Dinner in the Jones household is always one-sided because Dad is the only one that eats, unless Landon is snacking on Jell-O. On days like today, it likes sitting across from him and watching him eat. The Spring 1982 semester has just wrapped up, and Dad has already celebrated via attending the graduation ceremony and a couple of parties. But his favorite way to celebrate takes place at his dinner table: Digging into one of his favorite meals, a fully dressed po’ boy and half a cherry pie, freshly baked at his favorite bakery. The other half is in the fridge and it’ll probably be gone by tomorrow.
Dad stuffs the last bite of the third slice into his mouth and, without bothering to swallow first, says, “We gon’ go on a road trip to visit Hank for a couple weeks. We leave next Sunday.”
Hank lives near New York City, and usually he flies down and stays in New Orleans for a weekend or so. How far is that from New Orleans by motorcycle? Twenty hours? The Joneses have taken some long trips by motorcycle before, but this would be a new record. “You rentin’ a car, then?”
“Pfft, no. You know I won’t never drive one of those things.” Cars pale in comparison to horses in all the ways that count, Dad believes. He’s never driven one, and he still misses riding on horseback everywhere.
“Why can’t we take a plane, again?” Landon knows exactly what Dad is going to say, but it continues to ask this question in the hopes that his answer will finally make sense.
“Planes are inherently dangerous, kid.” Dad sets his fork down and points towards the sky with the conviction that he reserves for his superstitious lectures. “Mortals ain’t meant to fly through the air like that with zero magical assistance. It don’t matter what the engineers say about planes bein’ the safest mode of transportation. I’ve done the research, and I know they and the pilots and flight control and so on be puttin’ forward their best effort so they don’t crash or nothin’. I know it! The real problem is, crashes happen regardless, and there ain’t no proper safeguards for when they do occur. And they don’t even wanna properly protect themselves ‘cause they think magic is of the devil! It’s evil, evil, work. I could do a ritual to make the trip safer, but it ain’t worth the effort this time. Point is, I ain’t never flyin’ on no plane, and if you wanna do it you’ll have to do it by yourself. Understand?”
No. The ritual is never worth the effort, according to him. Why can't he just admit he still has a nineteenth-century outlook on air travel? But Landon has long since learned that arguing with Dad on this is fruitless, so it just goes Uh-huh and asks, “We can’t take the Amtrak neither?”
“Next time we will, but this time we bikin’ up. You gotta learn what travellin’ used to be like, and I don’t own a horse no more, so this is the second-best option.”
Landon frowns and lets out a confused whistle. “But they been invented trains.”
“I’m talkin’ about before the Industrial Revolution, of course. It was a different time then, kid. Most roads were made outta dirt or stone, and if you didn’t have a horse or somethin’ similar, it was real hard to travel long distances. Matter of fact, there’s been times where I couldn’t find myself a ride at all, and I had to travel on foot. You ain’t never had to walk through the desert for days on end, kid. It’s tough, even for a viya.” By this point, Dad has stopped eating. He has a gleam in his crinkled eyes, and he smells happy even though there’s a serious look on his face.
That’s what makes it click: Dad is trying to give Landon a rare glimpse into his past, even though he’s in one of his stubborn moods. Maybe taking a twenty-hour motorcycle trip to New York is a weird way of bonding for him. Landon lets Veritable go on about how much they’ll need to pack and how it isn’t allowed to just teleport to Hank’s house because that’s not how travelling is supposed to work. It’s kind of nervous, because it still isn’t sure how it feels about Hank. He’s not a bad guy, but siblings aren’t supposed to feel so distant, right? Hopefully the ride itself will be fun.
---
The Joneses set out exactly a week later. Dad has a hefty touring motorcycle that’s big enough to tow a small trailer, and that’s where he and Landon store their luggage. The journey is comfortingly familiar, despite the distance. Dad has driven Landon in this general direction before, to take it to places like Atlanta and Knoxville. The radio is turned all the way up, playing the latest country hits. Landon sings along to every song, even the ones it doesn't know, and sometimes Dad joins in.
Every now and then, Dad gives his commentary on the towns they pass. He’s been in America for longer than some of them have existed. When he was in college he met people from all over the South, and sometimes even further. He tells Landon about how during Jim Crow, he always bought the latest edition of the Green Book so he’d know which areas to avoid at night, or never pass through at all. No human could kill him without magic, but they could still try, and it wasn’t worth the hassle. Before the Green Book was first published, he relied on word of mouth, the news, and his own memory. There are still some towns he’d rather not visit if he doesn't have to.
A couple of hours in, Dad takes an exit that Landon wasn’t expecting, onto some back roads in the middle of nowhere. He comes to a stop in the parking lot of a shopping center that fell into disuse some time in the last few years. The sun is still up, but it doesn't look, sound or smell like anyone else is around. Dad hops off the bike, stretches his arms and legs, then says, “Let’s switch places. I’m gonna teach you how to drive for a bit.”
“Right now?” Landon has never been interested in driving any kind of vehicle. Why should it be, when teleporting is so much faster? A smaller part of it is worried about how it’s a few years too young to be driving, but probably no one will notice that all the way out here.
“Right now. Might come a time when you can’t teleport nowhere, and you gotta drive instead. It’s good to be prepared. I’ll make sure you don’t crash.” Dad motions for Landon to get up, and it awkwardly takes the front seat and grabs the rubbery handles.
Dad insists that riding a motorcycle is just like riding a bicycle or a horse, but it’s a lot different than either of those things. Before Landon can go anywhere, he shows it all the different parts of his ride: the first and second brakes, the keyhole, the killswitch, and so on. He doesn't let Landon turn the bike on until it can point at each part and name it without help. Then he shows it how to start the ignition and shift the bike into first gear — no faster than that, because this is its first time and all. After a half hour of practice, Landon is able to accelerate a bit and brake, although it still only has the grace of an amateur. It’s still not used to checking the mirrors and turning, but both of them agree that it’s made plenty of progress already. When they switch places again, Dad gives Landon a rough tousle of the hair, almost like a noogie, and it purrs and hugs him back.
Dad’s familiarity with the roads peters out once they near Tennessee, and that’s also when the sun begins to set. They stop at a roadside welcome center and he picks up a map so he can figure out which way to go from here. Landon slinks into the radio of Dad’s bike when no one is looking to find someone to feed on. When it returns, Dad is sitting at a bench, reading the map while eating a sandwich that he’d packed. An unlit cigar lays near him, which means that this break will last for a while. He did set a cup of lime Jell-O out for Landon, though, as well as one of the books that he made it pack.
It’s a good, comfortable break. Sorely needed, even though viya don’t sleep. Hours and hours of staring at the road wears at their minds all the same. Dad puffs away at the cigar while reading his own book, and when all that remains is the butt he stamps it out and brings out his harmonica. When he starts playing, Landon looks up from its chapter book and hums along. It packed its trombone, so it could join in, but it wants to let Dad have this moment. He doesn’t like being the center of attention, so it means a lot that he’s playing where other weary travellers can see. At this time of day there aren’t too many people, but the ones who are nearby pause to listen and clap. Dad just keeps playing his folk-country tunes, smiling with yellowed teeth when he breathes between notes. He smells like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
---
The next couple thirds of the journey aren’t so different from the first: Drive for a few hours, stop for rest and gas, let Landon practice for a bit. Even though Landon can teleport, it’s still a bit of a homebody. It doesn't leave the deep south very often, and before this trip it hadn’t been further north than Tennessee. But it’s awestruck by the changes in scenery as they get closer and closer to New York. Seeing the Appalachians is always a treat, and every time they pass over a river or lake it stares at the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of a gator, fish, or best of all, a frog. It never does, but it does get to spot a handful of deer and raccoons, which is fine too.
After what must be forever, the iconic skyline of New York City appears in the distance. Landon has seen plenty of pictures, but none of them are the same as the real deal. It whoops and tries to name each skyscraper, although it only remembers a few: The Empire State Building, the Twin Towers, and the Chrysler Building.
Dad turns onto an exit for the last time, and just like that, they’re in New York City. It’s loud like New Orleans, but everything feels faster-paced, and there’s definitely way more people. All their overlapping scents are overwhelming, and Landon has to pinch its nose to shut them out. It still loves taking in the sights and sounds all the same. No wonder New York called the city that never sleeps, it thinks. Perfect for a viya that never sleeps either.
That is, for a noise viya. Dad hates, hates, hates the traffic, and since he’s driving the traffic is all he can focus on. Every time a car honks, whether at him or someone else, he grumbles about how impatient everyone here is, and how this is why he makes Hank fly down to Louisiana, and how automobiles are abominations anyway. Landon is almost surprised he manages to make it to Hank’s Brooklyn apartment with that cranky attitude. But he does, and when he knocks on the door they’re greeted by Hank for the first time in a year.
Hank is the same height as Dad, and he has the same big nose and thick, slightly wavy hair. But he’s a lot chubbier, and his dark skin is a bit lighter than Dad’s. His hair is caramel-colored instead of nearly black and a Superman curl dangles over his forehead. His tucked-in button-up and suspenders look like they’d be right at home in the 1950s, unlike Dad's super-old-fashioned cowboy getup. Perhaps the biggest difference is his startingly blue eyes. He and Dad say he got them from his mother.
When Landon hugs Hank, it makes sure to only nuzzle him a little bit because he never seems to understand exactly why it does that, although he hasn’t complained yet. Landon takes off its shoes at the door because Dad does, even though Hank is still wearing his. Dad and Hank light up smokes in the living room and start catching up with each other. Landon alternates between watching them and the TV, unsure of when to join the conversation or if it should jump in at all. It’s never quite sure how to talk to Hank.
At some point the conversation turns to Landon anyway, and Hank asks it, “How’s it going, Landon? You had a good school year?” He was born in Texas, but he’s long lost most of his Southern drawl.
“Good. Passed my classes.” Unless Landon wants to make Dad translate, it has to answer in short English sentences, because Hank hasn’t gotten around to learning ASL yet. He’s got so much on his plate already, being a lawyer and all, he says.
“Good, good. Daddy’s still got you doing summer work?”
“Yeah. Mostly just math. Keepin’ me sharp.”
“He says he’s a nice teacher, but I’m not so sure!” Hank laughs at his own joke and shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you get to be taught year-round. I still remember when most kids didn’t go to school at all. You’re real lucky, y’know.”
Landon just smiles and nods along. Hank is so painstakingly normal, except where it counts. He’s somehow perfectly content with making small talk and watching baseball all day, yet the fact that he was born in 1885 lets him connect with Dad a way that Landon just can’t. It has to wait for the rare moments when he lets a few details about his past slip, while Hank got to experience part of it firsthand. Landon feels invisible watching them talk. By the time Hank starts getting ready for bed — half-viya need a full night’s sleep, and he has work tomorrow — Landon is ready to teleport back home, but Dad will be upset if it does that. Better to keep grinning and bearing until the trip’s over.
Landon and Dad are still awake long after Hank has gone to bed. Dad is smoking yet another cigar on the sofa, absent-mindedly flipping through a book he got from Hank’s office. The lights are off, because he can be a bit weird about when to turn them on and viya can see in the dark anyway. Landon watches him from the TV — not from inside of Radiospace and behind the screen like usual, but on top of the screen in its slug form, antennae waving slowly every now and then. Sometimes it likes pretending to be a real bug that sits in the same spot for hours on end, conserving energy until it looks for its next meal.
After a while Dad sets the book down and motions for Landon to join him on the couch. “C’mere, slug. I wanna talk.”
Landon crawls up Dad’s leg and settles on his knee. He strokes its squishy back like a cat, causing it to purr uncontrollably, and smiles softly in response. “You feelin’ okay? I know you get kinda quiet when we're with Hank.”
“I dunno.” Landon's voice is warbled in this form, but it's understandable enough. “We real different. Don't know him. It's awkward.”
“Guess I can't blame you for that. Ain't your fault he's ninety-five years older than you. But y'all still family.”
Landon would shrug if it were in its human form. Instead it droops its antennae and makes a similarly depressed-sounding wheeze. “I guess so.”
“Look, slug.” Dad picks Landon up and holds it at eye level. It automatically starts wiggling, not out of discomfort, but because being held like a burger makes it feel good in a way it can’t quite describe. “I know Hank looks young right now, but I don't know how long half-viya meant to live. He could be gone by the end of the decade. You gotta cherish relationships with your ħinawi, ‘specially when they don’t live as long as you.”
“Ain't my ħinawi,” Landon mutters. It tries not to sound like it has too much of an attitude, but Dad detects its true feelings all the same.
He glares at it over his round, gold-rimmed glasses, the gleam in his eyes turning sharp. “He’s your brother, so he’s your ħinawi. It don’t matter how much you like or dislike him when it comes to siblings. He’s the only brother you’ve got and your only living family ‘sides me, so you gotta respect him just as much as he respects you — end of story.”
Landon stops wriggling, then slowly deflates and stretches out like it’s melting in Dad's hands.
When Dad realizes it doesn't have a verbal response he continues, “I think Hank might feel the same way about you. Unsure how to connect with you, I mean. But I think when he talks to you about nothin’, it’s his way of tryin’ to find somethin’ y’all have in common. So I want you to try too, okay? You could talk to him when I ain’t around, see if that helps.”
“Okay.” Landon isn't sure how much it means that, but it can't deny that Dad has a point. It already feels bad that it never got to meet Dad’s late wife, Anna. It’d feel even worse if it never got to know Hank. Maybe it can make more of an effort to talk to him, at least for this trip.