Matt didn’t talk much, but he smiled and whistled a lot, which I took as evidence of his cheerful nature.
I watched as he checked engine oil and tire pressure, trying to organize the steps in my mind.
And that’s what I was doing when the colored pastor drove up and told me, “Fill it up, son—drivin’ clear to Georgia.”
There were only two gas stations in Birdsong. One was on the way into town and the other was on the way out, depending on which way you were headed. But regardless of your direction, my daddy’s was the only one that served coloreds. Jake’s had a colored bathroom and water fountain, and I’d once heard Daddy claim that Mrs. Masters, who now and then helps Mama at the house, had shown him something called The Negro Motorist Green Book, which lists places, including his, where colored people are welcome to eat, or rest, or get gasoline when they’re traveling around. That was when I discovered that being colored and being Negro are the exact same thing.
Once his tank was full, the pastor paid, said, “Thank you kindly,” and sputtered off, his tailpipe smoking a little.
I glanced at the Colored restroom sign and started to wonder about what Tink had claimed about all those things being gone someday, but my thinking was interrupted by a customer and then another after that. Busyness and thinking seem to work against each other—with busyness usually winning.
Much later, when I saw Meriwether, he was sitting outside beside the bicycle, legs stretched out and crossed in front of him, chomping on a sandwich. A brown paper bag rested beside him. “Suppertime,” he commented.
I studied the bicycle again.
“Not much when you compare it with your new Schwinn, is it? Betcha can’t wait to ride it again, huh?” Meriwether asked.
Before I realized it, I’d opened my mouth. “I already did,” I confessed.
“So, they took you off punishment?”
I shook my head no.
He chuckled. “Oh, you snuck and did it. Was it fun?” he asked.
I hadn’t even thought about that. I hesitated before I answered. “Mostly, but not the same as the first time I rode it.”
“Guilt can do that,” he said. “Take the fun out.”
Quietness settled in around us.
And then suddenly, a lot of words spilled out of me. “They put it in my room and forced me to look at it. All that did was tempt me . . . until I finally gave in. If they’d made me keep it in the garage, it might have kept it out of my mind and maybe I wouldn’t have done it. Anyhow, I figure it’s their fault for temptin’ me.”
Meriwether Hunter reached in his bag, pulled out an apple, took a huge bite, and chewed. Finally, he swallowed and spoke. “The way I see it, they put it there to teach you a lesson. That’s what punishment’s for. You bein’ tempted was how the punishment made you feel. And if you hadn’t surrendered, it likely would have made you stronger. Resistin’ temptation builds strength. We fail when we give in to it.”
“So, I failed?”
“Yes, my young friend, you failed. But what’s important now is whether you fail again.” He took another bite from his apple.
I stared at him, and was mulling it over when a car honked, forcing me to make a beeline to the pump.
And that evening when I got home, I traced the bicycle’s handlebars and counted. Nine days left.
This was going to be hard, but I was determined not to fail again.