I did, then we all scooted over again to allow Deeny to sit on the other side of Gerald. She ended up draping herself over his shoulders, sitting more behind him than next to him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He reached up and took her arms in his hands, stroking his fingers along her forearms. He let Travis hold the album.
Travis turned back a few pages. “Look! Here’s a photo of my great-grandparents. The Spannings. And that was their farm.”
He pointed to a black-and-white photo of an elderly couple standing in front of a Model A. There was a narrow two-story house in the background, and open fields beyond. The photo wasn’t well-focused and you couldn’t make out much of their features. The man was wearing a hat, the woman a plain and modest dress.
He turned the page forward, pointed out other views of the farm, photos of great-aunts and -uncles. With these, he had help from Gerald, who seemed moved by Travis’s enthusiasm. He smiled whenever Travis correctly named the people in the photo, studied Travis with apparent fondness as Travis studied the album.
“That’s my grandfather,” Travis said of a grimy, barefooted boy in overalls. The boy, about twelve years old, wore a cap at a rakish angle; his charming smile had been passed down to the next two generations of Spannings.
Travis stared at the photo for a long time before turning to another section. There were photos of the maternal sides of the family, and a few of the town in Missouri that was closest to the family farm.
Eventually Travis came to photos of Gerald as a young boy. There were not many photos of Gerald and Arthur’s immediate family. One showed Gerald at about the age of five standing next to a chair shared by two smiling toddlers.
“Those were your aunts,” he said softly. “Lizzy and Mary Lee. They never got to be much older than you see them there. Those were the hardest years. Farm was lost and we would just stay wherever we could. I think we were with one of my aunts then. There were two other little babies didn’t even live long enough to take a picture of them. A little boy, Charlie, and another girl, Bonita. That about broke your grandmother’s heart. I didn’t get to know the babies, of course, but I sure missed Lizzy and Mary Lee.”
“What happened to them?” Travis asked.
“Oh, the babies just never were likely to live; they were both born in the winter, and one came early. They each only lived a few days. And the girls, they caught a fever and I guess they just weren’t strong enough to fight it.” He ruffled Travis’s hair. “So I was pretty excited when your daddy came along. I’d started to think I wasn’t ever going to have anybody else to play with.”
Travis smiled and turned to another page. There was a grainy photo of Gerald, about nine, standing with his father and several other men in the doorway of a boxcar.
“Look at that sorry bunch of stiffs,” Gerald said, laughing.
“Who took the photo?” I asked.
“Oh, I think it was one of the wives of the other fellows. She stayed with my mother when my mother was pregnant with Arthur. Mama didn’t want to leave the sugar beet farm. She said she wasn’t going to have any more babies after this one, and she wasn’t going to lie down in some hobo jungle to give birth to her last child.”
There was a photo of a well-dressed older man standing in what might have been a very dignified pose, had he not had his hand on the shoulder of a grinning young rascal of about twelve.
“That’s me and Papa DeMont,” Gerald said.
“I’ve heard a lot about him,” Travis said, and studied this photo closely.
Gerald glanced quickly at me, then said to Travis, “Then you know he owned the sugar beet farm. Miss Gwen’s daddy. He was good to the children. His permanent workers-like me and your grandparents-lived in little old houses, but compared to what we were used to, they were palaces. Old Papa DeMont always made sure no one went hungry. And he’d bring treats for the children. He was just plain good.”
On the next page was a wedding photo. Travis stared at it for a long time. Gwendolyn stood between Gerald and Arthur, her smile faint but serene. She was wearing a simple dress and pillbox hat, not a bridal gown and veil, and she held a small bouquet. She was not an unattractive woman; she had dark hair and big brown eyes. Arthur, tall but clearly hardly more than a boy, stood smiling tensely at her side. There was something different about him in this photo, something that went beyond that tension.
Gerald, who at the time would have been about twenty-six, looked much older than my cousin did now, at nearly the same age. In the photo, Gerald’s smile was one of satisfaction. If I hadn’t known the history behind the marriage, I would have pointed him out as the groom, though both Spanning brothers were young enough to have been her sons.
“Was Arthur generous with you once he had married Gwendolyn?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. “Did I get a payoff when they were married, you mean? Hell, no, and I didn’t want any, even though I was the one that always took care of Arthur, gave up everything for him. DeMonts wouldn’t believe it, so I got together with Gwenie’s lawyer and signed an agreement saying I’d never get a penny of Papa DeMont’s money.”
“So Arthur never loaned you money?”
“His own,” he admitted grudgingly, then added, “by that I mean he loaned me money from his own business. That gardening business. DeMonts never could believe that Arthur made a little bit of his own money.”
“How well do you know Horace DeMont, Gwendolyn’s uncle?” I asked.
“That old good-for-nothing?” Gerald scoffed. “I know all I need to know. He thinks he’s better than anyone on God’s green earth, but the truth is, he lost every nickel he owned speculating on the stock market, and for a time he was as much a vagabond as any Spanning ever was. In fact, Travis, your grandfather met him on the road, and that’s how we came to the sugar beet farm, because even though old Horace was complaining, my daddy could tell there was plenty of work to be had.”
“Horace DeMont was a vagabond?” I said in disbelief.
Gerald laughed. “Oh, yes. Him and that brat of his, Robert. In fact, one day when he was looking down his big nose at us, I told Bobby that my daddy had once seen him giving testimony at the Sally Ann in Chicago. He denied that he was ever any mission stiff. But later, when people started romanticizing about what it was like to ride on Old Dirty Face he bragged he had done it, like he was Jack Kerouac himself, to which I said, ”Yeah, except Bobby wasn’t a hobo, just an old moll buzzer.“ That made him mad as fire.”
“Speak English!” Deeny interrupted.
“Oh, sorry honey, I just fall into that way of talking whenever I think about those years on the road. Well, here’s how it is: There are hoboes, and there are tramps and there are bums. A hobo is a working stiff-he’s a migrant worker, that’s all. His labor built this country much as anybody else’s. You don’t believe it, go pick fruit for a summer, or herd cattle or dig ditches or lay rails. Hoboes did all that. That’s what we Spannings did when we were riding rails-we looked for work, went wherever we could find it.
“Now, a tramp is just a fellow who doesn’t believe in working if he can avoid it, but he keeps moving. It’s a kind of philosophical thing with some of them, I supposed you’d say. Sometimes they call them scenery bums. That’s not the same thing I mean when I call a man a bum, though.
“A bum is a man who stays in the city, usually down on skid row. He’s not working, he’s not moving, he’s on the bum.
“Now, the categories aren’t so neat, and any man may take a turn at being one or another of those fellows, mostly depending on how fond he is of old redeye.”