Read Online War at Home: A Smokey Dalton Novel by Kris Nelscott - Free Book Online
Authors: Kris Nelscott
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looked like he had never seen anything like it before. It wasn’t that remarkable, except that it was cleaner than most and had a little more space.
“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 t he Glenville s hootout, 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 w as 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
“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 t he Glenville s hootout, 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 w as 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
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