Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books) (22 page)

Regardless, we forged fitfully ahead at an erratic, if not leisurely, pace. By late afternoon we had only traveled two hundred miles and were approaching Abilene. Based on our progress during the day, we could see there was no point in trying to make it to the planned Tuesday night destination. We consulted the map and opted for Abilene State Park, a few miles outside of Abilene near a watering hole called Buffalo Gap.

The road to the park turned out to be a long, twisting drive through scrubby mesquite trees, leading quite a ways from the main highway. At about the moment the sun was kissing the horizon, Dad uttered an exclamation and began wrestling with the steering wheel as if some invisible force were fighting him for control of the car.

“Power steering just went out,” he explained through gritted teeth as he tried to navigate a road that rivaled San Francisco’s Lombard Street for sinuosity. Inspection revealed a broken power-steering hose. Five minutes later I was riding with Dad as he grappled his way back down the winding road in the gathering dark, leaving the women behind to make camp and fix supper. We took the car into the town of Buffalo Gap to pick up some ice and see what could be done about the hose. In the days before auto-part franchises, there wasn’t much chance of finding something open after sundown, so I wasn’t sure what Dad’s intentions were. But I adopted my usual policy of wait and see.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Before we proceed to plumb the depths of the resourcefulness of fathers, I need to have a little talk with you, the gentle reader. The experience that I am about to relate catches Dad at a disadvantage. We glimpse his humanity and are given occasion to have amusement at his expense. I don’t know what your experience with parents was like. (Or is like, if you’re just a kid. Shoot, I don’t even know what you are like, for that matter. Remind me to ask you about it later. I’m a little busy right now.)

Anyway, based on my experience at the time, I saw parents as creatures of conservative reliability, sober and reserved.

Here’s something that will give you an idea of how I saw Dad. I remember at age six sitting in the garage helping him work on some little project, when he made a comment about being wrong about something. I was astounded. “But you can’t be wrong,” I protested. “You’re a daddy!” He assured me that even daddies could, on rare occasion, be wrong. It revolutionized my entire worldview. In light of these attitudes, you can see how, as I grew older, I found it remarkably refreshing to witness an event wherein a parent was placed in a humorously awkward position. I was amused primarily because these events were very rare in my experience.

For example, once, back in Ohio, the family sat down to a meal. The normal beverage for our meals was iced tea. It just so happened that there was only enough tea for one glass and we all wanted it. Mom, as moms are wont to do, gave it to Dad, the rest of us having to suffer with KoolAid. Dad said the blessing, and when we opened our eyes, we all looked up to the head of the table at that glass of tea. Dad put his napkin in his lap and reached for the glass of tea. All eyes followed his every movement. Conscious of the attention focused on the glass, he slowly and regally raised it to his lips. But just as the glass crossed his plate, the bottom fell out and tea flooded his plate and the table.

If my parents had been buffoons, then perhaps these events would not give me such pleasure. Well, now that we have settled that little detail, let’s get back to the silent teenager and his father, who is wrestling a reluctant maroon road ship toward a one-horse town in the darkening twilight. (But, don’t forget. We’ll get to your dad in a minute.)

As was his habit when in need in a strange town, Dad sought out a member of his fraternity, the clergy. Very few towns in Texas, regardless of size, lack a Baptist church. As we crept through the streets, squinting in the failing light for some sign of a church, we came across two barefoot boys toting cane fishing poles. Dad slowed and called out the window, “Say, can you boys tell me who is the pastor of the Baptist church in this town?”

They stopped and looked at us closely, then at each other. The taller one spoke. “Oh, you mean Elder Nelson.”

“I guess that’s who I mean. Is he a Baptist preacher?”

“Yup, sure is. That’s the church, right down there.” He pointed to a building about three hundred yards away. “His house is right next to the church, on that side.”

“Thank you.” Dad drove on.

“Elder Nelson? How could he be a Baptist preacher if he’s called elder?”

“There are many different variations of Baptists. Southern Baptist, American Baptist, Independent Baptist, and so on. There is one variety called Primitive Baptist, sometimes called Hardshell Baptist. Some Baptist denominations,” he continued, “call their pastors elders.” We pulled up in front of the house, a frame structure that had at one time long ago been white. “Heck, I’m just as much an elder as he is.”

We emerged from the car and walked to the gate. The yard was largely dirt; a few sparse tufts of grass straggled by the walk. On the porch two barefoot kids of five or six were playing in the gloaming.

“Is your father at home?” Dad asked. The kids skittered into the house, leaving the screen door waving open. We walked up the sidewalk, which jutted from the dirt like a causeway, and stood at the foot of the porch steps.

Presently a woman in a plain cotton dress appeared at the door. The kids followed, grabbing her legs and peeking out from behind her skirt. The woman was slender and sturdy, with the cares of raising children on too little income plainly written on her face. An older boy, about ten or eleven, stood behind her, half-obscured by shadow.

She eyed us cautiously. Dad hadn’t shaved since we left Fred, much to Mom’s dismay, and his two-day growth gave him more hair on his chin than he had on the top of his head, which didn’t exactly lend him an air of respectability.

“Is this the home of Elder Nelson?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, I’m Elder Cloud.” I looked at Dad, taken by surprise, but my reaction was nothing compared to theirs. The woman looked startled, and the older boy yelped out a barking laugh of one syllable. The younger ones continued to stare brazenly as though we were performing animals.

“I pastor a Baptist church in East Texas. We’re on vacation, and we’ve had a little problem with our car. We were wondering if he could direct us to a garage that would give us a fair shake.” He took off his glasses and smiled. I stood by, woodenly, as was appropriate for a teenager.

“Sure. He’s not here right now, but he should be back soon. Why don’t you come in and wait?” She opened the door and we filed in, taking a seat on a lumpy couch that was probably past its prime before I was born. On the other hand, with these kids, it might have been new last week.

“Would you like some iced tea?” We assented and she disappeared into the recesses of the house. The older boy stared at us for awhile and shuffled out the front door. The younger kids continued to stare from around corners and doorways.

Always curious about how other people lived, I looked about the room. Here were others who shared my fate, being a preacher’s kid.
Perhaps they haven’t felt it yet
, I speculated.
Perhaps they never will
. My own sense of PK isolation developed after the symptoms of that dreaded malady, adolescence, had manifested.

I wondered how different their life was from mine. The room was sparsely furnished. Other than the couch, there was an armchair, a rocking chair, and a coffee table—all past their prime except the rocking chair, which looked like it was built to outlast several generations of indigent pastors. A threadbare braided rug attempted vainly to disguise the fact that the wood floors had lost their finish long ago. On the far wall was the inevitable, albeit small, bookcase filled with reference books and magazines.

The living standard seemed below what I was used to, but upon reflection I realized that I was used to a nicer house only because the church in Fred had built a rambling, brick parsonage with volunteer labor just a few years before we arrived. If we had been forced to buy or rent a house on Dad’s income, it wouldn’t have been as nice as the one I was critiquing.

The woman eventually returned with our drinks. I sipped at mine. It had a strong mineral taste, making the tea almost undrinkable. I resigned myself to holding the glass and making token sipping movements every few minutes. The woman went back to whatever she had been doing, and Dad and I waited in silence. The house seemed to discourage conversation. Dusk deepened toward genuine darkness and still we sat, holding sweating tea glasses and meditating on the metallic taste in our mouths. In the twilight I could feel the relentless stare of those kids, like the never-sleeping eye of God, inspecting my every movement and nuance.

After an eternity, steps sounded on the front porch and a tall, genial-looking man walked in. Dad rose awkwardly from the couch, and I followed suit as Mrs. Nelson entered the room.

“This is Elder Cloud,” she said, smiling.

The man registered surprise. “Really?” He grinned at Dad.

“Yes. I pastor a Baptist church in a small town in East Texas.” He proceeded to explain our dilemma to Elder Nelson, who directed us to the Ford dealership in Abilene. Of course, both being pastors, they were incapable of concluding their business immediately. I slumped in the requisite adolescent stupor while the two elders talked shop. I knew I was in for the duration, much like my experience with Darnell on the Roller Coaster, only with less panic. Eventually they both talked themselves down to a fine powder, and we made the preliminary overtures to parting.

The parting ritual took almost as long as the conversation. I endured it with obvious stoicism. Finally the rites led us out of the house, lingering on the porch, tediously inching down the steps, through the yard to the gate. We moved deeper into the humid night and the warm cocoon of cricket song and fireflies. As we stood near the car, the denouement fell like a flourish of timpani.

In the darkness, the periphery of the porch light silhouetting our features, Elder Nelson said, “This has really been an experience. I’ve never met anyone else with the first name of Elder before.”

It seemed to me that the crickets fell silent and the universe quivered, slightly. I staggered as nonchalantly as I could to the car, rolled up the windows, and fell into spasms of laughter on the vinyl seat. I don’t know what Dad said to get himself out of that one.

I was still laughing when he got into the car several minutes later, a quiet and humble man if I’ve ever seen one.

We awoke Wednesday morning at sunrise, the birds being our alarm clock. After breakfast and cleaning up, Dad opened up the laundry drum.

“All right, everyone drop your dirty clothes in here,” he said.

Mom made a last attempt. “You aren’t really serious, are you? We only have a few days until we get to Wilma’s. We can wait until then.”

“I didn’t strap that luggage rack on the car and figure out a way to secure this drum for nothing. We’re going to use it.”

We all deposited our clothes from the day before. Dad handed me a box of detergent. “Fill the drum to the line with water and add a scoop of this,” he instructed. “I’ll put on the lid to make sure it’s sealed.”

I did the laundry while everyone else broke camp. Then we wrestled our way into Abilene, repaired the hose, and struck out across West Texas. I will not weary you with an account of each time the carburetor flooded out. Suffice it to say that we found ourselves sitting on the side of the road twenty-two times due to the needle valve, in all manner of terrain, from desert to mountains. By the time we reached California we had completed a graduate-level course in the trying of our faith, producing patience, and counting it all joy. However, not everyone graduated with honors.

I interspersed my reading with staring out the window, obsessed with visions of the land of Ultimate Cool. In Fred I was strange in a stranger land. I fit in about as well as a fish in a rodeo. But I figured it was just the Ugly Duckling Syndrome. I told myself that all I needed was the proper environment for my awkward layer of gawky adolescence to molt, revealing a brilliant new coat of sophistication and charm. I pondered without enlightenment on my primary dilemma: how to determine the locus of fate and, more importantly, how to get there.

I alone was aware that this vacation was in reality a pilgrimage to the Mystical Mecca of Hipness. I had not breathed a word of my aspirations to anyone. Heidi would consider it childish, Hannah would mock it, and Mom and Dad couldn’t possibly understand it. I was forced to scheme silently and unaccompanied. The itinerary of the average family vacation is not conducive to providing opportunities for meeting and converging with the counterculture. I needed a ruse that would provide transportation to some cultural marketplace while at the same time gaining independence. I couldn’t make contact with the counterculture in the company of my hopelessly uncool family.

In spite of the difficulties, we covered 350 miles by nightfall and pulled into a campsite near Tijeras Canyon, New Mexico. Everyone piled out of the car. I headed to unhitch the Beast and set it up, but Dad collared me. “Come here.”

I dutifully followed, having been saddled with the very job I was trying to avoid. He unstrapped the laundry drum and handed it down. “Rinse this out very thoroughly. When you’re through, hang the clothes on the rope that I’ll stretch on the back side of the camper.”