Havana File

On the Road

On the RoadS

hake was stopped at a grassy turnout about 90 miles out of Atlanta by sundown and watching Bear carefully select a pooping spot. He was full of coffee and sandwiches, planning a route around the city, and keeping an eye on threatening weather to the west when his phone rang. Caller ID told him daughter Tracey was on the line. He’d been expecting to hear from her since she’d sent a text letting him know she started on her sabbatical from the regular gig at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. During her time off, Tracey was volunteering with a program called Xchange, run by Shake’s friend Lynn Fulton, a retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant. The program, designed to help exploited females escape s*x trafficking—a brutal and prevalent problem in Central America—had caught Tracey’s interest during her visit with Shake and Chan in Belize.

Hey, girl. Where are you?”

“Belize City, Dad—got in day before yesterday. Gunny Fulton’s got me hard at work already. Where are you?”

“Somewhere north of Atlanta, on my way to Texas.” Shake paced away from the truck when he heard his dog barking furiously. “Bear is keeping me company on the road.”

“Good Lord! Is that him I hear?”

“Yeah. He’s got a squirrel treed out here and he’s thinking snack. The squirrel seems to have other ideas. Can you hold on for a minute while I get him?”

Shake whistled for the dog to no avail and finally had to use the leash to get Bear out of hunter mode and into the truck. He poured fresh water into a travel bowl and got back on the line.

“OK; he’s pouting in the truck. So how’s the work?”

“It’s all good, I think. Maybe I can help out down here but…you know, I’ve only got a couple of weeks before I need to get back to Woods Hole. Who knows? Anyway, I’m gonna give it a shot.”

“Listen, Tracey. You saw the situation can get dicey last time we were all down there, so you be careful. Stick close to Gunny Fulton and follow her lead.”

“It’s instinctive, Dad. I’ve been following orders from Marines ever since I can remember.”

“You could do a lot worse. Anyway, I want regular sitreps while you’re down there. If you can’t reach me, call Chan’s cell number.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Good, I think. The DIA didn’t much want to see her go and they’ve left the door open if she wants to come back, but I think she’ll be happy with the thing at UT in Austin.”

“I’d love to audit one of her Poly Sci courses. Chan is bound to warp a few young brains.”

“Well, they wanted somebody with real-world experience and they damn sure got it with Chan. She’s down at the house in Lockhart dealing with the movers. Give her a call.”

“OK, but I wanted to ask you about this Cuba situation. We’ve got a few women down here—refugees mostly—that are plenty upset about this normalization plan, lifting the embargo and all that.”

“They aren’t the only ones, Tracey. I had a call the other day from an old Mustache Pete in Miami. Guy’s a survivor from the Bay of Pigs deal back in ʼ61. They’re all old men now, but they’ve got good memories. It’s fair to say most of the Cuban population in the U.S. is not happy with the President’s proposals.”

“What’s your take on it?”

“Well, I’m not happy with this president or his proposals in general, but you know that. I’m worried about what’s happening or is gonna happen down there behind the scenes. The Cubans are in the hip pocket of every anti-American country or organization there is and lifting an embargo, normalizing relations and all that stuff ain’t gonna change the situation. I think we’re opening ourselves up to a nest of snakes ninety miles offshore and that’s stupid. Any real change for the better in Cuba has got to come from the grassroots. The people have got to get rid of the Castro regime.”

“Yeah, I thought that’s what I’d hear from an old anti-communist warhorse.”

“Don’t take my word for it, girl. Call Chan. She’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Guess I better do that. Give me a call on this number when you hit Lockhart and send me some phone-snaps of the new place.”

“I’ll do it. Remember the sitreps.”

“Copy all, Dad. Love you. Bye.”

On the road again, driving through the gloom on a long northerly loop around Atlanta to rejoin US 20, it began to rain hard. An hour further on, a flashing highway alert just east of the state line said there were thunderstorm warnings and flood watches posted for most of central Alabama. Shake reduced the speed on his cruise control and switched the wipers to high rate. As the truck forged on through the driving rain, he found himself thinking about the administration’s announced re-set of relations with long-time adversary Castro’s Cuba. He popped the Willie Nelson CD out of the audio console and began to search for talk-radio stations. There were more than a few high-powered blowtorches on the AM dial, but none seemed to be talking about Cuba other than brief mentions in concert with other criticisms of the sitting President and his policies.

Understandable, Shake supposed as he checked the fuel gauge and decided he could push on and fill up once he crossed into Alabama. Economic recovery in the country was somewhere between substandard and shitty. There was a major situation developing in several urban areas between police and minority populations that threatened regular outbreaks of violence. And the damn jihadis in the Middle East were rapidly regaining ground that had been paid for with American blood and treasure over the past decade. Americans had a lot more on the collective mind than relations with Cuba.

It was enough to send him searching for a bolt-hole which is a big part, he admitted, of why they decided to finally make a move away from the flagpole—to relocate someplace where the major concerns were more mundane things like cattle, crops, and high-school football. He was fairly frustrated with the radio by the time he started seeing signs for an approach to Birmingham and went back to riding with Willie. Bear was stretched out on the backseat and didn’t seem to mind either way.

It was raining hard and the dark sky was periodically rent with vivid lightning spikes when he stopped for gas at a little country joint that featured a convenience store and a couple of pumps. Shake set the nozzle to run and then let Bear out to pee. The dog did his business in a hurry and then whined to get out of the rain and back to his nap. Shake topped off the tank and jogged into the store to empty his bladder and fill his snack sack. He hit the head and then broke out his plastic to pay for the gas, soda, and munchies. The kid at the counter in a greasy John Deere cap had seen Bear watering one of his outdoor display racks and wanted to know what kind of dog that was.

“Golden Pyrenees,” Shake told him. “Looks like a killer but he’s just a hundred-pound lapdog.” The kid got a kick out of that and noting out-of-state plates on the truck asked where Shake and his dog were heading. When Shake told him, the kid whistled softly and scratched at a patch of lank hair under his cap.

“So, y’all plannin’ on headin’ south out of Birmingham?”

“Yeah, I guess. Map says 59 out of there, south to 20 and then west across Mississippi.”

“Reason I asked,” said the kid, “is y’all might want to look at another route. Radio says a big old stretch of 59 south is washed out. State Troopers been advisin’ alternate routes. Ain’t no tellin’ when the road will be open again.”

“Yeah? What would you do?”

“Well, sir, if it was me headin’ for Texas, I might take 78 North toward Memphis. That old road is always good as gold. You’d be cuttin’ across Mississippi contrary to the way you want to go but you’d pick up 55 near Tupelo, then turn south to Jackson and pick up 20 West.”

“That the best option?”

“I believe it is in this weather which ain’t supposed to let up anytime soon. Elsewise you’d be chasin’ all kinds of country roads to keep yourself going south and ain’t no tellin’ what condition they’re in.”

Back in the truck, Shake re-programmed his GPS to get a look at the option suggested. In a minute or two the program confirmed that most major southbound routes out of Birmingham were closed or heavily restricted due to weather. The alternate route to the northwest was green all the way to Memphis. He made a few scrolling adjustments and discovered the trek to Tupelo and then south to Jackson on the Natchez Parkway and I-55 would cost him about 190 miles, three hours or better depending on the speeds he could maintain in the wind and rain. A local station he dialed up on the radio said the weather front was expected to hang around for the next two or three days effecting Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana so there wasn’t much chance of driving out of the storms in any kind of a hurry. He checked his watch, re-set for Central Daylight Time, and punched the speed-dial to check with Chan.

“How’s the weather in Lockhart?”

“Light rain just started. The movers have been at it since ten this morning and they’re just about finished. We’ve got a lot more house than we’ve got furniture.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I’m gonna build that woodworking shop out by the bunkhouse, Chan. I’ll make us some new stuff.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it, Shake. Where are you?”

“I stopped for gas outside of Birmingham. It’s raining like hell and most of the southbound roads are a mess. Kid I talked to here says I need to head north before I turn south. If I do that, I’ll have to stop somewhere and sleep. Probably put me a day or so late getting into Lockhart.

“How’d it go with the closing?”

“Piece of cake. Realtor handled it like she knew what she was doing. I even met the new owners: Mr. and Mrs. Federal Bureaucrat and the two little Bureaucrats. They seemed thrilled with the place.”

“Bear OK?”

“In his element, either asleep in the backseat or chasing squirrels when we stop. He’s having a ball.”

“Well, be safe. I’ve got this down here so you don’t need to push too hard.”

“When do they want you to start at UT?”

“Next week I’m supposed to go up for faculty orientation, meet the department head and like that. I don’t start classes until September so there’s time for us to get settled.”

“Any regrets yet?”

“Not a one so far. Some people dropped by around lunchtime to welcome me to the town. Very nice folks and they made me feel, you know—very small town, very country girl.”

“You tell ʼem you’re a former spook?”

“No, the subject didn’t come up. I just said my husband was a very handsome retired Marine and I was going to start teaching at the university up in Austin. They liked the Marine connection. People down here are very patriotic.”

“OK, go get a beer and some barbecue at Black’s. I’ll be home in a day or two. Call me if anything changes and I’ll do the same. Love you.”

He broke the connection and started the engine. Bear growled and rolled over on his back. “Get comfortable, boy. We’re gonna head for Tupelo and RON.” Tupelo, he thought as he wheeled the truck toward an intersection that was signposted for access to US 78. Tupelo, Mississippi: where the hell have I heard that before?

He was crossing the state line leaving the heaviest rain sheeting down in the truck’s wake when it hit him. Tupelo was the birthplace of The King. Elvis Aaron Presley was born there in some little two-room shotgun squat back in 1935. Shake had always been an Elvis fan. In fact his fondest teenage memories all seemed to run with a soundtrack of Elvis tunes.

He belted out the chorus loud enough to wake Bear. “Continue the march, boy! And then we remain overnight in the cradle of The King!”