The Leisure Seeker: A Novel (15 page)

They run back to their car. The passenger runs so fast, he leaves one of his flip-flops along the side of the road. They tear ass out of there.

No sooner do I toss the knife into the brush and put my wedding ring back on, than the Auto Club arrives. Early. Wouldn’t you know it?

The tow truck operator is a stern young Mexican man with a shaved head. His mechanic’s shirt has the sleeves ripped off. No name patch but he does have a large tattoo of Our Lady of Guadalupe from his shoulder to his elbow. I’ve seen her on a lot of calendars and such out this way. The young man doesn’t say much, just nods at us, asks for our AAA card, fills out a slip on a clipboard, and asks John to sign.

“I’ll sign it,” I say.

John frowns at me, then signs the slip. He nods at the mechanic. “Beautiful day, isn’t it, young man?” Apparently, an attempt on his life puts John in a jovial mood.

“Yes sir,” says the mechanic dully, just barely meeting John’s gaze.

“I like your haircut.” John then lifts his golf cap to reveal his empty scalp. “I’ve got the same one.”

The mechanic tips his head, trying hard to maintain his
stone face, trying not to smile at John’s comment. Then he just shakes his head and starts to laugh.

John used to always have this effect on people. Maybe his hokey patter reminds people of their father, I don’t know, but it’s amazing who he wins over.

Smiling now, the young man looks over at me. I’m sure I look a fright.

“Are you all right, ma’am? You want to sit in my truck while I change the tire? I can turn on the air-conditioning.”

Sometimes the world is a much easier place to figure out when people act badly. You know what to do then. A small act of kindness is another thing altogether.

“I…That would be nice,” I stammer, all of it suddenly catching up with me.

He slips his clipboard under his arm and opens the door to his truck. “Yeah, come on. The sun is strong out here.”

Once I’m in the clammy tow truck with the air-conditioning blasting, the waterworks start. The tears come and come and I don’t seem to be able to stop myself. I want to say that it’s just from being so scared of those two maniacs, but I actually wasn’t that scared. I felt like things were going to work out and we would be all right. Tell you one thing, I sure as hell wasn’t going to let them get away with my ring. And for the record, I most certainly would have shot them both. (Though I haven’t fired a gun in twenty years, and then it was just a few afternoons at the range with John. But I was good at it.) I guess it could be any number of things—the holdup, the flat tire, the seemingly endless discomfort I’m experiencing, or maybe
just that this trip will be over soon and I don’t know what will become of us. Or maybe I do know and I’m afraid to think about that. I guess it’s all of it.

John turns to me and says very seriously, “Are you all right, miss?”

All this excitement has had its effect on him, too. I’m just glad he’s forgotten about his gun. “I’m all right, John.” I pull a tissue from my sleeve, blow my nose in it. I don’t know what else to do with it, so I just put it back in my sleeve.

Within minutes, the young man has replaced the tire and we’re ready to go. He helps us out of the tow truck and hands us a business card with a big greasy thumbprint on it.

“You guys should probably have this patched before you go any farther. Our place is just up the road in Tucumcari. We’ll give you a twenty percent AAA discount.”

We thank the young man for all his help. Once situated in the Leisure Seeker, we head back out onto I-40. As he drives, I notice that John holds the tow truck driver’s card between his thumb and the steering wheel, as if he doesn’t want to forget. At the exit for Tucumcari, John turns to me and says, “I think we ought to get that tire fixed right away.”

“If you think so,” I say, happy to have him acting like a man for a change.

As we enter the city of Tucumcari, I feel the sweats come on. It feels just like menopause again. Believe me, once was bad enough. Luckily, the gas station that we’re looking for is right
on Route 66 in town, not far past a cute little place called the Blue Swallow Motel.

After we pull into the lot, the young Mexican man comes up to the window. Despite the encroaching discomfort, I smile at him, but he doesn’t say hi, he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there. I wait for John to speak. After all, he’s still holding the business card, but he clams up, too.

“We’re taking you up on your offer,” I say, leaning over John. “How much will it be to fix the tire?”

The young man looks bewildered for a moment, then says, “You have the blowout at Glenrio?”

I nod yes. “Yes, and you—”

“That was my brother,” he says, cutting me off. “He changed your tire.”

“Oh,” I say, a bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry.” I look at his forearm. No tattoo. Same haircut, though.

“Fourteen dollars. Be a half hour.” Without even waiting for me to agree, he heads toward the back of the van where he pulls the flat off the mount, then heads for the garage.

After John parks the van in the shade, I hand him a box of Sociables and discreetly take the keys from the ignition. I’m going to take a nap and I don’t want to wake up in Timbuktu. I take a little blue pill. The last thing I remember before I doze off is John settling in with the crackers and a Louis L’Amour paperback that I’ve seen him read at least a dozen times. It must feel new to him each time he picks it up. I guess we save a lot of money on books that way.

Eight

NEW MEXICO

We keep gaining time. Yet even with an extra hour from the time change, the few miles to the KOA Kampground just outside Tucumcari seems to take forever. I’m feeling better, no longer shaking, but John hasn’t said an intelligible word since we got here. He’s yawning and talking to himself, his window of lucidity squandered by nincompoops.

Once we set up, John sits down at the table inside the van. I put a can of Pepsi and a bowl of chips in front of him, and he promptly falls asleep.

Happy for the time alone, I mix myself a highball of Vernors and Canadian Club in a green aluminum camp cup and head outside to the picnic table. I bring my cane and sit down carefully, with my back to the table so I can get up easily. I take
that first sip and smile. In the distance, I hear these sounds: the scream of a child that alarms me at first, but then when it’s followed by the voice of a different child, I realize they are only playing; the nasal putter of a small airplane flying above the campground; the distant
bah-dumm
of a car passing over a seam in the road out on I-40.

The Vernors, even mixed with whiskey, is still so spicy and sharply carbonated that it makes me cough a bit. (As a young woman, I drank Boston Coolers at the Vernors factory down at the foot of Woodward Avenue, not far from the river. A scoop of Sanders vanilla floating in shimmery gingery pop—the first sip could actually make you sneeze.) I’m glad we brought a twelve-pack of Vernors from Detroit. You can’t always get it in other parts of the country. It’s a local specialty, you know.

It may be my imagination, but I already feel the effects of the C.C. A radiance spreads through my chest, a tingle, and I remember the second dose of anti-discomfort medicine I took today. I guess I’m turning into quite the—what’s the expression Oprah likes to use?—
substance abuser.

I take another sip of my highball.

The campground, while not deserted, isn’t exactly crowded. A young couple approaches, pushing a stroller. I wave to them, but they ignore me. Neither parent looks over eighteen years of age. What they are doing camping with a baby, I don’t know.

“Hi!” I call out to them. “How old is your little one?”

At first I think they’re going to keep walking, but then the girl looks back at me, then over to the boy. He lowers his head
into his shoulders like a tortoise. Finally, she turns to me and yells back.

“She’s seven months old, ma’am.”

“She’s darling,” I say, though I can’t really tell. Something about their shyness makes me bolder. Besides, I want to see a baby. After this day, I need to see a baby.

I speak up. “Come on over. Let me have a closer look. Come on, I won’t bite.”

They both shuffle toward me, heads down. A scrawnier set of parents I have never seen. They barely look weaned themselves.

“That’s better,” I say, once they’re in front of me. Up close, I see how young they are, sixteen or seventeen, tops. She’s gaunt and pale, with dun-colored hair and light hazel eyes, a leaf of a girl. Her beige top is cut short, exposing her tiny waist. Even there with a baby, she seems gawky, unaccustomed to her woman’s body. The boy’s face is tight and oblong, with a high forehead and thin brown hair that doesn’t have a bright future ahead of it. His T-shirt says
OLD NAVY ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT
, but that’s the only thing that’s athletic about him.

I see how worn their clothes are, how tired they look. Even the baby just lies there, violet lids half closed, tiny fingers raised and stirring like sea grass.

“Oh, she’s adorable,” I lie. “What’s her name?“

“Britney,” says the girl, making it sound like a question. That upward lilt in her voice reminds me of our granddaughter, Lydia.

“That’s a pretty name. What’s yours?”

“I’m Tiffany. That’s Jesse.”

The boy squints at me with the same dark eyes as the child. “Well, I’m Ella. It’s so nice to meet you. You’ve got a beautiful baby.”

“Really?” When Tiffany smiles, she looks about fourteen.

“Of course she is,” I say, wondering what people have been telling her. “Where are you two headed?”

“Ohio? His aunt and uncle are there.”

“Oh. Are you visiting?” I’m shameless, but I need to know.

“We’re gonna live there,” she says, eyes shifting downward. He squeezes her elbow, and she moves closer to him.

“Well, that sounds nice. You’ll like it around there. We’re from Michigan. Right here.” I hold my right hand up, palm forward, and point to just below the lowest knuckle of my thumb to show them where Detroit is. Suddenly, they both break into uncontrollable giggles.

It takes me a moment to catch on. “Oh. That’s what we do in Michigan when we want to show where a town is located.”

“Really?” says Tiffany, still laughing.

I nod. “Because it’s shaped like a hand.”

“It is?” she says, half smiling.

“Uh-huh. Do you two have a camper?”

“No. We got a tent,” she says, obviously not pleased about the situation.

“That must be hard with a baby,” I say.

Tiffany nods vigorously. Finally, the boy speaks: “We should go.”

“You just got here,” I say. “Would you like something to eat?” Jesse’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and I realize that I’ve asked the magic question. “How about a sandwich? I’m sure I’ve got something for the baby, too.”

They look at each other again, each waiting for the other to answer.

“Then it’s settled,” I say. “You sit down right here at the table and I’ll have some dinner ready in a jiffy.”

It doesn’t take much prodding to get them to sit down. Then I pop into the camper and give John a poke. “John, we’ve got company,” I say, snatching the bowl of chips off the table.

“Who’s here?” he says, sounding grumpy as hell.

I don’t know what to say, so I improvise. “It’s the kids. And they brought the baby!”

John gets up, walks out of the van, all smiles. “Hey there, you two!” he says to Tiffany and Jesse, who look befuddled, but grin anyway, caught up in the warmth of John’s bonhomie.

When he sees the baby, that’s all she wrote. “And who’s this little girl? Look at her. What a sweetie pie.
Yes, she is
.” Peekaboo is played. Noses are stolen and returned repeatedly. Some color comes to Tiffany’s and Jesse’s cheeks as they watch.

Sometimes we need a little social pressure to be at our best.

I make grilled ham and cheese sandwiches in the electric frying pan and heat up a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup. We crack a tub of potato salad from the fridge. I find an
applesauce cup and cut up a ripe banana for the baby. An hour later, the kids are full, and little Britney smiles every time she lays eyes on John.

Tiffany and Jesse have never heard any of John’s stories before and tonight they’re happy to listen. I’m happy to take care of them all. Tonight, we all make believe that we are other people. We don’t talk about their problems or our problems. The kids hardly even talk. Though Tiffany happens to mention that back home in Tempe, Britney would always wake up and start crying in the middle of the night.

“Do you ever take her for a drive?” I say.

Tiffany scrunches her chalky face at me like I’m off my rocker. “Noooo.”

“That helps.”

“Really?”

I make an effort not to frown. “You’ve never heard that? It’s the movement that soothes them. You try it and see if it doesn’t help. It always worked on my kids, and I know my Cynthia used it on her little boy when he wouldn’t stop crying. That or she ran the vacuum cleaner.”

Tiffany’s pointy brows squeeze together. The crazy look again. “Whaaat?”

Despite all this lip I’m getting, it pleases me to give this poor girl a little grandmotherly advice. I don’t think she’s been getting a whole lot of it.

Then I wonder to myself: Does a feeling of movement soothe a new baby in the same way it soothes an old woman? It doesn’t seem like it should, but somehow this makes sense to
me. New to the earth and not long for it somehow don’t seem so different these days.

Before they leave, I give the kids extra blankets. In the van, I make up a bag filled with canned goods, cookies, and things for their cooler. From my cupboard, I grab an old Tupperware container. I take off the lid, put in a wad of tens and twenties from my hiding place, burp the air out, seal it tight, and place it at the bottom of the bag.

The next morning we both have a hard time getting out of bed. After two very strong cups of instant Folgers each, we pack up and hit I-40. (No patience at the moment for flitting between freeway and old road.) For a long time, neither John nor I say anything. This is rare, for as you know, I’m usually prattling away, giving directions, asking John if he remembers things, trying to fill the air with words as if I can’t bear the silence, which isn’t far from the truth. But right now, the only sounds are the leaden howl of the Leisure Seeker’s V-8 and the
frapp-frapp
of untucked maps between our seats being whipped by the wind.