One Sunday I accompanied my dad on an automobile trip up from Chicago to Dixon, Illinois. It was a sunny January morning, and it must have been when I was ten years old because I remember that I wore the black leather motorcycle jacket I’d received that Christmas. I was very fond of that jacket with its multitude of bright silver zippers and two silver stars on each epaulet. I also wore a blue cashmere scarf of my dad’s and an old pair of brown leather gloves he’d given me after my mother gave him a new pair of calfskins for Christmas.
I liked watching the snowy fields as we sped past them on the narrow, two-lane northern Illinois roads. We passed through a number of little towns, each of them with seemingly identical centers: a Rexall, hardware store, First State Bank of Illinois, Presbyterian, Methodist, and Catholic churches with snowcapped steeples, and a statue of Black Hawk, the heroic Sauk and Fox chief.
When my dad had asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him that morning I’d said sure, without asking where to or why. My dad never asked twice and he never made any promises about when we’d be back. I liked the uncertainty of those situations, the open-endedness about them. Anything could happen, I figured; it was more fun not knowing what to expect.
“We’re going to Dixon,” Dad said after we’d been driving for about forty-five minutes. “To see a man named Mason.” I’d recently read a Young Readers biography of Robert E. Lee, so I knew all about the Civil War. “We’re on the Mason-Dixon line,” I said, and laughed, pleased with my little kid’s idea of a joke. “That’s it, boy,” said my dad. “We’re going to get a line on Mason in Dixon.”
The town of Dixon appeared to be one street long, like in a Western movie: the hardware store, bank, church, and drugstore. I didn’t see a statue. We went into a tiny café next to the bank that was empty except for a counterman. Dad told me to sit in one of the booths and told the counterman to give me a hot chocolate and whatever else I wanted.
“I’ll be back in an hour, son,” said Dad. He gave the counterman a twenty-dollar bill and walked out. When the counterman brought over the hot chocolate he asked if there was anything else he could get for me. “A hamburger,” I said, “and an order of fries.” “You got it,” he said.
I sipped slowly at the hot chocolate until he brought me the hamburger and fries. The counterman sat on a stool near the booth and looked at me. “That your old man?” he asked. “He’s my dad,” I said, between bites of the hamburger. “Any special reason he’s here?” he asked. I didn’t say anything and the counterman said, “You are from Chi, aren’t ya?” I nodded yes and kept chewing. “You must be here for a reason,” he said. “My dad needs to see someone,” I said. “Thought so,” said the counterman. “Know his name?” I took a big bite of the hamburger before I answered. “No,” I said. The counterman looked at me, then out the window again. After a minute he walked over behind the counter. “Let me know if ya need anything else,” he said.
While my dad was gone I tried to imagine who this fellow Mason was. I figured he must be some guy hiding out from the Chicago cops, and that his real name probably wasn’t Mason. My dad came back in less than an hour, picked up his change from the counterman, tipped him, and said to me, “Had enough to eat?” I said yes and followed him out to the car.
“This is an awfully small town,” I said to my dad as we drove away. “Does Mason live here?” “Who?” he asked. Then he said, “Oh yeah, Mason.” Dad didn’t say anything else for a while. He took a cigar out of his overcoat pocket, bit off the tip, rolled down his window, and spit it out before saying, “No, he doesn’t live here. Just visiting.”
We drove along for a few miles before Dad lit his cigar, leaving the window open. I put the scarf up around my face to keep warm and settled back in the seat. My dad drove and didn’t talk for about a half hour. Around Marengo he said, “Did that counterman back there ask you any questions?” “He asked me if you were my dad and if we were from Chicago,” I said. “What did you tell him?” “I said yes.” “Anything else?” “He asked if you were there for any special reason and I said you were there to see someone.” “Did you tell him who?” Dad asked. “I said I didn’t know his name.”
Dad nodded and threw his dead cigar out the window, then rolled it up. “You tired?” he asked. “No,” I said. “What do you think,” he said, “would you rather live out here or in the city?” “The city,” I said. “I think it’s more interesting there.” “So do I,” said Dad. “Relax, son, and we’ll be home before you know it.”