This Is What Maurice Wrote

     

             This is about my trip from Kansas City to the west coast of Washington. 

             A lot has changed since that angel or whoever left this book on the bench. I’ve carried it in my pocket or put it somewhere kind of secret every day since they gave it to me. I mean Sneaky and Joe. They said it must be mine.
            I have changed in some ways. I’m older. I talk better. I learned to read and write, my ma would probably never believe it, but it’s still true, Ma! I know how to cook and wash clothes, and everything too.
The trip to Smith Island took about two days from Kansas City. It seems like it was night the whole way, but maybe I was asleep during the day. It was a lot like the first trip when we were so poor, but this time I was just pretending to be poor for fun or for tradition. Knowing that I had two hundred bucks changed everything, even though I tried to make it the same. It wasn’t the same. Real hunger and thirst have a presence, and it wasn’t there.
            One morning out in the middle of the country, somewhere I got out of the car, said “I’m neither here nor there, etc.,” and took a look around at the dusty sunbaked town. It was a lot like the place where my book turned up.
            Finding food when the spell is working didn’t seem likely, so I let it go.
There was a tiny Mexican restaurant in that town, one block over from the train station, such as it was. I figured they might not mind a Howler too much, and if they did, I would scram out of the place.
            This little place had a dining room about 15 feet square, with four tables. There was some dusty Mexican decor on the walls and a potted cactus in the window. The kitchen smelled good.
            It must have been before or after lunch, because I was the only customer. I took a seat away from the window and waited.
            In a couple of minutes a girl came out of the kitchen with a little printed menu. They made tacos and burritos and a couple of other things. She looked exhausted and very young, pretty like a Mexican girl is sometimes and she spoke not at all. I ordered six pork tacos and a fruity pop of some kind.
            I laid one of the hundreds on the tabletop, and when she came to collect, she said, “I can’t break that!”
            I said, “Keep the change, Honey.” What’s a Howler to do? I had another one and she looked like she could use the change. When I was leaving, I heard some whispered words in Spanish behind me.
            I spent the rest of the daylight hours lying doggo or snooping around this place. It looked like a real good place to be from.
            When it got dark, I snuck into the car again and got ready for another long ride.
            Sometime in the middle of the night, we pulled into Everett and then Smith Island, where we stopped. It had been so long that I still felt like I was swaying and bumping like I had all night.
            In the distance I could hear a police siren. It was raining when I slipped out of the freight car.
            Well, my hand is getting tired, but I wanted to say one more thing. I need a new pen, but that’s not it.
            I was standing there in the rain and the dark looking around, wondering how I was going to get out to Ralph’s forest when I noticed something I had a very hard time believing. In a shadow, tucked nearly out a sight, I saw the grille of a black 1950 Buick shining just a little bit in the yard lights.
            

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