And yet . . .
As Ulysses walked along this rural road, there wasn’t a bird to be seen, not circling over the fields or perched upon the telephone wires.
The second sign was the caravan of cars. While throughout the morning Ulysses had been passed by the occasional pickup or sedan moving along at forty miles an hour, suddenly he saw an assortment of fifteen cars, including a black limousine, speeding in his direction. The vehicles were driving so fast, he had to step off the shoulder in order to shield himself from the gravel that was kicked up by their tires.
After watching them race past, Ulysses turned back to look in the direction from which they’d come. That’s when he saw that the sky in the east was turning from blue to green. Which in that part of the country, as Billy well knew, could only mean one thing.
Behind Ulysses was nothing but knee-high corn for as far as the eye could see, but half a mile ahead was a farmhouse. With the sky growing darker by the minute, Ulysses began to run.
As he drew closer, Ulysses could see that the farmhouse had already been battened down, its doors and shutters closed. He could see the owner securing the barn, then dashing to the hatch of his shelter, where his wife and children waited. And when the farmer reached his family, Ulysses could see the young boy pointing in his direction.
As the four looked his way, Ulysses slowed from a run to a walk with his hands at his side.
The farmer instructed his wife and children to go into the shelter—first the wife so that she could help the children, then the daughter, and then the little boy, who continued to look at Ulysses right up until the moment he disappeared from sight.
Ulysses expected the father to follow his family down the ladder, but leaning over to say one last thing, he closed the hatch, turned toward Ulysses, and waited for his approach. Maybe there was no lock on the shelter’s hatch, thought Ulysses, and the farmer figured if there was going to be a confrontation then better to have it now, while still aboveground. Or maybe he felt if one man intends to refuse harbor to another, he should do so face-to-face.
As a sign of respect, Ulysses came to a stop six paces away, close enough to be heard, but far enough to pose no threat.
The two men studied each other as the wind began to lift the dust around their feet.
—I’m not from around these parts, Ulysses said after a moment. I’m just a Christian working my way to Des Moines so I can catch a train.
The farmer nodded. He nodded in a manner that said he believed Ulysses was a Christian and that he was on his way to catch a train, but that under the circumstances neither of those things mattered.
—I don’t know you, he said simply.
—No, you don’t, agreed Ulysses.
For a moment, Ulysses considered helping the man come to know him—by telling him his name, telling him that he’d been raised in Tennessee and that he was a veteran, that he’d once had a wife and child of his own. But even as these thoughts passed through Ulysses’s mind, he knew that the telling of them wouldn’t matter either. And he knew it without resentment.
For were the positions reversed, were Ulysses about to climb down into a shelter, a windowless space beneath the ground that he had dug with his own hands for the safety of his family, and were a six-foot-tall white man suddenly to appear, he wouldn’t have welcomed him either. He would have sent him on his way.
After all, what was a man in the prime of his life doing crossing the country on foot with nothing but a canvas bag slung over his shoulder? A man like that must have made certain choices. He had chosen to abandon his family, his township, his church, in pursuit of something different. In pursuit of a life unhindered, unanswered, and alone. Well, if that’s what he had worked so hard to become, then why in a moment like this should he expect to be treated as anything different?
—I understand, said Ulysses, though the man had not explained himself.
The farmer looked at Ulysses for a moment, then turning to his right, he pointed to a thin white spire rising from a grove of trees.
—The Unitarian church is a little less than a mile. It’s got a basement. And you’ve got a good chance of making it, if you run.
—Thank you, said Ulysses.
As they stood facing each other, Ulysses knew that the farmer had been right. Any chance he had of making it to the church in time was predicated on his going as quickly as he could. But Ulysses had no intention of breaking into a run in front of another man, however good his advice. It was a matter of dignity.
After waiting, the farmer seemed to understand this, and with a shake of the head that laid no blame on anyone, including himself, he opened his hatch and joined his family.