Chapter Fourteen

Max had never supported Ben’s literary aspirations.

Many years ago, Ben was laying on his bed, reading To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee’s novel about racism in a small southern town. Ben read the part where the racist white jury unanimously convicts the innocent black man of raping a white woman. This miscarriage of justice upset Ben so much that he threw the book across the room and broke a window.

Max’s heavy footsteps came rushing up the stairs. He knocked open the door, almost taking it off its hinges.

“What happened?”

“The window broke.”

“Were you playing with a ball in the house?”

“No.”

“Well why not? You never play with a ball. You always just bury your nose in a book.”

Ben didn’t respond, just stared at his feet. Max sighed.

“Alright, how did you break the window?”

“I was reading a book.”

“Don’t be smart with me. Just tell me what happened.”

Ben explained how they accused Tom Robinson of a crime he didn’t commit, almost lynched
him, then convicted him and sentenced him to death.

“Well that’s terrible,” Max agreed. “But it’s no reason to break your own window. If you’re so mad, go break the author’s window.”

“She doesn’t have a window. She’s dead.”

“Well don’t break my window! You’re acting like an inner-city person that riots and burns down his own neighborhood.”

Ben felt his face grow hot with anger. “You’re a racist!”

“I am not. I know what I’m talking about. They don’t study, just play basketball all day. They have hoop dreams.”

“You would have convicted Tom Robinson if you were on the jury!”

“I would have weighed the evidence carefully.”

“How come you want me to stop reading? Why do I have to play sports but you want them to read?”

“Because you’re my son. I don’t care what they do.” Max looked at the shattered window.
“Was anyone hurt? That’s the important thing.”

***

As the caravan entered the narrow street of the small town, a group of dirty barefoot children ran alongside it, leaping like gazelles. The truck slowed down so as not to run them over. The children reminded Ben of wild animals on an undiscovered continent that had never seen people before and hadn’t yet learned to be afraid of them. Ben felt like he was sitting on a tank instead of a gazebo, looking down at the newly-liberated people. Except they wouldn’t be greeting him with flowers—he would greet them with flowers.

Ben smiled and waved at the children.

“Candy! Candy!” they shouted.

“It’s not a parade float!” Ben called back. “It’s a gazebo.”

“Candy! Candy!”

Ben turned to Derrick.

“Derrick, give me some candy.”

“I don’t have any.”

“I just saw you eating Mentos.”

“Mentos aren’t candy. They’re breath mints.”

“No they’re not. Anyway, your Mentos are fruit-flavored.”

“No.”

“Come on. I’ll get you some new ones.”

“Derrick,” Elizabeth said. “Give the children some candy. We have to make some sacrifices.”

“Why am I the one who always has to make the sacrifices? I had to give up my name. Now you
want me to give up my Mentos?”

“We’re guests in their town. We should be nice.”

“We’re not guests. We’re strangers. They can’t take candy from strangers.”

“Come on, Derrick,” Ben pressed. “You have a whole back full of candy. Throw them some.”

“What about stranger danger?”

“Derrick…”

“Fine.”

Derrick pulled a Snickers bar out of his knapsack and threw it at the children. It hit a little girl in the face. She slumped to the ground like a sack of flour and knocked up a cloud of dirt. Her pigtails bounced on the ground a couple times and then were still.

“You killed her!” Elizabeth shouted.

“What did you do that for?!” Ben screamed. They had just arrived in their first town and had already killed someone.

“You told me to throw it at them.”

“I told you to throw it to them! Not at them!”

Elizabeth grabbed the CB. “This is Grey Goose. We’re pulling over. There’s been a casualty.”

Derrick shook his head frantically. “Just keep driving!”

“No. We’re not doing a hit and run.”

“So we’re gonna do a hit and stop?! That’s even worse!”

“Maybe we can help her.”

“How? With flowers?”

“Maybe someone knows CPR.” Elizabeth pressed the button on the CB radio. “This is Grey Goose. Does anyone know CPR? Over.”

“This is Lonely Pelican.” Lonely Pelican was Larry Fishman’s handle. “That’s a negatory.
Don’t know CPR. Over.”

“Thanks Lonely Pelican. Is there anyone that does know CPR? Over.”

“Patches McGee here.” That was Slim Henry’s handle. “I did the Heimlich Maneuver once. Didn’t go so well. Figure I’m due now. Over.”

“Thanks Patches, but I think the candy bar hit her in the forehead. Didn’t go down her throat. Over.”

The caravan screeched to a halt. Ben pulled off his goggles and scarf, tore off his seatbelt, and hopped down the stairs of the gazebo, landing with a tooth-jarring shock on the rocky ground. He ran up to the little girl. She was sitting up now and had a large bump the size of an egg on her forehead. A little boy’s round face was smeared with chocolate and he was licking the last of the Snickers out of the torn wrapper.

The girl looked up at them dreamily.

“Are you carnies?” she asked.

“No,” Ben said. He would check to see how bad the blow to the head was. He didn’t know first aid, but he figured he’d better do something before Slim Henry tried the Heimlich maneuver. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“The thumb isn’t a finger.”

“I’m not holding up my thumb.”

She squinted closely at his hand. “So you ain’t,” she said wonderingly.

“I’ll just wait in the van,” Derrick said.

Ben saw that Derrick was looking towards the end of the street as if he was expecting an angry mob to come over the horizon at any moment with torches and pitchforks. Ben doubted that would happen. It was early afternoon and the sky was clear; there was no need for torches. And nobody used pitchforks anymore. This was the twenty-first century—there were more advanced ways of checking for fugitives hiding in stacks of hay.

“What’s going on here,” a deep voice said sharply.

Ben volted around and saw a large man had snuck up on them. He wore blue jeans, a worn flannel shirt, and had a rough, creased face. There was some spittle in his whiskers.

“She just bumped her head,” Ben said and then explained what had happened.

“Run away and play, little Suzie,” the man said. The girl skipped away with her friends. The man turned towards Ben and offered his hand.

“I’m Sheriff Johnston.”

Ben’s heart jumped. They were going to be arrested for assaulting a little girl with a Snickers bar.

Sheriff Johnston’s handshake was soft and wet. Ben tried to suppress a shudder. It felt like an eel was sliding over his palm.

Strangely enough, the sheriff didn’t have a gun or a badge. (Or a sheriff’s hat for that matter.) They had wandered into a town where the law was unarmed. Maybe they had accidentally wandered into Canada. That wasn’t part of the plan. The flowers were supposed to inspire Americans, not foreigners. Still, at least if they were in Canada, it would be easy to find a bobsled. Or maybe his first name was Sheriff. Parents gave their children strange names. Like Toby. Ben couldn’t suppress a giggle when he thought of the name Toby. He covered up his mouth and tried to get himself under control.

“You all right there, young fella?” Sheriff Johnston asked.

Ben nodded and stopped laughing. This man probably was a real sheriff. He didn’t seem like the kind of person whose parents would name him Rainbow or Sunshine. They wouldn’t get more exotic than something like Cody or Trevor.

“You carnies?” Sheriff Johnston asked.

“No,” Ben answered. This town had something about carnies.

“Sure about that?” the gunless sheriff asked.

“Yeah.”

“Not carnies?”

“We’re not carnies.”

“Are you a motorcycle gang?”

“No.”

“We don’t have any motorcycles?” Derrick pointed out.

The sheriff looked at the trucks and squinted his eyes. “What you got in those trucks then?”

“Flowers,” Ben said.

“What sort of flowers?” the sheriff asked suspiciously. “Motorcycle flowers?”

“Beautiful flowers,” Ben said, wondering what in the world motorcycle flowers were.

“And what do you plan to do with these so-called beautiful flowers?”

“Inspire people to see how beautiful life is. So that they’ll follow their dreams.”

“So it’s a revival meetin’ then?”

“No.”

“You’re a faith healer then?”

“No.”

“I love gettin’ saved.”

“I’m not a faith healer.”

“I’ll go get Gimpy Barry. He needs a healin’. That boy just sits in that chair.”

Sheriff Johnston turned on his heel and started to walk away.

“Ben,” Elizabeth whispered into his ear. “Are you sure you can do this? Gimpy Barry isn’t a flower.”

“Of course I can’t. I’m just a poet.” Ben ran after the sheriff. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I can’t heal a crippled person. I’m not a faith healer. I’m not here to preach. We’re not having a revival.”

“Gimpy Barry’ll be disappointed. And that boy’s had more than enough disappointment. I guess one more won’t make much of a difference.” Sheriff Johnston sighed. “Well then, who are you fellows?”

“Well, I’m a poet, he’s a human citronella candle, he’s a hermit…”

“Former hermit,” Toby corrected him.

“Right. Former hermit. Now he’s a future gold-medalist in the bobsled…”

“You carnies?” the sheriff asked. His face was dead serious. He seemed to have forgotten that he had already asked this question.

“No,” Ben explained patiently. “Our trucks are stuffed with flowers. We came to show them to people and inspire them to realize how beautiful everything is.”

“You Muslims?”

“No.” Ben shook his head.

“I am,” Toby said.

“Really?” Ben was surprised. He never would have suspected that this ex-hermit and future gold-medalist was a Muslim. It just went to show that you couldn’t judge by appearances. Muslims looked just like everyone else. They weren’t all Middle Easterners with turbans and long beards.

“Are you a moderate?” Elizabeth asked cautiously.

Toby shrugged. “I guess.”

“What’s in those trucks?” Sheriff Johnston asked.

“Flowers,” Ben said. He decided not to mention the cactuses. It might set the sheriff off. “We just want to share the beauty of flowers with you. Can I show you?” Ben turned to walk to the truck.

“Hold it.” The sheriff grasped Ben’s shoulder. “You got a permit to show those flowers?”

“No. We didn’t know we needed one.”

“Well, now you know. ‘Fraid you can’t be showin’ any flowers. You need a flower-displaying permit to display your flowers, beautiful or otherwise.”

Ben felt his anger growing. Usually he tried to sublimate it into a tight little ball in the pit of his stomach, and release it in his poetry, but every once in a while some of it slipped out, like what was happening now.

“There’s no such thing as a flower-displaying permit!” he shouted. “There wasn’t any permit fee when you thought we were revivalists! You’re just trying to run us out of town!”

“Easy there fella,” the sheriff said. “I can sell you a permit.”

Elizabeth pulled Ben away from the sheriff. “Let me handle this,” she said.

Ben took a few steps away and let her handle the sheriff. He was embarrassed that he let his anger take over. His hands were still shaking.

“That’s very kind of you, Mister Sheriff,” Elizabeth said. “How much is the permit?”

“How much you got?”

Ben was wrong. This wasn’t Canada. It was communist Russia. Oh well, at least it was one of the tundra countries. They’d be able to find a bobsled. Ben kicked dust at an imaginary umpire. Everyone in the flower caravan looked shocked that a sheriff would abuse his position in this way. Only Elizabeth didn’t seem to understand what was happening. Her face remained pleasant and uncomprehending, her head slightly tilted, her eyelids flickering erratically, and a merry grin plastered on her face.

“That’s nice,” she said. “You charge on a sliding scale so that no one is turned away. Well, I’m very rich. Charge me the maximum.”

Ben suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. He was sure he was going to pass out or have an epileptic fit.

“The maximum, eh?” the sheriff squinted at her like he was a carnie, trying to guess her weight. How much could he squeeze out of her? “Fifty dollars?”

“That sounds very reasonable.” She unbuckled her large, jewel-encrusted purse and fished out a crinkly fifty dollar bill.

Sheriff Johnston looked disappointed with himself when he took the bill. He should have asked for more. He should have made his initial offer higher.

He looked like he was about to ask for more, add shipping and handling charges. Then suddenly, without saying a word, he stuck the money in his pocket and ran off.

“You forgot to give us the permit!” Ben shouted after him.

***
אב ה' תשס''ז
ירושלים
July 20, 2007
Jerusalem