Continental Drift

The white people they see in the towns, in cars and alongside the roads and streets resemble the people of New Hampshire, except that they wear brightly colored clothing and their skins are tanned. But for the first time in their lives, Bob and Elaine Dubois see many people of color. Hundreds of them, thousands! Not the one or two they have seen before, noticed without comment just this week, in fact, waiting on their table in a Stuckey’s outside Raleigh, North Carolina, or pumping gas into their car on the New Jersey Turnpike. (They missed seeing them in the Bronx because Bob was so afraid of losing his way as he passed through New York City that he made Elaine watch the signs for I-95 and shout out the turns while he watched out for the cars, trucks and buses beside, behind and in front of them, the U-Haul in the rearview mirror, the bumps and potholes in the road.) Back in Catamount, there was the bald, muscular black man who ran the rug-cleaning company, and there was the tall, good-looking guy in the three-piece suit that Bob saw once in Concord, the capital, a man who was probably a lawyer working for one of the agencies housed in the Federal Building, a man he’d mentioned several times to Elaine, but she had never seen him herself. Way back, when Bob was in the service, there were many young black men and even a few black sergeants, but for Bob, who was only a kid and hung out with the kids from Maine and New Hampshire, the blacks he saw then were abstractions called niggers that frightened him the same way whorehouses in Boston and gambling in the barracks frightened him — he didn’t know the rules, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking, so he kept away, kept entirely to people like himself, learned how to fix oil burners, got stationed in New England despite the war and hitchhiked home on his leaves to visit his parents and his girlfriend Elaine and lie to his buddies in the taverns.

It was still possible at the time this story takes place, the late 1970s, to grow up in America without having known a single black person well enough to learn his or her name, without having seen a black person, except on television or from a great distance, even when that person happened to be standing right next to you in line at the bank or in a cafeteria or on a bus. Bob Dubois and his wife Elaine grew up that way. But now, suddenly, as they near Oleander Park, Florida, their new home, after having sold their house in New Hampshire, after Bob’s having quit his job, after having sold everything they could sell, even Bob’s beloved Boston whaler, after having said and waved goodbye forever to everything familiar, known, understood, they come up against and are forced to see many people of color, more of them, or so it seems, than there are white people. They see them working in gangs in the orange groves, riding in the backs of trucks, mowing lawns, striding along the highways and sidewalks, and though Bob and Elaine are safely removed from these people, protected from direct contact by their car and all their possessions and by each other, the people of color seem up close and inescapably real, as if they are suddenly banging on the windshield, yanking at the door handles, climbing over the roof and hood and shouting to one another, “Yo, man! Come on an’ check out the white folks!”

These black- and brown-skinned people, the American blacks in the department stores and supermarkets, the Jamaicans and Haitians in the fields, the Cubans in the filling stations — these working people, who got here first, belong here, not Bob and Elaine Dubois and their daughters Ruthie and Emma. It’s Bob and his family who are the newcomers at the Florida trough, and Bob is embarrassed by his lateness. He feels ugly in his winter-gray skin, ashamed of his wife’s plain looks and his children’s skinny arms and legs, he feels poor and ignorant in his noisy, dented station wagon and orange rented trailer with all their possessions jammed inside, the furniture and clothing they couldn’t or wouldn’t sell in their yard sale or through their classified ad in the Catamount Patriot. He feels embarrassed — that is, exposed, revealed to the world for what he is — and perhaps for the first time in his life, his entire body fills with fear.

Elaine looks quickly over at him and nervously, as if she has been reading his thoughts, says, “All those black people working in the fields and everything, they’re not really Americans, right?”

Bob says nothing, just keeps on driving.

She adds, “I’ve read they’re from Cuba and those kinds of places.”

For a moment they are silent. Then Bob says in a low voice, “Thank God for Eddie.”

“Yeah,” she says, reaching for the road map.

2

Elaine hates the way Eddie talks. “He has a foul mouth,” she says.