Dakota Blues (27 page)

“Men usually don’t like to be alone, especially the older they get. Is there really going to be a baby or not?” Frieda chuckled. “Oh, honey, the look on your face. Wish I could take a picture.”

“I’ll get my camera.”

“Don’t be mad. You have to accept the fact that nothing changes. We may be from different generations, but people play the same old games. Probably nothing new since back in the caveman days.”

Karen looked down at the water. Over the course of her career, she had handed out tissues while one employee after another railed about failing marriages. One woman’s new husband stopped working and never went back, and by the time they finally divorced, she had to pay him spousal support. Another woman discovered her husband was a drug user, swearing she’d had no inkling until finding a crack pipe in his shaving kit. At the time Karen had marveled at the women’s ignorance, yet now she felt like a member of their club.

“If you want my advice, I’d move on. Divorce him and start over.”

Karen watched a baby bird hopping after its mother. Eventually the mother flew away. The baby scrambled to follow.

“You only get one life,” said Frieda, “and you’re better than halfway through this one.”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“I’m just saying, there comes a time when you’re at an age where you have to look at it rather coldly. Decide how you’re going to spend the rest of your valuable time.” Frieda opened her magazine back up, and then pinned Karen with a stare. “We all like to think we’re going to live forever, but at a certain point you have to come to grips with the reality.”

A little later, Karen made lunch using a new recipe. She brought sandwiches to the table, along with fruit punch and potato chips.

Frieda peeled apart the bread. “What is this? Is it spinach? I don’t really care for spinach.”

“Basil. Do you like it? I got the idea from Aunt Marie.”

“Don’t we have any lettuce?”

“There’s no room in the ice chest. Unless you want me to take the van into town and get the refrigerator fixed.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Karen added a dab of horseradish, took another bite, and scribbled a note on a small spiral pad. When she returned to California, whatever way she went, she planned to take up cooking. It would force her to relax, and serve a productive purpose as well. She would make friends, invite them over for dinners, and create a social life. No more single-minded work, work, work for her.

Over the next few days, their routine took on a comforting sameness as she experimented with recipes and domesticity. At breakfast they ate cinnamon toast resurrected from her childhood, pancakes with fresh blueberries, and a bacon and cheese omelet. A floral cloth from the camp store adorned the picnic table, along with a bunch of daisies and Black Eyed Susans stuck in a water glass. Afterwards, Frieda sat in the sun and read while Karen washed dishes and made up the beds.

For lunches she served homemade soup or sandwiches along with sweet tea and punch. After doing dishes, the two of them would read or talk until Frieda’s eyes grew heavy, at which time the laptop came out, and networking and lobbying ensued. Even though the economy was bad, Karen’s background made her a valuable commodity, and she thrilled to the overtures from her old familiar world. Everything else might have changed, but in the weeks since word of her firing seeped out, she had become a hot property, with several viable job offers on her plate. She could be employed before she even crossed the state line, and for more money than she’d been making previously.

Steve kept calling and begging, but she hadn’t returned his calls. “It’s okay,” his message said. “Take your time. I’ll be here.” Except his voice sounded increasingly frantic.

When Frieda awoke from her nap, Karen put away the computer and prepared appetizers. For dinners she had figured out how to cook small portions of fried chicken, meatloaf, and a succulent beef stew, even in spite of the tight quarters. Every evening, she built a fire using wood from the store. As the embers died and the cold returned, they went inside to read until bedtime, listening to soft jazz from Karen’s iPod and some cheap speakers she’d picked up along the way. The routine didn’t vary, except for the couple times she snuck away to call Curt. “What are you doing?” she would ask, pushing thoughts of Steve from her mind.

“Pining for you. What else?”

“Liar.” Karen could hear the sound of surf breaking on a beach. “Where are you?”

“South Carolina. I just climbed this dune and the moon is rising on the water. It’s silver. You should see it.”

“I’d like to.”

“You don’t have to whisper,” yelled Frieda through the window. “I’m not listening.”

On their fourth morning in Moab, Karen tied her hair in a ponytail, noticing in the tiny bathroom mirror that her roots were coming out, and not just a little. These roots were dull brown, surprisingly familiar, like old relatives she hadn’t seen in a long time. Their appearance represented a cumulative savings of approximately six hundred dollars in salon appointments since leaving California. She leaned in closer. Those silvery highlights were not from the sun.

When the coffee pot burbled to a finish, Karen filled a mug and took it outside to Frieda, who sat by the fire warming her old bones. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a rock.” Frieda accepted the cup and took a careful sip. “Oh, that’s good. Nice and strong.”

Karen nodded, yawning. She wrapped her hands around her mug and stared into the fire, which she’d rebuilt from last night’s unburned wood. What a treat to sleep until almost eight o’clock every morning and have breakfast whenever you felt hungry. For so many years she rose before dawn, ate breakfast in the dark, and commuted to work. What would it feel like to wake up whenever you wanted? A slow start to the day would have to be one of the greatest luxuries of life. And one day, she would have that, but not just yet. “How’s your dizziness this morning?”

“Hard to tell. Might need a few more days.”

“I found a group to walk with this morning. Will you be okay?” A sign had been tacked to the bulletin board at the store:
CRS Ladies: 9 am hike
. “It’s just for a couple hours.”

“Go have fun. I’ll be here.” Frieda looked off across the river.

Karen walked away slowly, but once out of sight she broke into a trot. Soon the trees thinned to reveal the camp store. A babyfaced ranger wearing a brown campaign hat stood on the wooden porch. He held a clipboard in his armpit since both hands were busy thumbing his phone. At the foot of the stairs, a dozen women jabbered, waiting for the walk to start. One hiker wore a matching pink blouse, socks, visor, and sunglasses. Another, her back bent from osteoporosis, wore a green straw hat with pastel flowers. Almost every hat sported a rhinestone CRS pin.

“‘Can’t Remember Shit’” the woman said in answer to Karen’s question. “That’s the name of our club. We’re a bunch of widow ladies. You alone?”

“No, I’m traveling with a friend.”

“I’m Fern. The pins are five bucks.”

Karen dug the money out of her pocket and stuck the pin on her jacket collar. Fern adjusted it for her. “Next time bring a hat. You’ll get old and wrinkly if you’re not careful.”

“Too late.”

“Oh, spare me. When you get to be my age, then you’ll have something to complain about.”

“Ladies, can I get your attention?” The ranger called out from the porch. “I hope you all remembered water and proper hiking shoes. Today’s trek will last about two hours. With any luck we’ll stumble across some arrowheads.”

“If I stumble across anything it’ll be the end of me,” said one elderly hiker.

“If I stumble I hope it’s where he can catch me.” A skinny old lady with big boobs winked at Karen. The ranger began walking, his hiking stick striking cadence on the hard dirt. “Ooh. Gotta run,” she said, chasing after the ranger.

“That’s Gina,” said Fern. “She’s our cougar.”

A woman in a blue-flag travel scooter led the pack. The rest marched along in groups of two and three, talking and laughing. Karen fell in beside Fern and her friend Belle, whose sweater was covered with photo buttons of her dogs. “I hope that young man isn’t going to run like that all morning.”

“At this rate, I’ll lose my shapely behind,” said a rotund hiker.

“You can reload at lunch. I’m bringing home-made tortellini.” Fern glanced over her shoulder at Karen. “We always do pot luck after the walk. You’re welcome to join us.”

The path narrowed, forcing them into single file, and the conversation faded as the hikers watched their footing. Mares’ tails feathered across the cobalt sky. Karen took a deep breath of the clean air and broke into a grin. It felt good to be alone in the midst of strangers, listening to their chatter without the need to join in. Here she had no obligation to anyone but herself, free to enjoy some exercise and a few hours away from camp.

A half-hour later, the ranger called a halt when they reached the campfire circle at the one-mile point. The women sat on split-log benches arranged in a crescent under a stand of cottonwoods. After a short speech on wildflowers, the ranger wandered off, working his smart phone.

Karen leaned over and stretched, her hips and lower back protesting. “Are all of you traveling alone?”

Fern nodded. “We RV as a group. We’ve been all over the country more times than I can count.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It’s fantastic,” said Belle. “You can do as much or as little as you want, take a nap, read, or go for a hike, but you’re never lonely. We’re kind of like a commune on wheels.”

“What do you drive?” Karen sat down on the log next to Fern.

“Pretty much everything,” said Fern. “I’ve got a Class B van, but some of these gals drive all the way up to the big old Class Cs. That’s your fifth wheels, your motor coaches.”

“Amazing.”

“What, you think we’re too old?”

“No, I’m impressed. You guys are awesome.”

“That’s right. We are awesome, aren’t we?” Belle laughed and high-fived Fern.

Karen had needed a few days adjusting to the Roadtrek but these women, twenty years her senior, were driving rigs as big as a city bus. Then she remembered Barb. And the Bronco. And Sandy.

She shook her head.
Breathe
.

“That woman over there,” said Fern, gesturing, “she and her husband used to own a trucking business, and she drove a Peterbilt for years. Now that’s a tough assignment.”

“All of us drive,” said another. “It’s either that or stay home. And I am not about to stay home. Might’s well bury me then.”

“Amen.”

The ranger waved and the hikers fell in.

“Look at him go,” said Fern. “I wish I was that young.”

Belle whacked a pinecone with her walking stick. “What matters is how you feel. I feel young in my head.”

“Me, too. I’m always doing something new, and I think that keeps you young. Gal over there last week bought a new twenty-four foot Prowler fifth-wheel. You don’t do that if you have an old lady frame of mind.”

They passed along the far edge of the campground where the RVs thinned out. A shovel clanged against a rock, and a white-haired woman stopped working. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, leaned against the shovel, and waved. The hikers waved back.

“That’s Eleanor. She’s always fixing something,” said Belle. “Until her husband died, she never even drove a car. Now the RV is her fulltime home.”

“She doesn’t look sturdy enough to handle it,” said Karen.

“Don’t write her off. She’s tougher than she looks.”

The group passed by, waving. A gray-faced dog sat leaning against the woman’s leg. Karen wondered what it felt like to fall asleep by yourself at night in your own house on wheels, after puttering around during the day and then cooking whatever you wanted and reading and listening to music until you felt like sleeping. With internet, you could stay in touch with the world, and with your RV, you could go anywhere, all over the country, by yourself or with friends. A woman alone used to be a scary proposition, but if you stuck with a group of fellow travelers, it might be fun.

Karen didn’t have friends in her Newport neighborhood, although she had helped out with fund-raisers and fashion shows. The neighbors were nice enough. They smiled and waved before pulling into the garage and closing the door behind them. Without her work, Karen might have felt lonely, but most days she was too busy to notice.

The unfamiliar exercise began taking its toll on her leg muscles, and she was happy to see the camp store come into view. It was high time she got back to make lunch. Frieda would be waiting.

“You sure you don’t want to come by?” asked Belle. “It’s no trouble. We can always make room for two more.”

“Thanks. I would, but my friend is kind of shy.” Karen waved goodbye and trotted away. The hike and companionship had served as a welcome break, but she couldn’t risk lunch. If Frieda met these ladies, she’d want to spend another week here in Moab, and Karen needed to get back and face her future.

Back at camp, Frieda sat in a dappled patch of sunlight, her large-print Readers’ Digest open in her lap. “I was beginning to think you got lost.”

“Give me a minute to make ham sandwiches.” Karen saw Frieda make a face. “What?”

“Ham again?”

“It’s all we have left.” A truck stopped at the end of their driveway and Belle leaned out the window. “Hey, Karen, we’re on our way to lunch if you and your friend want to change your minds.”

“Somebody invited us to lunch?” Frieda asked.

“I thought we should stick around camp and start packing.”

Frieda planted her cane. “Nothing doing. This is why you camp, girlie. Make new friends and create memories. Come on, help me up.”

Karen knew she had already lost the argument, but the idea of not having to eat the ham took away the sting. Besides, if she let Frieda win this one, they could probably start packing this afternoon. The thought of breaking camp tomorrow excited her. She was homesick. It was time to return to reality. She helped Frieda into the front seat and climbed in after her.

Belle drove to the far end of the campground where a group of RVs were parked in a half-circle. Wind chimes danced from their awnings, and a row of chairs lined the edge of the river. Two picnic tables had been dragged together, end to end, and covered with red-and-white checkered oilcloth. A dozen women had already started on the hot casseroles, salads, and sweets contributed by everyone. Bottles of wine and a tub of beer stood at one end of the table.