52
PARTISAN REVIEW
Bartie protested. He struck his fist on the leather seat. Then, in frus–
tration, he started to cry-at least 1 thought he was crying. His shoul–
ders shook. He covered his mouth with his hands. But when he turned
around 1 saw from the glint in his large eye and in his small one that he
was laughing. Finally, he took his hands away and, looking straight at
me, mouthed the words, "Nigger lips."
AT
AN UNWAVERING FIFTY-SEVEN MI LES
an hour we made our way to
Needles, and, on Front Street, pulled into the Grandeur Cafe. Arthur
and Mary came inside; we sat in a booth and ate hot turkey sandwiches
for dinner. People did not stare so much as look twice, as if to make sure
they had really seen a Negro couple.
The sun, when we returned to our car, was low in the sky. We had
another hour's drive ahead of us, across the Colorado and into Arizona,
where we had reservations at the Four Cacti Motel. As we approached
the town of Kingston, Bartie cried, "1 see them! Barrie saw them first!"
Then we all did: the great green plants were clustered together like con–
gregants, their arms raised to heaven in what might have been a prayer
for rain.
Arthur and Mary had one room; Bartie and I had twin beds in
another. I fell onto the mattress fully clothed. For a moment I watched
the thin white curtains, on which the red of the setting sun was soon
replaced by the red of a neon sign. I heard the sign's sizzle. I heard the
tick of the Buick as it cooled. Then my eyes, and my ears too it seemed,
dropped shut. What time it was when Bartie left his bed and climbed
into mine I had no idea. 1 suppose the middle of the night. But he was
there, one arm around me, and his mouth open on the pillow, when
Mary knocked on our door with the first light of dawn.
We continued east, hour after hour, until the rising sun was no longer
shining directly into our eyes. Bartie and I waved at the Indians, who sat
under umbrellas and sold blankets and punch cards and jewelry at the
side of the road. One time a brave stepped from the door of a wooden
tepee and threw a can that bounced once and, spilling out liquid, struck
the side of the car. Arthur went on for a mile and then stopped to inspect
the fender; there wasn't a dent. But the poor Buick, with its false, gill–
like portholes, looked to me like a fish expiring under the relentless sun.
On we went. With the hissing wind, the constant whine of the tires,
the ever-mounting heat, it was impossible to remain awake for more
than a few minutes at a time. At midmorning, dozing, I felt a slight
bump and a swerve.
