Page 9 of The Reformatory

If anyone had told Robert that he would have a reason to feel glad on this horrible day, he’d never have believed it. But as he gazed at the wide-open car door and the expanse of the clean, pale leather seat, he felt his mouth upturning, his teeth poking out. He’d never had a ride in a new car, only old cars. Mr. Loehmann’s car smelled fresh. And no more handcuffs!

“See him grinning?” the deputy said. “You see that?”

“Same way any kid smiles when you say they can ride up front,” Mr. Loehmann said. “Since there’s no form, tell me: What’s Robert’s crime? Ran away from home? Orphan?”

“He kicked Lyle McCormack. Assault’s a crime.”

“Lyle McCormack, huh?” Mr. Loehmann said, eyebrows raised when he looked back in Robert’s direction. Robert was ready to blurt an apology and explanation—How could he have forgotten to tell the judge that Lyle pushed him first?—but Mr. Loehmann gestured again for him to get into the car. “Well, that explains it.”

The front seat was so smooth that Robert glided from one end to the other. He wished he could have lingered at the dashboard, shiny with silver, and its knobs, meters, and numbers. He couldn’t resist a tug at the two-toned steering wheel as he passed, but it didn’t budge.

“I been meaning to ask you, Mr. Loehmann…,” the deputy said, with an odd emphasis on his name, drawing out LOW-mannnn. “Where you from? Miami, I bet?”

“I’m from New York. Lower East Side.”

“New York, huh?” the deputy said. “Well, that explains it.”

“Explains what, Deputy?”

“I’m surprised your car ain’t painted pink. Or red.”

Robert watched through the windshield as the men stood locked in a moment he didn’t understand. The deputy smirked as if he’d gotten away with an insult. Pink was a terrible choice, but red wouldn’t be such an ugly color for a car, would it? Why had Loehmann’s face gone pale?

“Remind your boss that we have procedures and a state juvenile board,” Mr. Loehmann said. “I’m pretty sure rules apply even in Gracetown.”

“Tell him yourself.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

“You drive safe out there, Mr. Loehmann.” Again the deputy said it like an insult. Then he pretended to sneeze, saying A Jew where his sneeze should be.

When Mr. Loehmann climbed into the car, he slammed his door. His face reminded Robert of Papa’s for an instant, tight with ugly knowledge. So, when white men argued, they did not say the thing they were arguing about, not like with Papa and his friends shouting over each other on the porch. These white men hid their arguments behind polite words and sneezes.

But that was the white men’s business, not his. He bounced in his seat, his grin breaking free. As Mr. Loehmann turned his key and the engine whispered to life without choking or gurgling, the radio played Nat King Cole’s “Mona Lisa” so crisply that Nat and his orchestra might have been hiding under the hood. Nat King Cole was a Negro, Mama’s favorite. Suddenly, Mama was in the car with him, singing in his ear. Mona Lisaaaaaa. Cool air blew from the vents like a fall breeze. And a car like this probably could drive fast! He’d only had a quick glance at the speedometer, but it went up to a hundred miles an hour at least.

A clanging across his window startled Robert and made his sore ear throb. The deputy had tapped the glass with his handcuffs. “You won’t be smilin’ long, boy,” the deputy said.

Mr. Loehmann reversed his car so fast that the deputy jumped back. Robert turned in his seat to watch the deputy through the rear window and saw that he was laughing.

After they passed the last tack and feed at the far end of Main Street, the road was bordered by woods. Cars and a few horses had crowded Main Street, but the county road was empty except for trees and farms. Robert peeked to see how fast Mr. Loehmann was driving: only fifty, the speedometer said. Still, the ride seemed fast and free. Papa always drove slowly, like an old man. So no one has an excuse to pull me over, he always said.

Robert pressed his own foot against an imaginary gas pedal, urging him to drive faster.

Sure enough, the car lurched ahead. Like magic.

“You act like you’ve never been in a car,” Mr. Loehmann said.

“Not like this one.”

Mr. Loehmann slumped lower in his seat, relaxing. He stretched out his arm. “Always wanted a Woodie, but the canvas roof wouldn’t have survived New York winters. Then I moved down here. And they came out with this tin roof last year. I like her pretty well myself.”

“Why’d…” Robert started to ask why he’d left New York to move to Gracetown, which felt like going about life backward. He had seen the grand city in picture shows and heard it sung in songs. But he had no business asking a grown-up, a white man, to explain himself.

“Sometimes life throws you a curveball, Robert, and you end up in places you never expected. My mother was reared in Tallahassee. When my father died in the war in ’42—he enlisted as a surgeon—she moved to Gracetown to be near her family. Now she’s sick, so I moved to be closer to her. But I’ll tell you what: I never thought I’d live down here. Never in a million years.”

It was an answer that opened more questions, but Robert did not ask how the man’s father had died and if his mother had cancer like Mama.

“My mama was sick,” Robert said. “Then she died.”