War at Home: A Smokey Dalton Novel Page 6

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He gave me a small grin. “Just didn’t expect it to be so…normal. You know?”

  I blinked, thought, then realized that Malcolm had never been outside of Chicago. He hadn’t acted like someone seeing the flat Indiana and Ohio countryside for the first time. When we’d hit the Ohio turnpike, he hadn’t seemed too surprised by the tolls, even though the tolls were cheaper and the toll booths less intrusive than the ones around Chicago.

  I smiled at him. “Well, these rooms are designed to make you comfortable.”

  “I guess,” he said, and set his suitcase down. He pushed on one of the beds, as if testing it to see if it was real. Then he sat down, bounced, and his grin widened.

  “You’re right, Bill,” he said after a minute. “This is going to be an adventure.”

  I wouldn’t have used that word, but it seemed oddly appropriate. Adventure.

  I only hoped it would turn out well.

  * * *

  We were up early the next morning. We found a pancake house nearby, and I treated us to a large breakfast, along with the morning paper. I read it back to front, trying to get a sense of this city from a short night’s sleep and a few hours’ drive.

  The paper made me wonder why I hadn’t heard much about Cleveland in Chicago. Mayor Carl Stokes, up for reelection, was having trouble in his own community for something called the Glenville shootout, a three-day riot that began when the police tried to bring down a black militant group the previous summer.

  And Stokes wasn’t as effective with the white political establishment as people wanted. Apparently, the black community had expected miracles from him, and was disappointed when he managed only to do a good job.

  Or so it seemed. I was making a lot of judgments from a few column inches and some editorials. Other articles caught my attention: A group of blacks were calling for a boycott of McDonald’s because a black man had applied for the franchise store in the Hough District and had been turned down. And in nearby Akron, a minister who let the SDS meet in his church had been fired. Local ministers and lay people weighed in on whether something like that could happen in Cleveland.

  Midway through breakfast, Malcolm slid a section of the paper toward me, folded to show a picture and an article. The picture was of a white man, standing on top of a stone structure. He was young and thin, wearing glasses, his head turned down. In his right hand, he held a gun, pointed away from his body.

  I grabbed the section and read the article. In Pittsburgh, this twenty-two-year-old man, who had just come out of the Air Force, climbed a bridge and shot at people below. The paper listed the shooter’s service record and time in Vietnam.

  Malcolm had his hand wrapped around the diner’s white coffee cup. “We going to Pittsburgh?”

  I had thought of it. I had toyed with taking the long way through Pennsylvania, getting a meal in Pittsburgh and spending the night in Philadelphia before heading north to Connecticut.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Just doesn’t look like the kinda place we want to stop,” he said.

  I shoved the paper back at him. Jimmy reached away from his pancakes and grabbed the section before I could stop him.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re going through Pennsylvania today, but I promise we won’t stop in Pittsburgh.”

  Malcolm gave me a relieved smile and went back to his paper. Jimmy looked at me from the other section, nodded toward the article, and frowned. He didn’t get Malcolm’s objection. But Jimmy had seen a lot more than Malcolm. Jimmy’d faced white men with guns, and survived. He’d also traveled a lot more, moved to a new community, and started a new life.

  He knew how to deal with differences.

  Malcolm didn’t.

  I found that troublesome. I had brought Malcolm along so that he could help me. I didn’t want to take care of him.

  * * *

  Despite Malcolm’s worry, the drive across Pennsylvania was relatively uneventful. True to my promise, I didn’t go south to Pittsburgh. Instead, we drove on Interstate 80 across the middle of Pennsylvania. I got a bit turned around after we left the Ohio Turnpike. The interstate wasn’t finished through Youngstown, and the maze of roads and the lack of signs were very confusing.

  But once we hit Pennsylvania, I was all right, taking the driving one hour at a time. There was a lot of traffic, most of it elderly people on Sunday drives or families enjoying a day off. There were also a lot of small towns just off the interstate, which made me leery.

  Up north, the small towns were generally white, generally suspicious of anyone who didn’t belong — and it was pretty obvious, right from the first glance that I didn’t belong — and unwilling to accommodate newcomers, particularly black newcomers.

  I had known from the start that this part of my trip would be difficult. I made sure our gas tank was full before we started into Pennsylvania, and as I drove, I kept an eye not just on the landscape, but also on the other drivers around me.

  In some ways, the panel van gave us protection. We rode higher than most cars, and because of that, our skin color wasn’t immediately obvious. Judging by the reactions I got at gas stations and at one of the restaurants in Cleveland, no one expected three black males to get out of a van. I guess the stereotype had us in finned Cadillacs or the kind of dilapidated car my Impala had been.

  We stopped twice at waysides. On both occasions, I picked stops that had few cars, instead of the ones that were packed. Jimmy, who had a small bladder, complained once when I passed a stop, but when I mentioned that there were three trucks in the parking area, he said he could hold it.

  Malcolm looked at both of us as if we were speaking a strange language, and maybe we were. But Jimmy and I had had a couple of bad experiences with truck drivers after we had fled Memphis, and neither of us wanted to repeat that.

  We had dinner in Scranton at a roadside diner that I saw a black couple enter just as we were driving past. The meal was adequate, and the prices reasonable.

  The last part of the trip, from Scranton into New York and then on to Connecticut, proved more difficult than I expected. My Sinclair map, which I had gotten because Jimmy loved the dinosaur on the cover, showed Interstate 84 as completed. But my map was optimistic. The road was supposed to be completed by 1969, and in the way of all good road construction, it was behind schedule.

  We sat through single lanes and long traffic lines, driving past construction workers who looked uncomfortable in their work uniforms, sweat pouring down their faces.

  I felt at a distinct disadvantage not knowing the area. When Jimmy and I had driven north from Memphis, I had deliberately followed the Old Gospel Trail, knowing I would find friendly motels and a lot of black faces. It had been the black migration route when the jobs left the south and moved north.

  But I knew so little about Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania that I had mostly guessed. The back section of Chicago Negro Almanac listed black population centers in the country by state. There seemed to be a pattern: Cleveland to Pittsburgh to Philadelphia, which had been my original route.

  But when I changed my mind, and decided to push directly to New Haven, I forced us into uncharted territory. And my little Sinclair map, which was about as trustworthy as a page of imaginary lines, said the largest town between Scranton and New Haven was either Middletown, Newburgh, or Danbury, which were nothing but names to me.

  The road construction continued most of the way through New York. The workers had left by the time we reached Maybrook. The new interstate, with its half-opened lanes, became a ghost road a few miles later — dug into the earth, but not yet paved, and we found ourselves directed to 17K leading into Newburgh. I nearly stopped for the night then, but I didn’t see an obviously friendly neighborhood.

  It was growing dark as we crossed the Hudson River into Beacon. I wished we hadn’t taken this route after all. The interstate had been planned to bypass the main highways, so we found ourselves on back roads
that led to places I’d never been with names like Fishkill and Poughquag.

  The back roads weren’t direct, either, like the interstate was supposed to be, so we went at least fifty miles out of our way north to catch Highway 22, which took us south to US 6 which finally took us into Connecticut.

  I’d never been a fan of Connecticut. The state was too white and too rural for me. I’d been in and out of it a few times as I’d traveled to New York from Boston. But I was relieved to see the white and black Connecticut road signs appear in my headlights. Danbury wasn’t far, and if New Haven hadn’t been less than an hour from there, I probably would have stayed in Danbury despite my misgivings.

  I was getting tired, my eyes hurt, and I had been on the road too long. As it was, we had to stop just outside of Danbury to let Jimmy pee on the side of the road. He got a little thrill from doing something forbidden in the dark because I wasn’t going to let any cop catch a glimpse of our skin color from our headlights.

  We took US 6 to Connecticut 34, going through sleepy small town after sleepy small town, filled with expensive homes and barns and silent streets. Malcolm kept looking at me nervously, and I kept ignoring him. I didn’t want him to see how uncomfortable I was.

  Route 34 was supposed to dump us in New Haven, and I wouldn’t have realized that we had gotten there if it hadn’t been for Jimmy, yelling and pointing at the tiny NEW HAVEN, POPULATION 136,000 sign that was pushed up near a tree on the side of the road.

  Like the rest of Connecticut, the buildings were dark here. But the area was dilapidated. Warehouses and storefronts, many made of brick, had boarded windows and barred doors. Streetlights were either burned out or knocked out.

  Ours was the only car on the road.

  “You know where we’re staying?” Malcolm asked.

  I shook my head. I felt at a loss. I hadn’t called ahead, because I hadn’t known New Haven, and wasn’t sure what part of town we would stay in. But I had expected to arrive in daylight.

  Another sign told us we were headed toward the Yale Bowl, and I continued on the same route. I figured if we got close to the university, we had a chance of finding a motel that might take us.

  Since the university was integrated, black parents had to stay somewhere. So I doubted any of the nearby motels would throw us out, especially if I assured them we’d only stay one night. My bigger concern was prices. Yale was an expensive and prestigious university, so I expected the hotel prices in New Haven to reflect that.

  “Hey, Smoke!” Jimmy scooted forward in his seat. “There’s a place.”

  He was pointing at the right side of the road. There, not a block ahead of us, was a motel, built into the shape of a U. The center had trees and a carport. Someone had placed lights at decent intervals, revealing a small group of cars parked at one end.

  I turned into the parking lot. The place didn’t look full. A neon VACANCY sign had a burned out V, and no one had turned on the YES or NO below it.

  It was nearly midnight, but I decided to take my chances.

  I parked beneath the carport. A wrought-iron fence framed the north and south sides of the carport, and the front door of the office had the same wrought-iron design.

  That door was closed and obviously locked. But someone had taped a handwritten sign to one side of the door.

  I got out and walked to the door. The sign, above the doorbell, read:

  FOR AFTER-HOURS SERVICE, PLEASE RING BELL.

  AND BE PREPARED TO WAIT!!!!!

  I pushed the button. A paint chip fell off into my hand. From inside, I heard a loud buzzer, obviously designed to wake someone from a sound sleep.

  Then I took a step back from the door, just in case I startled the hotel manager. I had no idea what the ethnic makeup of New Haven was, nor did I know what this neighborhood was like, even though it looked transitional at best.

  I turned slightly, so that my right profile faced the door. No sense in letting the manager find a large black man with a scarred face at his door. Better to let him assemble the parts of me slowly.

  Across the street, there were several long buildings and even more parking lots. Behind them, a football stadium rose against the night sky, dark and forbidding.

  That had to be the Yale Bowl, and the buildings around it all those support facilities that big sports arenas usually had.

  Down the road directly in front of me seemed to be some kind of dead end. Or maybe it was just darkness, no streetlights at all.

  A lock turned. The wooden door swung open, and it was my turn to be surprised. A black face peered out at me.

  The man was as tall as I was, but older, with red pockmarks from a skin condition. His hair was silver and straight, which was a surprise given how dark his skin was.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Do you have a vacancy?” I kept my voice soft. “I’m looking for a double for me and my sons.”

  I had decided along this trip that most people would think of Malcolm as my child. It would be easier to explain than the real rationale behind what we were doing.

  The man pushed open the screen door. He wasn’t wearing a robe, like I expected. He wore dark blue pants and a short-sleeved shirt. The only thing that gave away the late night was the tan slippers on his feet.

  He padded across a vinyl runner that led to the front desk. The interior smelled like cigarettes, ammonia, and pine deodorizer. The desk was long and blond, one end covered with brochures.

  “How long you staying?” he asked as he went around the desk.

  “That depends.” I glanced over his shoulder, saw the door to the back was closed. “I plan to be here for several days, but level with me. Should we stay in this neighborhood or is there someplace a little friendlier?”

  He opened a register. Several spidery signatures already filled the page.

  “Checking out Yale?” he asked.

  “How’d you guess?” I said.

  He shrugged. Obviously that’s what most people did with their kids when they came to New Haven.

  “A room here’s nineteen dollars a night for a double. That’s the cheapest you’ll find within fifteen minutes of downtown. You might be a bit cheaper heading out Whalley, but honestly, depending on the place, you might run into some trouble there.”

  I nodded, not knowing where Whalley was, but figuring I could find it on a map.

  “Otherwise, you’re gonna want to be either in the Hill or along Dixwell. I don’t think there’s much on the Hill any more, but I know of a few places on Dixwell. You can give ’em a look if you want.”

  “But?”

  This time it was his turn to glance over his shoulder. And he looked behind me, as if he were checking for other paying customers.

  “Ain’t none of those places black-owned, even if they’re in our neighborhood. So you got smaller rooms, no real upkeep, and higher prices for less. At least here, you got nice rooms because we do good business.”

  “And we’re not going to have a problem if we stay here a week with, say, the day manager?” I asked.

  The man smiled. His teeth gleamed in the fluorescent light. “That day manager got canned. You’ll be okay.”

  It was my turn to smile. “You said nineteen dollars for a double?”

  Nineteen was expensive. I had hoped for less.

  “If you stay the week, I can bring it down to fifteen a night.”

  He was doing me a favor, and I knew it. Still, I wasn’t sure where my investigation would take me.

  “I’d like to say I’m going to, but it depends on whether we can get all the meetings we’ve been planning, since the Fourth is coming up.” I let my smile ease into a grin. “I promised the boys camping if we got done early.”

  The manager nodded. “That last summer before college’s an important one. I’ll make a note on your file. We’ll charge fifteen if you’re here for six nights.”

  He slid the register toward me, then grabbed an index card.

  “Pay tonight’s up front, and you won�
�t owe nothing till you check out. We’ll settle then.”

  “All right.” I took out a twenty and handed it to him as I pulled the register closer. I picked up the pen and then paused. I was tired. I had nearly signed my real name.

  I signed, put down my address and phone number, as well as Malcolm and Jimmy’s first names, and then slid the register back toward the manager. Out of force of habit, I skimmed the other names before releasing the thick book. I didn’t see any I recognized.

  He had me sign the index card, too, after I saw him make the note about the possible lower rate. Then he recorded that I paid $19 for the first night, and reached into a drawer to get me my dollar change.

  “You’ll be in 1171,” he said. “It’s in the back, away from the street and the noise. There’s a good walking trail to the park, and in the summer, the park’s pretty nice. If one of your kids is young, he might like it. It’s got swings and a merry-go-round, some picnic tables.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And thanks for letting us in so late.”

  He nodded. “You’re lucky I was on tonight. Not many places in town open their doors after ten.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Best you do,” he said. “This ain’t Chicago.”

  So he’d already looked at where I was from. He was more watchful than I had expected.

  “I’ll remember that, too,” I said.

  NINE

  Room 1171 was part of another building, tucked into the back. This building was older than the one up front, and had been built to look like row houses, attached on each side. The building was made of red brick and the doors had been painted a crisp white. Each door had a light above the entrance, a nice touch that made the place feel secure.

  The room itself was the same size as the one in Cleveland, but cleaner and with newer furnishings. It also lacked the musty odor that underlay the cigarettes. This room had a faint smell of fresh paint, and didn’t smell institutional at all.

  “Cripes,” Malcolm said from the bathroom. “They even put a paper banner around the toilet.”