good 'bout stayin' away from good vittles." He's the only person I've ever met who actually uses that word for food.

By now I'd gotten to him, and we hugged each other. "Man, it's good to see you, Vern. And you look as good as ever – grayer, for sure, but you still look fit to wrestle alligators or something."

"It's good vittles, Darvin – good vittles and a good wife."

"So Mazie's still with you, huh?"

"Shoot, Darvin, I cain't get rid o' dat woman."

"You still trying as hard as you used to?"

"Yeah, jus' as hard as ever."

"Well, here's a hint, Vern – you gotta try a lot harder than that. Doing nothing won't do nothing." We laughed at our old joke. "But come on over here – I want you to meet my family."

Cecelia and Darlia had been watching us as we talked. Now they got to their feet. "Vernon Jefferson, this is my wife Cecelia, and our daughter Darlia."

"How y'all doin', ladies?" He shook first Cecelia's hand, and then Darlia's.

"I take it you know my husband," said Cecelia. She smiled at Vernon, not the brilliant smile she gives me, but one which certainly would light up a dark place.

"Oh, yeah, I been knowin' Darvin since I was a young guy ... well, a younger guy anyway. But then he done lef' town, and I never seed him again till now. But he still the same Darvin, 'cep' now he got a family."

"If he's the same now as he was then, he must have been a very good man in those days."

"Oh sure, Miz Carpenter, he the bes' man I ever know."

Cecelia looked at me, her eyes bright. "Mr. Jefferson, he's the best man I've ever known."

I reached over and grabbed my glass, and took a swig of tea. I hate it when people start talking about me, especially when they're saying stuff like that.

Vernon now squatted down – a bit stiffly – and looked Darlia in the face. "An' you Darvin's baby, huh?"

"No, sir, I'm not a baby. I'm nine years old and I'm a big girl. But he is my daddy."

Vernon laughed. "Yeah, I guess he your daddy – you got his smart mouf. But you look good, like your momma. You a beautiful girl, Miz Darlia, an' dat a fact."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Jefferson."

Vernon stood back up, and now he was definitely stiff, stiffer than he'd been when I knew him before. "Y'all got yourselfs a beautiful daughter, an' a smart one too. An' polite. Y'all blessed, y'all blessed for sure."

I put my arm around Cecelia's shoulders and pulled her close; her arm went around my waist. She beat me to the reply. "Mr. Jefferson, it would be impossible for us to be anymore blessed than we are; there are no greater blessings in this world."

Vernon shuffled his feet; I knew his habit when he was about to change the subject, and smiled a bit. "So y'all in town long?"

"We're looking at a month," I said. "It's been a long time, and I want to show my family all around the country."

"A whole monf. Tha's good. Y'all gonna eat a lot o' my cookin' then, I bet."

Darlia spoke up. "I sure hope so, Mr. Jefferson. My steak is perfect. Thank you very much."

"Why, you're real welcome, Miz Darlia. Anytime you want a steak, you jus' come see me, an' I fix you up a real nice one."

"I'll remember that, Mr. Jefferson. But now, if you and Mommy and Daddy will excuse me, I want to finish my supper."

We all laughed loudly. There is no one on earth as dignified as Darlia when she knows her mind. In an adult it would be striking, but in a child her age it's extremely impressive – and, at times, terribly amusing. Darlia's used to Cecelia and me enjoying her dignity, and she went about finishing her meal as though we weren't there. Cecelia and I sat back down as well, while Vernon headed back to the kitchen.

"He seems like a very nice man," my wife said.

"Yeah, he is. I had friends here, and he was one of the best. He survived a lynching attempt when he was a teenager, and here in rural Oklahoma he didn't have it easy – probably nothing like y'all had with the Klan in Alabama, but not easy – and he could be a bitter man. But if there's anyone who understands that a few stupid idiotic whites don't mean that all whites are stupid idiots, it's Vernon."

"He sounds like his education is thin."

"Yeah, it is. He can barely read and write, and what he knows of world history and events could probably fit in a small pamphlet. But he can cook like – well, you're eating his food, so you know how he can cook. And there aren't many wiser people in the world."

Cecelia chewed a bit while she thought. "It occurs to me, Darvin, that you have an affinity for people who aren't just like you."

"I think I know where you're going – but perhaps you ought to make sure I do."

"Certainly. Look at your family and friends. Your wife, and therefore your in-laws, are black. Your first love was Hispanic, and your best friend is a Chicano. A man whom you obviously care for a great deal, here in Red Hawk, is black. You befriended Letty, who is half Romanian and half Chicana by birth and Jewish by choice. You do have white friends, and of course all your family by blood is white – and Indian, yes, on your father's side – but to be constantly with you is to enjoy the company of more than one color, more than one heritage, more than one background. If I didn't know that it would irritate you, I might compare you to the United Nations."

I gave Cecelia a lopsided grin. "Yeah, that would irritate me; I have no desire to have you equate me with a useless assembly of noisemakers. But I guess you've got a point, though I've never thought about it. My friends are my friends, and my family's my family. That's all there is to it."

"Precisely, Darvin – you never think of anyone in terms of color, but only in terms of who and what they are. You don't like Vernon because he's black; I'm not certain that you truly realize he's black – oh, you know it, but only in the same way and to the same degree that you know he's a cook, or elderly, or somewhat arthritic. You like him not because he's black, but because he's Vernon Jefferson, and therefore has certain characteristics which appeal to you."

I shrugged as I swallowed my last bite of fish. "You're the analyst, C – I just like or dislike people. But I suppose you're right; you usually are."

We finished supper, went back to the motel, and went to bed. We were so tired that we barely had the energy to get a shower – at least, Cecelia and I were; Darlia, being a child, had a bit more oomph even after the long drive. If they ever find a way to bottle children's energy and sell it, they'll make billions.