Chapter 31

A Flivver

I best get back to Grandpa. I leave the railroad bed and turn down a street. I smell bread baking, and my stomach leads me to a woman putting a tray of buns in a bakery window. My fingers touch the doorknob before I remember I have no money. The woman smiles at me, but I shake my head. Before I step away, the door opens and almost catches the toes of my shoes.

“Sorry. I didn’t see you,” a young man apologizes. Carrying a white box with a fresh-baked smell, he holds open the door.

“I’m not going in.” My manners flee. I don’t say Thank you or Excuse me. Mama would have a conniption.

“You sure?” He still holds the door. I shake my head, and he finally lets the door close. “Are you lost?”

I shake my head again.

“You don’t say much, do you?” He smiles a crooked smile, revealing front teeth with a space between them. “You sure you’re not lost?” He raises his eyebrows with each question, dark eyebrows like roofs over eyes the color of tin.

“I’m not lost.”

He starts down the block, the delicious-scented box disappearing with him. I take one last sniff and head back toward the hotel. If Grandpa wakes and I’m not there, he’ll worry. Daddy warned me not to worry Grandpa.

Was I wrong to say I’m not lost? How many blocks did I walk the railroad bed? The hotel must be close. I come upon a square with a shiny automobile parked near the sidewalk. A young man leans against it, looking at his pocket watch.

“Can you tell me the time?” I ask. “Please,” I add as my manners catch up with me.

“Quarter past seven.” He snaps closed the watch with the cleanest hands I’ve ever seen on a man. And fingernails cleaner than Mama’s. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He smiles with straight, white teeth, his eyes sparkling a blue that would turn the sky green with envy.

I try not to gape at those teeth and eyes. “I’m from West Virginia.”

“You have a delightful accent.” I reckon I blush because he adds, “Don’t be embarrassed.”

I want to walk away before my face gets redder, but I need to find the hotel. “Do you live here?” I ask.

“I’m from New York.” The blinding smile spreads across his face. “Driving across the country in my flivver.”

“Flivver?”

“My Tin Lizzie.” He pats the automobile. “My Ford Model T. She’s a jim-dandy, isn’t she?”

“Dandy.” My hand reaches toward its gleaming hull. “But is she Jim or Lizzie?”

He laughs as if my joke is the funniest he’s ever heard. “Maybe you’d like a ride.”

His boldness startles me, and I look away. Down the block. Across the street. Over his shoulder. Anywhere but at that shiny automobile and shinier smile. A boy back home might walk a girl home from church, but only if they know each other well.

I can’t allow the lure of an automobile ride to edge into my mind. “I have to get back to Grandpa.” I turn to go and see our hotel just across the square. I scurry toward it.

“Maybe another time,” he calls after me.

In our room, Grandpa still snores. Daddy always says Grandpa gets up to wake the chickens. I reckon he missed a heap of sleep keeping watch on our fires for so many nights.