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They’d been walking along the railroad tracks for some time when they finally came to a tiny town out in the middle of nowhere with a filling station that doubled as a general store and post office. Memphis started toward the door.
“Hold up a minute,” Bill said.
“Why?” Memphis said. He was exhausted and thirsty and impatient.
“Got to make sure it’s safe to go in,” Bill said. A dark brown man came out of the garage, wiping his fingers on a bandanna, and Bill exhaled in relief. “Afternoon,” he said and gave a courteous nod.
“Afternoon,” the gentleman returned with a pinch to the brim of his hat and that same dip of the head.
“Nice day,” Bill said.
“Yes, sir. That it is.”
“Feels like rain’s coming, though,” Henry said.
“Yes, sir. Been rainin’ for months. Just keeps coming down on us. They say the levees gettin’ washed away all up and down the Mississippi. Folks are worried way down to New Orleans. Heard they might even hafta blow up the levees in Plaquemines Parish.”
Bill shook his head sadly. “Ain’t that something? Cain’t fight Mother Nature.”
“No, sir. You surely cain’t.”
Memphis wanted to scream in the face of all this Southern politeness. Why couldn’t they just ask about a ride to Greenville and be done with it?
“What can I do you for?” the man finally asked.
“Well, sir, we’re lookin’ to get to Greenville. Got some kinfolk there. Don’t suppose you know anybody headed that way? We’d be mighty grateful for any help,” Bill said.
“You almost there. ’Nuther thirty mile, give or take, but I hear the river’s washed out parts ’tween here and yon. My cousin, Jesse, has a truck. He’s going thataway and can take you far as Yazoo City.”
“Much obliged,” Henry and Bill said at the same time.
“Happy to help. We got to look out for one another, don’t we?”
“We surely do,” Henry said.
“I’d like to mail this letter, please. And buy some stamps.” Memphis handed over his latest poem. He fished in his pocket for change. “How much for that?”
The man blinked at Memphis, taken aback. Henry bristled. I
n his head, he translated New York City speak into Southern speak: If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could I get you to mail this letter for me? Memphis’s way was more direct, and Henry preferred it. But it was funny how the things you learned growing up had a way of sticking with you. Memphis had been straightforward; Henry had heard rude.
“New York City, huh? Never been there.” The man examined the envelope slowly, carefully. It made Henry nervous.
“We ain’t never been there, neither,” Bill said quickly, cutting Memphis off. “It’s one of them sweepstakes, you see.”
“Yes,” Henry added. “We hope to win a prize.”
“That so? What kinda prize?”
“A jar of Ovaltine,” Henry lied.
“Huh. Ovaltine. Well, I’ll be sure and post this for you with tomorrow’s mail. That’ll be two cents for postage, and a dime for the stamps.”
“Maybe you should let Henry and me do all the talking,” Bill said as they waited on the steps of the filling station for Cousin Jesse to arrive.
“Why?”
“You talk like a city boy.”
