The clerk thought. “There's old man Rogers, he used to be the lawyer for Billy the Kid.”
“He sounds dishonest enough. Ever hear what Abe Lincoln said when he saw a tombstone with the markings on it: Here lies a Good Lawyer and an Honest Man?”
“Nope, what did Abe say?”
“He said, 'Since when are they burying two men in one grave!'”
The clerk laughed. “That's pretty good.”
Gramp nodded and went out. We both knew what the trip to the lawyer meant. Gramp was changing his will again. He had six sons, and daughters-in-law and grandchildren to fit, and every time life got too complicated, or he lost his temper with one in the family, Gramp Changed his will. Mama had been in and out of Gramp's will more often than a fiddler's elbow. It looked as if this time she was out again. I must say that Mama never really cared, because she, of the whole family, was smart enough to think that Gramp didn't have anything to leave the family. He had been a very rich man in his prime, but he had lived “high off the hog” as he called it, and there wasn't much left. Mama proved to be right, and while the last will was a beautiful literary document, about all we got were his bluestone cuff links, and he had long since replaced the stones with glass.
Anyway, Mama and I scooted right away to the dining room and sat down and said a little prayer and picked up the menus and ordered rich, thick steaks, fried onions, apple pie, two kinds of potatoes, and a beautiful pot of coffee with thick cream.
“Food, its wonderful,” said Mama.
I nodded and cut into steak and ate. Mama finished a pint of rich coffee after spooning in three good measures of sugar, and sighed.
“Now, Baby Boy. we've got to think of some way of getting railroad fare home.”
“You don't think we'll make up with Gramp?”
Mama took a personal oath on crossed teaspoons. “Not as long as I live and ten years beyond that!”
“He's an old man.”
“He's evil, he's vulgar, he's sensual minded.”
“What's that?”
Mama patted my head. “Something I hope you haven't inherited. All the Longstreets as far back as you can throw a vice are sensual-minded. Have you any money, Stevie?”
“A dime from Canada.”
“We'll tip the waitress with that after we sign the check. Finished?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let's go find railroad fare. I'll do anything within reason.” Her eyes teared and she held me to her. “My poor baby. I'll do anything, even scrub floors.”
Mama talked of scrubbing floors, but when she really got on her knees, I remember, it was always to show some gentleman what a poor little woman she was, looking up at the great big man. I don't think Mama ever found out how to scrub a floor. Anyway, we felt better after the food, and we went out into the dreadful sun of Tucson. The sun hasn't changed much, and the same people seem to walk the streets today…It's hot, dry, stark, and everyone is tanned, serious, and making a lot of money (except those who don't care to get rich) in oil, cotton, hay, or minerals.
I don't know how Mama cased Tucson, but about four o'clock she said to me as I sat reading the local paper in the hotel lobby; “We're going to tea. You see that big mountain outside of town, where there used to be a fort? Well, a charming lady lives under that hill and she wants to meet some of the grandchildren of the Lost Cause.”
“What cause?”
Mama slurred her voice a bit. “The Wah between deh States.”
I was fourteen years by then (don't let Mama calling me Baby Boy fool you), and I knew enough history to know our branch of the family called it the Civil War and not the War between the States. I looked at Mama.
“Stop looking at me, Stevie, like your grandfather. I only phoned her and said the word Longstreet.”
“In what accent?” I asked.
Mama said briskly, “Come up and wash your hands, you damn Yankee.”
I have never been a fighter. I followed Mama upstairs, got washed, combed, and brushed. Then Mama told the hotel clerk we would be at Mrs. Rodney Clark's, and would he please get us a taxi.
I no longer cared how Mama would pay the taxi, but she only said, “Put it on our hotel bill,” and gave the taxi man a smile and added, “and figure in a dollar for yourself.”
Mrs. Rodney Clark's was a beautiful old place of colored pink clay and red tile roofs and gardens and fountains kept cool by use of lots of water.
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