In a display of history and nostalgia, the Skirball Cultural Center in Los Angeles is memorializing a fading cuisine: the Jewish delicatessen.Credit...Joel Barhamand for The New York Times

The Jewish Deli: An American Tale Told in Pickles and Pastrami

By Adam Nagourney The New York Times

“I’ll Have What She’s Having,” a traveling exhibit on the Jewish delicatessen, looks back at a vibrant institution fueled by immigration and irresistible food.

In a display of history and nostalgia, the Skirball Cultural Center in Los Angeles is memorializing a fading cuisine: the Jewish delicatessen.Credit...Joel Barhamand for The New York Times

LOS ANGELES — The colors are fading, but the photograph of the Carnegie Deli from 2008 still calls up a world of heaping pastrami sandwiches, pungent smells of brine and smoke, and tourists lined out the door onto Seventh Avenue in New York.

A few steps away, a kosher carving knife, a pushcart, a pickle barrel and a battered traveling valise used by immigrants from Lithuania are lined up against a wall. They conjure the Lower East Side of a century ago, bustling with Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe, in the midst of creating a cuisine and a new kind of restaurant.

This attic’s worth of artifacts sprawls through “‘I’ll Have What She’s Having’: The Jewish Deli,” an exhibit chronicling the rise of that restaurant culture in America. It is by all indications the most sweeping survey of this culinary institution attempted by a major museum. (Why that name? Do you have to ask?)

The museum, though, is far from the tenements of Lower Manhattan: The Skirball Cultural Center, about 20 miles northwest of downtown Los Angeles, created the show and over the next year will send it to three other venues around the country, including the New-York Historical Society.

ImageA collection of advertisements for Levy’s rye bread that appeared in the 1960s and 1970s.Credit...Joel Barhamand for The New York Times

A waitress uniform and a cash register from Canter’s Deli in Los Angeles.Credit...Joel Barhamand for The New York Times

It’s not real: A food designer mock-up of matzo ball soup.Credit...Joel Barhamand for The New York Times

The exhibition is an exploration of the food and culture that thrived in New York and later Los Angeles, with their large Jewish and show-business communities, along with cities like Chicago, Houston, Miami and Indianapolis. As such, it surveys the story of immigration as a force behind changing American tastes: The pushcarts, as the curators note, foreshadowed the food trucks now operated by a new generation of immigrants. A grainy film clip near the start of the exhibit shows police officers fanning out to clear carts from a New York street in the early 1900s, a scene reminiscent of the 2020 crackdowns in Los Angeles on unlicensed food vendors.

“This show is making the argument that the Jewish deli is an American construct,” said Cate Thurston, one of the curators. “It’s an American food and it’s born of immigration.”

But there is also something elegiac about the exhibit, a reminder that delis and the food they served are no longer as prevalent as they were 50 years ago, even in Jewish life. The show is an exercise not only in history, but in nostalgia. There were an estimated 3,000 Jewish delis in New York City in the 1930s; now there are just a few dozen, according to the New-York Historical Society.

The children of the immigrants who built their lives behind a deli counter did not, as a rule, follow their parents into the family business. Growing up, they showed more interest in Chinese and Italian food than in the smoked meat, bagels and knishes that filled their family tables. The demand for kosher food, prepared under rabbinical supervision, is nowhere near as strong as it was in those first decades after the immigrants arrived. There are now “deli counters” at most supermarkets. And many delicatessens were not able to survive the Covid-19 pandemic.

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Cate Thurston, left, and Laura Mart, curators at the Skirball, conceived the exhibition. “We often go pretty wacky with the ideas,” Ms. Mart said.Credit...Joel Barhamand for The New York Times

“What does this mean when Jewish culture becomes part of a museum exhibit?” said Ted Merwin, the author of “Pastrami on Rye,” a 2015 history of the Jewish delicatessen. “Is my experience already in the past, a fossil? Is it sort of a last gasp?”

There is no doubt that “I’ll Have”— with its menus from the Stage Deli in New York (now closed, like the Carnegie Deli), and its celebration of matzo ball soup, chopped liver, knishes, kugel, salami and pickled herring — draws people who want to relive the memory of a grandmother or uncle or neighborhood long changed. But Lara Rabinovitch, a food writer and historian who helped curate the exhibition, said this was not intended as a sentimental journey.

“When I came on board I had two caveats: One is we had to treat the Jewish deli as part of the American landscape,” she said. “And two, we could not succumb to kitsch and nostalgia. When it comes to Jewish food, deli or Jewish food can evoke a lot of conversations and a lot of kitsch and nostalgia.”

A cigarette vending machine, still filled with stale packs of smokes, was retrieved from the Kibitz Room at Canter’s Deli on North Fairfax Avenue.Credit...Joel Barhamand for The New York Times

“We think it’s the sort of perfect history exhibition,” Ms. Hofer said, adding, “We can attract the visitors to an exhibition like this and then surprise them with all kinds of history.”

There are few things more New York than the Jewish deli; sitting down for an overstuffed, and overpriced, pastrami sandwich at the Second Avenue Deli or Katz’s Delicatessen has typically been on any tourist’s must-do agenda. Yet this exhibition was conceived by two women who live in the San Fernando Valley and are curators at the Skirball, a center devoted to Jewish culture.

“We are both Valley Girls,” Laura Mart said of her and her colleague, Ms. Thurston. “We like to eat. And we were having one of our 4 p.m. snack breaks and kind of spitballing different ideas. We often go pretty wacky with the ideas, and then break it down from there.”

The Los Angeles metropolitan area has the second-largest Jewish population in the United States, and more than its share of classic Jewish delis. Jessie Kornberg, the Skirball’s chief executive, said she thought there were advantages to telling the story from outside New York.

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A vintage menu from the Stage Deli in Manhattan, a reminder of how many once famous delicatessens have disappeared from the streets of Manhattan.Credit...Joel Barhamand for The New York Times

“Much of the history of the deli has been told by New Yorkers, or with a focus on New York delis,” Ms. Kornberg said. “This exhibition is intentionally national in scope, which no doubt reflects our perspective as a West Coast institution.”

Though the Jewish deli was born in New York, as Jews started moving to other places, so did the restaurants.

“Jews have migrated across the country,” said Ziggy Gruber, the star of “Deli Man,” a 2014 documentary on Jewish food, who now runs a delicatessen in Houston. “The reason you find a lot of delicatessens in L.A. is because of all the Jews, with the invention of motion pictures, who migrated to Los Angeles.”

New York, a city that has never walked away from a fight, could be forgiven for feeling a little put off by this West Coast interloper. But Ms. Hofer of the New-York Historical Society said she was drawn to the Skirball idea the moment she heard it.

“It’s not just a New York story, it’s an American story,” she said. “So there’s no competition over who gets to tell it.”

The exhibition will also head to Houston and to Skokie, Ill.: At each stop, it will be tweaked to include local lore.

From coast to coast: The Skirball exhibit includes artifacts from New York and Los Angeles.Credit...Joel Barhamand for The New York Times

The New York show, which opens on Nov. 11, will survey Jewish delis in Queens, Brooklyn and the Bronx as well as Manhattan. It features photographs of Mayor Edward I. Koch and Representative Bella S. Abzug in New York delis, and revisits the 1979 quest by Mimi Sheraton, a New York Times restaurant critic, to find the city’s best pastrami sandwich. (The winner: Pastrami King in Kew Gardens, Queens; it has since moved to the Upper East Side, and a sign from that location will be displayed at the historical society.)

Museum exhibits are usually based on sights — a painting, a sculpture, a looping video — and sounds. This one had the challenge of conveying tastes and smells, not an easy task in a gallery where food is not allowed.

An attempt by food stylists to recreate a facsimile of a deli sandwich out of nonfood ingredients turned into an unappealing mess. “We had a minor panic attack about this corned beef sandwich,” Ms. Mart said during a recent walk-through of the exhibition.

Ms. Thurston picked up the story. “We asked for a corned beef with mustard, and the mustard looked like thick, thick American cheese, like a fiesta of treyf” — it mixed meat and dairy, in violation of kosher law. “We couldn’t have it out on the gallery floor.”

The food fabricators went to work, pulling the plastic cheese off the sandwich before deeming it ready for the exhibition.

The exhibition has plenty of striking artifacts that do work in a museum, like the original neon sign recovered from Drexler’s Deli, which was opened by Holocaust survivors in North Hollywood in the early 1950s and is now closed. It bears a yellow star and the word kosher in Hebrew.

The curators retrieved the cigarette machine that stood against a wall at the Kibitz Room at Canter’s Deli, once a late-night hangout for rock stars and actors. And there are matchbooks collected from restaurants across the country, as well as menus from theater-district delis in New York, many with sandwiches named after performers — like the Ginger Rogers Special and the Dean Martin-Jerry Lewis.

There is also, appropriately enough, a screen at the end of the exhibit, replaying the classic deli scene with Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan, from the 1989 film “When Harry Met Sally,” that inspired the exhibition’s name.

The exhibit’s Los Angeles run was supposed to end on Sept. 4, but attendance has been so strong that museum administrators have extended it through Sept. 18. “I’ll Have What She’s Having” will no doubt draw much interest when it arrives in New York.

“But I wonder what people will take from it,” said Mr. Merwin, the author. “There’s often a question: ‘Can we bring the deli back?’ I want to say no. How do you turn back the clock? The place that delis occupied in Jewish culture doesn’t exist anymore.”

The Wrath to Come: Gone with the Wind and the Lies America Tells

The Wrath to Come: Gone with the Wind and the Lies America Tells

By Sarah Churchwell

Head of Zeus 458pp £27.99 order from our bookshop

The night before Gone with the Wind’s Atlanta premiere in 1939, there was a ball at a plantation. Dressed as slaves, the children of the black Ebenezer Baptist Church choir performed for an all-white audience. They sang ‘There’s Plenty of Good Room in Heaven’; the actress playing Belle Watling, Rhett Butler’s tart with a heart, wept. The scene is already striking: a painfully literal example of the mythologising of the South for white consumption, redefining slavery as harmless and the slaves themselves as grateful. Yet Sarah Churchwell finds a jaw-dropping detail: ‘One of the little Black children dressed as a slave and bringing a sentimental tear to white America’s eye was a ten-year-old boy named Martin Luther King, Jr, who would be dead in thirty years for daring to dream of racial equality in America.’

Churchwell has written about American mythology before, notably in Behold America: A History of America First and the American Dream, as well as in works on Marilyn Monroe and The Great Gatsby. This time it feels like she has hit the motherlode: ‘The heart of the [American] myth, as well as its mind and its nervous system, most of its arguments and beliefs, its loves and hates, its lies and confusions and defence mechanisms and wish fulfilments, are all captured (for the most part inadvertently) in America’s most famous epic romance.’ For Churchwell, ‘Gone with the Wind provides a kind of skeleton key, unlocking America’s illusions about itself.’

This is a bold claim – but Gone with the Wind was, and remains, a phenomenon like no other. Published in June 1936, Margaret Mitchell’s novel sold a million copies before the end of that year, won the 1937 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and became the bestselling American novel of all time. Even now, it shifts 300,000 copies annually. In 1939, a film version was released, starring Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara and Clark Gable as Rhett Butler. Adjusted for inflation, it is the highest-grossing film of all time, ahead of Avatar and Titanic. In 2020, when the South Korean film Parasite – a biting satire on capitalism – won the Academy Award for Best Picture, President Donald Trump expressed his displeasure: ‘What the hell was that all about?’ he asked a rally in Colorado. ‘Can we get like Gone with the Wind back please?’ As usual, his audience understood exactly what he meant.

If the idea that one book and film can be the skeleton key to a whole culture seems simplistic, Churchwell swiftly begins to pile up startling evidence in short, pithy chapters. Race, gender, the Lost Cause, the American Dream, blood-and-soil fascism, the prison-industrial complex, a Trumpist mob storming the Capitol in 2021: it’s all here, and it’s all bound up with the themes of Gone with the Wind. Mythmaking is not just the building of fantasies but also the erasure of truth. The genocide of native peoples, for instance, is not in the book or film, but it was taking place at just the time that Gerald O’Hara would have been acquiring land in Georgia: ‘Scarlett’s beloved Tara is built upon land that was stolen from indigenous Americans a mere decade before her birth.’ Churchwell cuts through these thorny subjects with a propulsive assurance. Her writing is an extraordinary blend of wit, intellectual agility and forcefulness: it’s like being swept along by an extremely smart bulldozer.

Churchwell doesn’t flinch from the horrors that Gone with the Wind belies. The book and film propagate the Lost Cause myth, portraying the South as a place of chivalry, slavery as benevolent and the members of the Ku Klux Klan as honourable men stepping up as the world around them collapses. Churchwell shows us how these myths were constructed from the end of the Civil War onwards, and congealed seventy years later into Gone with the Wind. The reality of the reassertion of white supremacy during and after Reconstruction was, as Churchwell shows, horrific: there is some deeply upsetting material here on the terrorisation of both black people and those whites who did not comply with supremacist social codes. Lynchings were advertised in advance in local newspapers, ‘just as a fun fair or circus might have been’. A typical headline from 1905: ‘Will Burn Negro: Officers Will Probably Not Interfere in Texas’. Eight people were lynched in the year of Gone with the Wind’s publication.

‘Most defences of Gone with the Wind hold that while the novel’s racism is objectionable, it is of its time and in the background, of secondary importance to Scarlett’s appealing psychological strength,’ Churchwell writes. ‘But that defence replicates the novel’s politics, in which white women’s power is preserved at the cost of Black people’s equality.’ When Scarlett and Rhett have sex in the novel, after much emphasis of her whiteness, this is how Mitchell describes it: ‘She was darkness and he was darkness and there had never been anything before this time, only darkness and his lips upon her.’ Churchwell zooms straight in: ‘Darkness, with all its racial connotations, is where moral, social, and erotic disorder collide: the terror and thrill of raw power unleashed.’

Mitchell herself, of course, was a white Southern woman. Churchwell refers to Mitchell’s ‘internalization of white victimhood’: she believed that the oppressed people in her story were white Southerners forced to accept racial equality. Mitchell originally titled her book ‘Tote the Weary Load’, appropriating the title of a slave spiritual, ‘transforming Black suffering into white martyrdom: the people toting weary loads in her novel are always the white plantation class, never the Black enslaved’. Mitchell used some of her wealth to fund scholarships at Morehouse College, a historically black university, yet when she herself had encountered a black student in her history classroom at Smith College, she had thrown a tantrum and demanded to be moved to another class, ‘where she was safe from having to consider either the historical, or actual, existence of Black people’.

The screen version of Gone with the Wind could not entirely ignore the existence of black people, so it toned down the book’s racist language as well as some of its racial violence. There is a degree of irony in Scarlett, whose ‘magnolia skin’ is heavily fetishised, being played by Vivien Leigh, who probably had Indian ancestry. The producer, David Selznick, and Leslie Howard, who played Scarlett’s first love, Ashley Wilkes, were both of Jewish origin. Howard, says Churchwell, ‘categorically refused to read Gone with the Wind’. Most notably, though, the film’s black cast had to be persuaded to work on a white supremacist project. Hattie McDaniel, who won an Oscar for her performance as Scarlett’s maid, Mammy, was born to parents who had both once been enslaved. Her father was a veteran of the Union Army who had fought in the Civil War. McDaniel insisted she had taken the role for the money: ‘she had chosen between $700 a week to play a maid, or $7 a week to be a maid.’ Yet she and Butterfly McQueen, who played Prissy, must have cared a bit about what they were doing. Both lobbied to have one of the novel’s most-used words – rendered by Churchwell as ‘nxxxxr’ – excised completely from the screenplay. Eventually it was, though only after Selznick struck a deal with the censors to eliminate it in return for being allowed to keep Rhett Butler’s final ‘damn’.

The film may have softened the book’s language and violence; it may have presented the Ku Klux Klan as a ‘social club’ without using its name. Yet it could not change the meaning and the message of the book, because, as Churchwell shows, they are embedded in every character, every action, every twist and turn of the story. Some argued that the film made the Lost Cause myth more palatable to a wider audience: the black-run New York Age described it as a ‘$4,000,000 sugar-coating of Southern mythology’. Churchwell suggests that the elimination of that one objectionable word ‘had the unfortunate effect of persuading many white audiences that nothing objectionable had happened in the first place’.

How might modern Americans begin to unpick this carefully woven myth? In the first place, they would have to want to – and it’s clear from the last few years that many would rather keep it intact. Churchwell’s excoriating analysis is energising, but she does not provide a revelation. I ended the book thinking of Scarlett’s last line in the movie, which is banal but hints at the possibility of change: ‘After all, tomorrow is another day.’ Perhaps, one day, the change will go against her

To Sunland

To Sunland

Lauren Groff The New Yorker

He woke to an angry house and darkness in the windows. Aunt Maisie had packed his suitcase the night before and left it near the front door, and so he dressed himself without turning on the light and came out and dropped the pajamas on top of the suitcase. She was in the kitchen, banging the pans around.

Buddy, she said when she saw him, set yourself down and get some of this food in you. Her eyes were funny, all red and puffy, and he didn’t like to see them like that. When he sat down, she came up behind him and hugged his head so hard it hurt, and her hands smelled like soap and cigarettes and grease, and he pulled away.

He ate her eggs, which were like his mother’s eggs, though her biscuit was not like his mother’s biscuit; it was too dry, and there was no tomato jam. When he was finished, she took his plate and fork and washed them.

I can’t stand it, she said. I will never forgive that girl, not as long as I live.

All right, he said softly.

I can’t stay around to watch this, she said. You get your shoes and coat on. I’m going in to work early so’s I don’t have to look that selfish, wicked girl in the face. She gathered her own things and swiped a thin red line of lipstick on her mouth, then took her car keys from the hook and went out the front door. There she bent to put his pajamas in his suitcase, and said impatiently, You come on outside, Buddy. That rocking chair’s comfortable enough for you to wait in, I wager. I’ll get you a jelly jar of water. You need to relieve yourself, get down off the porch and do it in the azaleas.

Now he was outside in the darkness, and the smell of the orange blossoms was all around. The light above Aunt Maisie’s front door was thick with termites that were flying in and out of the beam.

Aunt Maisie came out again with water for Buddy and locked her front door, and, for a second, as she leaned toward the lock, in the dim light her hair was the same as his mother’s hair, and he forgot, and thought she was his mother, and he nearly cried out in gladness. Then she looked up at him and it was with Aunt Maisie’s face. The gladness died in him and he began to cry.

Now don’t you start blubbering, Aunt Maisie said. You’ll set me off again. Big like a man and twenty years old, but you’re just a little old baby in your head, poor soul.

No, ma’am. I’m a man, he said, and wiped his face.

Because he was much taller than her, she waited until he sat in the rocking chair, then she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. You be good, Buddy, she said. Get down on your knees and pray every night like your mama taught you. Don’t you be making no trouble, you hear?

Yes, ma’am, he said.

I’ll write you every week on Sunday and try to get myself up there to visit once a month or so, depending on my money. You know I don’t make barely enough for my own food and, besides, I’m getting old now, not doing so good myself these days. Well, no more of that. In any event, don’t forget there’s a soul in the world that loves you. That’s right, your Aunt Maisie loves you, she said.

Yes, ma’am, he said.

She dug in her pocketbook and put a little note under the handle of his suitcase. Now you be sure your sister sees that note whenever she turns up, you hear? She smiled, but it wasn’t a smile, really.

Yes, ma’am, he said, and began moving in the rocking chair as she went down the steps and into her car, and the headlights were too bright for a minute, until she backed all the way out into the road and was gone.

He did not feel the cold so much when he rocked. He was soothed by the orange blossoms hiding out there in the darkness, the golden rain of termites, the noises of some night bird calling somewhere, the good rhythm of his rocking. It was nice to see the way the sky began to take on a pale line at its edge, then pink began to grow out of the pale line and spun up and out, and he could see the orange groves out there coming clear in the new light. Then the sun rose full, and though he knew enough not to look at it for very long, he did look at it a little bit, and when he closed his eyes the sun shone in echoing red on his lids. Now the fog was lifting up from the ground under the trees and an animal he didn’t know the name of, shiny and hard-looking with a long tail, moved slowly through the yard, sniffing at things.

Then, all at once, there was Joanie in the morning light in front of him, her own suitcase in her hand and a little straw hat with a yellow band on her head. She had walked up without him seeing or hearing her. She was frowning a little. Hey there, Bud, she said. Aunt Maisie isn’t here with you? She left you out here all by your lonesome? She jutted her chin at the house, and he turned to look but there was no one there. Then she saw the note under the suitcase’s handle and pulled it out and read it and gave a sharp little laugh. She balled the note up and threw it down on the worn rubber doormat.

She feels so dang strong about it, maybe she could’ve kept you herself, Joanie said. That old bat-faced shrew. She took a white handkerchief out of her pocketbook and spat on a corner, then rubbed at his face where he still wore Aunt Maisie’s kiss. You ready to walk a bit? she said.

Yes, Joanie, he said, and stood and chuckled as the rocking chair rocked on without him in it.

She took his suitcase in one hand and hers in the other and led him down the path to the soft, thick dirt of the road. They went for a long time through the stretch with laurel oak trees and palmettos on one side, the big plantation of orange trees on the other. It was early enough that there was some shade, and they kept to it. Joanie seemed to be thinking about something and didn’t talk, which was all right, because he liked to watch her two braids snake back and forth across her back as she walked.

When they got to the turnoff toward the fishing camp, she put the suitcases down with a sigh and shook out her hands. At this rate, she said, we’re not going to make the noon bus. Then she looked at him where he stood and said, Hey, wait, what am I thinking? You’re pretty strong, right, Buddy?

Real strong, he said, and he picked up the suitcases as if they were nothing.

They went on through the sun spots and the shade and were almost at the crossroads when a sound came from behind them, and a pickup barrelled past in a big blow of dust. Then the truck stopped and blinked its back lights and reversed toward them. Joanie swore under her breath and patted her hair but was smiling when the driver rolled down his window. He was a red-faced man with eyes hidden under the brim of his cap. Well, if it isn’t Joanie Greene, the driver said.

In the flesh, she said. And her big old brother, Buddy. How you doing, Mr. Summerlin? You’re not going into town, are you? I like your new truck.

Looks like I am now, he said. I was only driving around in my brand-new baby, just now picked her up from the lot. She’s a ’56, last year’s model, so I got her for a song. Anyways, since you’ve graduated you know you can call me Harmon.

Thanks, Harmon, she said. Saving us a long, hot walk.

Toss them suitcases in the back and climb up right next to me, girl, he said. You and your brother. How’s it going, Buddy? I heard a bunch of rumors about you, but your mama kept you to her own self, didn’t she.

Yessir, Buddy said, and put the suitcases into the bed of the truck.

Speaking of which, the driver said as they climbed in and Joanie reached across Buddy’s lap to close the door, I’m sorry for your loss, both of you.

Thank you, Joanie said. We didn’t get along so great all the time, but it’s still not easy to lose a mother.

The truck started moving, and the wind felt so good on Buddy’s cheeks that he closed his eyes. Joanie told the driver how their mother had barely left them anything. The bank had come in and taken away the house, and Joanie had to scramble to sell off everything before it was put out on the street. Humiliating, she said. All my mama’s old-lady friends haggling with me over little pieces of her embroidery, her clock, her teapot. Like vultures. Trying to get as much out of me for as little money as possible.

Girl, the driver said, you know that if you need help all you got to do is ask. We can work something out. And he looked at Buddy out of the corner of his eye and slowly put one of his big red hands on Joanie’s knee.

Joanie laughed and didn’t pull her knee away. You’re a good guy, Harmon, she said. But you see we got our suitcases. We’re getting out of this old dump.

Where to? he said.

She said, Guess.

Huh, he said, and looked across at Buddy. Something new came into his face, and he said, You taking him to the Colony up in Gainesville. That place for the feebleminded and epileptic. Well, well. Isn’t that something. Everybody always said how your mama should have done it years ago.

I am, yeah, she said. I wrote away and got a letter back that they’re holding a place for him. They started calling it something else, though. Sunland. Sounds softer.

And you staying up there? Harmon said. Getting yourself a job, becoming a real career girl?

Nah, Joanie said, and a little smile played on her lips and she said, Surely you remember how smart I am.

Top of your class, he said. A whip-cracker. Run rings around the rednecks in this place.

Anyways. Last year I applied to all the ladies’ colleges up North and I got my pick. Took the one that gave me a full scholarship, up there in Maine. Then my mama got sick and they let me defer and come for the spring semester. Got me a train ticket and a hundred-dollar bill and just a little more to get me there and set up with books before school starts in about a week.

Jesus. Maine, he said. Practically the North Pole. You’re going to freeze your little Florida fanny off, girl.

That’s the idea, she said. Give me igloos and whale blubber. I’d go to another planet if I could.

Well, congratulations, Harmon said, and his hand slid a little farther up her thigh and some of his fingers disappeared under her skirt. You know, I heard about you, Joanie Greene. I know some people around here will be missing you sorely.

She pushed his hand back down to her knee and said, Ah, Harmon, come on, now.

They were nearing the barn at the edge of town that had a life-size plaster bull on its roof, and Buddy leaned forward eagerly and put his finger on the windshield and shouted out, Bull!

The other two laughed, and Joanie said, Yep, Buddy, that’s a bull. She took Buddy’s big hand in her small one and squeezed it.

Hey, listen, the driver said too quickly as they came close to the bus station. You got some time before the bus leaves, maybe we can drop Buddy off to sit for a spell on a bench there and you and me can drive somewheres for a little chat. Give you a goodbye to remember. Make you think of your old home town in a positive light when you’re up there in Maine.

Joanie didn’t lose her smile, but it went tight and she said, Nah, thanks for the offer, but we don’t have all that much time.

The truck stopped and she leaned over Buddy and opened the door and pushed him out. Grab them suitcases, Bud, she said in a low voice, and then she went around to the driver’s window and murmured there for a bit. Buddy watched from the shade as the pleasantness fell off the driver’s face and he began to look red and then angry, and then he pulled out his wallet and handed over some bills to Joanie, who tucked them into her pocketbook. The driver threw the pickup into reverse and drove away far too fast, spitting dust up all over them again.

Never coming back to this old snake pit again, she said, might as well make a little money setting fire to all my bridges. Still can’t believe they let that old lecher work at the high school.

She sighed and smacked dust off her skirt and blouse and hat, and said, Anyways, we got about a half hour, what do you say we go get ourselves a milkshake, and led Buddy into the drugstore where their mother used to take him for lunch after church on Sundays.

There was nobody in the drugstore besides the boy in the paper cap behind the counter, who flushed when he saw Joanie come in. Hey there, Buddy! he called out in a strange, strained voice. You here for your usual? Burger, chocolate malted?

Oh, yes, please, Buddy said, putting down the suitcases and sitting on a stool. His stomach rumbled loudly.

Hey there, Joanie, the boy said, flicking his eyes at her. Haven’t seen you for a spell. You doing good? You looking good.

Well, I’m an orphan now. So not so good, I guess, she said dryly.

Ah, jeez. Oh, boy, the boy said, and his blush became almost purple. I’m so sorry, Joanie. I didn’t know. Was wondering why your mama didn’t bring Buddy in here this last month or so. Ah, man, I’m such a pumpkin head. Listen, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you lunch. It’s on me. Well, it’s on Mr. Katz who owns the place, but he’ll never know. And the boy winked and turned away and began fiddling with the grill, shaking his head once in a while and hissing under his breath at his own stupidity.

Joanie smiled to herself then, but every time the boy stole a glance at her she put a sad expression on her face.

Buddy looked at himself in the mirror behind the syrups. He liked his dark hair and dark eyes, but he did not like the dust that was in his hair. It kept being a surprise to him that it was Joanie next to him in the mirror, carefully shaking the dirt out of her clothing and her hair and dabbing at her face with a paper napkin, and not his mother. Every time, the surprise turned to pain.

The boy in the paper hat delivered two malteds, two burgers, and two fries, and hovered as they ate. Buddy was so hungry he barely chewed, and Joanie ate delicately, touching the corners of her mouth with her napkin after every bite. When Buddy was done, he looked at her food so hard that she pushed it over to him.

Wasn’t good? the boy said anxiously. You didn’t like it, Joanie?

Don’t you fret, Joanie said, it was wonderful. I just haven’t been eating much recently and it takes only a few bites to fill me up.

Nice to hear you thought it was good, the boy said, but then the bells above the door jingled and an old couple, arm in arm, came in and sat down on the stools. He rolled his eyes and went over with his little pad of paper to take their order.

Buddy finished all the food. Joanie wiped his face and hands. She slid off the stool and dug into her pocketbook for a quarter. Then she reconsidered, replaced the quarter, and put a dime on the counter.

Let’s go, she said to Buddy.

But they hadn’t gone more than a few steps before the boy rushed back to where they’d sat and said, Hey, Joanie, hey, Joanie, wait a second, do you maybe want to go out with me one of these days? I can borrow my brother’s car. We’ll go for a drive, maybe get some dinner, maybe. Or go bowling or fishing or something.

Joanie turned around with a broad smile on her face and said, Oh, I’d love that, truly. Why don’t you just call my Aunt Maisie’s house for a date? She don’t like me going out with boys, so she’ll try to tell you I don’t live there, but don’t you listen, just keep calling and one day you’ll get me, not her.

Oh, great, Joanie, the boy said, I’ll do that. I’ll just keep calling for you.

You do that, she said, and she and Buddy went outside and Joanie laughed as they crossed the road. Oh, boy, she said. Maisie’s going to get so mad.

Yes, Buddy said, and laughed, not because he understood but because his sister was laughing and the sound made him happy.

But soon he saw that something was wrong, and he stopped and put down the suitcase. Home is this way, he said slowly, pointing down the street full of dusty magnolias. Church this way, he said, pointing at the big red brick church on the corner.

Joanie shaded her eyes and looked at him and said gently, We’re not going to church or home, Bud. We’re off on a bus to Gainesville.

Oh, he said. I don’t know that place.

Me neither, she said. Well, we lived up there when we was real little, but when Daddy left Mama so sudden she took a strong dislike to the place, brought us down to this dumb little nothing town.

I want Mama, Buddy said, and began to cry.

Ah, none of that, Buddy, she said, none of that right now. Big old boy blubbering in the street. As if it’s not hard enough as it is. And she put the suitcase back in his hand, and took his other hand and pulled him through the parking lot to where the bus was already grumbling and people were slowly climbing up into it.

The bus was broiling hot and they had to go halfway back to find a seat, but Joanie said it’d be cool once they were moving and wind came through the windows. She parked their suitcases on their laps, because, she said in a whisper, you can’t trust none of the people who ride buses. All the people you can trust already have their own cars and wouldn’t be caught dead in a bus. Someday, she said dreamily, she was going to buy herself a great big car, pearly colored, with leather so soft inside you’d think you were riding along in a cool white bed.

But Buddy wasn’t listening, because among the people getting on the bus was a woman with a great puff of red hair under a very tiny hat, and in one hand she held a blue suitcase and in the other a golden cage with two crested cockatiels in it. She was heavy, and gasping, and she stopped for a minute at the seat opposite Buddy and Joanie’s, then scanned her options and sighed, and put the cage next to the window and settled herself down.

The driver came on and took people’s quarters. Joanie cursed under her breath but opened her little pocketbook and dug around for change. Bleeding me dry, she said to Buddy. Guess I won’t be eating until I get to Maine.

The lady across the way overheard her, and said, Maine? You two running off to Maine? I come up on this bus and I see you here and I think, Look at that handsome boy, that pretty girl, I bet they’re sweethearts running off together, how romantic. And I says to myself, Ada Severin, you sit yourself down right next to them there, see if you can’t get their story, maybe you know their people, but then the closer up to you I get, the more I see that no, they’re not sweethearts, not at all, maybe they’re brother and sister, there’s a family resemblance around the eyes, and then by the time I get here I see clear that there’s something funny going on with that handsome boy right there, maybe something not quite right up in his brain.

Don’t you say that. Everything’s just perfect in his brain, Joanie said sharply. He’s all angels and rainbows up there. His gears are just a little slower than most.

In any event, the lady said with a chesty sort of laugh, not often that I’m wrong. Blessed Jesus has bestowed upon me the power of perception. I always had it, I guess you’d say, but it got sharpened when I started reading them Sherlock Holmes books in the library. What you do is you look real hard at a person and see all the little things and then put them together. Like, the bus driver has those deep scars on his hands, you see them? I bet he was a turpentine cutter up in the pines for a long while. But he has a little hitch in his walk, and I bet an accident happened and that’s why he started driving buses.

Maybe so, Joanie said. Maybe not.

Say, the lady said in an excited voice, he’s coming back this way. Let’s see if I’m right. She said to the bus driver, Pardon me, but we got a little wager going that you used to be a turpentine cutter up in them pines once upon a time.

The driver stopped in the aisle and looked down at the lady’s face for a long moment. At last he said, gravely, I don’t believe I know you, ma’am, and kept going to his seat at the front.

See? The lady crowed. Told you.

Neither confirmation nor denial, Joanie said. I think he gave you the old mind your own beeswax.

Dear, no. I saw the confirmation plain as day there in his face, the lady said. In any event, smells like someone around here’s been eating onions recently. The Lord has blessed me with a powerful nose, can smell near on anything, and there’s nothing worse than riding four hours on a bus with someone who’s been eating onions. She opened her very tiny purse and took out a tin, pulled the top off, delicately lifted away the paper with the tip of her finger to reveal pale little lozenges inside. Violet candy? she offered.

And, since Joanie and Buddy had both eaten onions on their burgers, they took one candy apiece.

Tastes like licking a plaster wall, Joanie said, making a face.

You’re welcome, the lady said. Took me a minute, but my perceptions about you sure did come clear at last, the lady said.

Oh, yeah? Joanie said.

Yes, I can see you’re dumping your brother at that Farm Colony up in Gainesville, and going on alone to Maine, ’cause you got you a job there. The lady squinted, looking at Joanie’s shoes, her hands, her hair, her straw hat, and said, I don’t know. Shopkeeper. No, no, I got it. Lady’s companion.

Something struggled in Joanie, but at last she said with a smile she tried to bite down, Almost. Women’s college.

College girl. Well, I’ll be, the lady said. I myself begged and begged to go to college, but my daddy said no, not even a Christian college, not even a Home Economics course. Ada, honey, no amount of book reading can make a woman a better housekeeper, he always said to me. But of course that was a different time, before the first Great War, before women even got to vote and then got all uppity and started yelling for things. Well, to tell you the truth, I’m mighty envious of you going off to college. I would have loved to learn about the old books and philosophers and such. Though I say, I always do say, a woman’s place is in the home. She said this with such vehemence, her chins wobbled.

One of the birds in the cage was sleeping, and the other was puffed up and preening under its wings. It stopped when it saw Buddy staring at it and shouted out, Red Peril!

The lady laughed. Oh, it just tickles me no end when he says that, she said. I taught him that myself. It’s what all the boys used to call me back in the day, not because I’m one of them Communists, of course not, but because of my hair. She fluffed her hair with one plump hand and said, Red Peril. I know you can’t see it, but I used to be pretty as you, my girl.

I believe it if you say it, Joanie said. The bus had started moving through the long yellow afternoon, and the air blowing through the windows came as a great relief.

In any event, the lady said, college girl, let’s see if you got the power of perception like me. Bet you can’t take a look at me and tell my story the way I did with the bus driver and you.

All right, Joanie said, and she put on a very serious face and looked the woman over slowly and so hard that her eyes began to cross. At last, in a spooky voice, she said, You teach piano up in Gainesville. You come down here for a week every year to visit your sister but couldn’t leave your birds behind because you’re a spinster, and you live all alone in your little apartment up there. You and your sister don’t get along at all, because of the bad blood between you. Your sister is still mad, deep down, that your daddy left the house up in town to you when he died and all she got was a bunch of fields full of nothing down in these parts. You spent the whole week playing solitaire in different rooms and quarrelling over what you wanted to eat for supper.

The lady gaped at Joanie, her little eyes blinking fast. At last she said, Bless me. I’m a widow, not a spinster, but besides that, you’re dead on. You’re a natural, just like me.

Joanie laughed and said, Nah. My mama used to clean the house for your sister’s neighbor, old Mr. Hubbard. Your sister would complain about your visits for weeks before you came down.

Oh, what a dirty trick! the lady cried out, her cheeks turning red. How un-Christian of you. But I don’t know what I should have expected from a girl who is throwing away her own brother like he’s trash.

And then she turned her face indignantly toward the front of the bus and bellowed for all to hear, A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. Proverbs.

I’m seventeen, lady, Joanie said angrily. How the heck can I take care of a big old jug of molasses like him? Anyways, I was just having a little fun, Joanie said in a sweeter voice, but the lady had set her angry face toward her birds and her own window, where Florida was rushing by.

Joanie lowered her face to Buddy’s shoulder and tried to muffle her laughter. Soon, though, she just rested her head there, and her eyes slowly closed and she fell asleep.

After some time, the lady with the birds extracted a peeled hard-boiled egg from her bag, opened a sheet of paper carefully, and dipped every bit of the white of the egg into the salt and pepper there. Buddy liked the way the lady ate the egg, in tiny fast bites, leaving the golden center for the end, which she rolled in the last of the salt and pepper and let sit in her mouth until it dissolved. Then she, too, fell asleep and her snores, high in her nose, rose up and down in the air of the bus.

Buddy liked everything about the bus right now: the feel of his sister’s head on his shoulder and the smell of her hair; the way that the bumps in the road made the flesh of the woman with the birds jiggle; the way that the birds swayed inside the cage on their strange sharp feet and bobbed their pretty crests and let their eyes go to slits. Through the window, when he let his eyes unfocus, the desperate scrabbling cypresses with their feet in the water became a blur of gray and shining brown, and the palmettos spun a green weave. They stopped at each little town along the way, but when the bus picked up speed again everything flashed gold and green and brown and blue, over and over, and the sun began to lower itself and upon his hands the hot yellow sunlight of late afternoon began to spread.

It was then that something caught Buddy’s attention. Rather, it was the lack of something, for the bird lady’s high snoring had stopped and a strange silence had overtaken the bus. He turned his head to look at the bird lady. She was wearing a serious face and leaning into the aisle. Now he saw that she was leaning over his sister’s pocketbook, which, though the strap was still slung across her shoulder, had fallen off her lap and into the aisle. He saw the lady put her hand inside the pocketbook. Slowly, she pulled the roll of cash from it and held it in her hand, smiling. But then she looked up and saw Buddy watching her. Her face flushed and she blinked her eyes fast and licked her lips, then she peeled a bill away from the roll and shoved the rest back into the pocketbook, and closed the clasp with nimble fingers.

Just having a little joke, she whispered. Just some fun, no harm, she said, and tucked the bill she had taken down the neck of her blouse. She put a finger to her lips and went, Shush.

Joanie, Buddy said, shaking his sister.

Hush now, don’t wake her, the lady said. Poor girl looks awful tired, she needs a rest. She took the paper bag of food that was squeezed between herself and the birdcage and tried to hand it to him. I got some nice ham sandwiches in there for you, she said, coaxingly. I don’t even like ham, but my sister made me take them. There’s some pecan sandies there, too. You like cookies? Everyone likes cookies.

Joanie, he said, but was distracted by the smell of the ham from the bag that the lady had dropped on his lap.

Anyways, the lady said, she won’t miss it in the long run. Pretty girl like her can always find a way to make a little money. She smiled, and there was lipstick all over her large front teeth.

Hey, Joanie, Buddy said with less conviction now, but his sister was sleeping hard and it took him a while to awaken her, and the bus was slowing, turning, and when she finally opened her eyes and wiped her mouth they had stopped at the station and he had forgotten what he wanted to tell her.

Before the bus even came to a halt, the bird lady had stood and pushed her way down the aisle with her cage and her suitcase so that she would be the first off, ahead of all the people who sat in the front of the bus.

Let me tell you, Joanie said, smoothing down her hair, which the air through the windows had ruffled, and looking at the lady who stood there so large at the front of the bus, Busybodies like that nasty old thing I certainly will not be missing up in Maine. From what I hear, them Yankees keep to themselves, as well they should.

They came off the bus into the long shadows of afternoon, the high spiky palm trees and the heritage oaks broad and dripping with moss. They took turns using the facilities at the bus station. While Buddy was waiting outside with the suitcases, and Joanie was inside the restroom, there came a terrible shriek and she ran out without even washing her hands. It’s gone, she said. It’s gone. I looked in my pocketbook for a comb and my hundred-dollar bill is gone. I’m never going to be able to buy my books and such now. And she sat down on her suitcase and screamed, low, into her hands.

Buddy sat beside her on his own suitcase and put his arm around her and began to cry, because he missed his mother so.

There were other people in the station walking around, but nobody bothered them. At last Joanie stopped screaming into her hands and got up and went back into the bathroom to wash her face, and when she came out she seemed somehow smaller and her face was blotchy but set.

What’s that? she said, seeing the paper bag of food on his lap.

Bird lady give it to me, he said.

She opened the bag and whistled. Enough food here for days, she said. She looked at him. They’ll be feeding you where you’re going. Three square, they said. You mind if I take this, Bud? It’ll feed me all the way until I get where I’m going, and she didn’t wait to hear what he said, but just packed it into her suitcase.

Ham in there, he said sadly, his stomach feeling empty. And cookies.

We got about a mile to walk, she said. You still feeling pretty strong, Buddy? she said.

Real strong, Buddy said, and took both of the suitcases and set off again, following his sister through the late afternoon.

Buddy liked the neighborhoods they were walking through, the big wooden houses with their porches, all the people out walking their dogs. There were young people, too, in twos and threes, and when Joanie watched them something that had died in her face back at the station came alive again. Bet they’re students up at the university, she murmured. Bet they’re out here because their brains are too stuffed with symphonies and history and classical Greek and they got to walk it all out to be able to sleep at night. And she smiled at Buddy and said kindly, In some ways, you’re going off to your kind of college, too, I guess.

There was still light in the air when they crossed the big road and saw the sign. The name change was so recent that the blasted old board with “Florida Farm Colony for Epileptic and Mentally Deficient Children” still hung on the left, while on the right there was a fresh-painted sign that said “Sunland.”

Sunland, Joanie said, that’s right, that’s what they’re calling it now. Doesn’t that sound nice, Buddy. A land of sun.

That’s where Mama’s at, Joanie? Buddy said, and Joanie looked at him and her whole body started to shake. No, baby, she said, Mama’s not there.

Then she said soft and fast to herself, Oh, my God, what am I doing? What am I doing? Mama always said she had me to take care of you in case something happened to her, and look what I’m doing.

But Buddy had turned eagerly toward the place, and was now walking fast up to the gate where the guard was snoozing in his hut, a little transistor radio playing beside him. Wait, Buddy, Joanie called out behind him.

You must be Robert, ain’t you, boy? the guard said. I was beginning to despair for you. They said you was coming today, but it’s near time to lock the gates. And here you are.

Here I am, Buddy said. I’m Buddy.

Fifteen more minutes and you woulda had to find a place to stay for the night, come back in the morning, the guard said to Joanie.

I’m sorry, sir, she said. She was pale all over, even in her lips.

The guard spoke into his walkie-talkie, and a garbled sound came back out.

Through the gate they could see straight lines of sago palms and oleanders, lights on in the windows of the great plain white wooden buildings scattered around on the sparse grass. Buddy grasped the gate and pressed his face painfully between the metal bars to look harder. One of the doors of the closest building opened and out of it three figures in white appeared and began to descend the stairs, shining back lit in the warm light that poured out from inside and painted the grass and the trees framing the building with gold.

Oh, Buddy breathed, because the sight was beautiful to him.

Bud, listen to me, Joanie said quickly beside him. I’ll come back for you. I’ll get my education, then I’ll get my job, and when I have enough money to support us both I’ll come back to get you. Oh, Lord, forgive me.

But Buddy wasn’t listening. He was watching the three stout women in white coming closer to him across the path. From this distance he couldn’t see their faces. Any one of them could be his mama. The early moon hung in the blue of the end of the day above, and, in the distance, a cat darted swiftly across the grounds, and Joanie, who smelled like sweat and onions and like herself, rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. The evening breeze lifted from across the farm fields with its warm smell of cows and dirt and touched him on his face and hands and neck, and in the smell there was something wilder, something off the wet and teeming prairie a few miles away, with its dark, terrible beasts below the water, the delicate angelic birds on their long, thin legs above. In this moment, something inside him that was always singing, that nobody else could hear, sang louder, sang until the women came so close that at last they showed their faces. Then Joanie, whom he looked at, trying to understand, turned her own face from him and began to walk away, fast, and did not look back. ♦