The Leisure Seeker (17 page)

“How are your eyes holding out, John?”

“They’re okay.”

Just then, a little hopped-up Japanese car zips up next to us. It’s bright yellow with loud, high-pitched exhaust pipes and a big air spoiler on the back. I look over at the driver to see who’s making all the racket. I’m surprised to see a teenage girl there. After a moment, she gooses it and whinnies on past. On her back window, there’s a sticker:

NO FEAR

I think,
good girl.

This is an evening of bad judgment.

It has been many, many years since we’ve driven through the night. And for us to choose a stretch of desert to do it in is certainly a foolish idea. The kids would be terrified if they knew we were doing this. It’s exactly the sort of thing they’re having nightmares about. But the fact is, I don’t care and John doesn’t know any better. It’s just another long highway in front of him.

When we were younger, it wasn’t uncommon for us, in a sudden end-of-vacation rush to get home, to drive twenty, twenty-four, even thirty hours straight. It was a punishing thing to do, a kind of trance to which you had to give yourself over. Deaf with fatigue, you thought of nothing beyond the road, beyond the quivering bright scoops of your headlights.

On those nights when we surrendered to that madness, the miles would hiss past with a jagged, frazzled rhythm. We would stop for gasoline every half hour, it seemed, greet a new state every hour. Our senses were heightened to the point where we’d hear every seam of the asphalt, every click of the odometer.

John would drink so much coffee his stomach would creak and growl. He would chain-smoke Galaxy cigarettes and scream at the kids. Yet he kept driving, guzzling gas station mud, crunching down Tums with every cup. Out of boredom, I would dole out whatever was left in our cooler—lunch meats, warm pops, fruits from roadside stands, foods edging brown and green. After twenty or more hours, our car took on the smell of kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom all in one. Our whole family’s eyes became accustomed to the dark. Through glass smudged with stale breath, gas stations glowed and throbbed in the empty night, motel neon smeared red-orange trails; the reflection of our high beams in the highway signs flash-blinded us as we shot past.

The only thing that could move us to damage ourselves in such a way was to get home. There would come a time after twelve or thirteen days of near-solid travel that all you wanted was to be in your own house. Travel was wonderful, travel was glorious.
See the USA in your Chevrolet!
But what you wanted more than anything right then, was simply to sleep in your own bed, eat in your own kitchen, sit on your own toilet. You wanted to stop seeing the world. You wanted to see
your
world. So we would drive.

The all-night journeys were never planned. We would never intend to drive so ridiculously long and far. We would get one of those “good” days under our belt—six hundred miles or so—then we’d suddenly get fussy, unable to find a decent campground in our AAA guides or from the billboards along the road. We didn’t want to stay in a motel. We’d already spent enough money after two weeks on the road. (We were getting close enough to home to realize that we’d have to pay those credit card bills soon enough.) We’d say,
Let’s just drive a little longer. See how far we can go before we have to stop
.

So we would drive. A little bit farther. A little bit farther. Twilight would come, arc over us, a lump of sun dissolving in our wake, turning our rear window into color television. Then night would settle in, gather around us, cozylike, an afghan of stars. It was a relief to our eyes after the cruel shifting beauty of sunset. After a while, the kids would even stop whining and complaining and settle down. They were as anxious to get home as we were. Then without even trying, it would be 11:00
P.M
., way too late to stop for the night. We knew what we were doing by then. Too late to turn back.
Drive, drive
. We were heading toward something, a place we wanted, needed to be.

Tonight, John and I are smack in the middle of the Navajo nation. A gritty breeze buffets the half-open window. Along the highway, I see forked silhouettes of cacti, glints of rubbed rock and dynamited stone, darkened empty trading posts
with signs that advertise
INDIAN JEWELRY AT SUPER PRICES!
I’m scared to be out here in the dark, but it’s no longer a fear that I can take seriously. It’s all starting to feel like one of the rides at Disneyland. Of course, this may have something to do with all the discomfort pills I’m popping. It’s the only way I can operate now. I guess it’s happened: I’ve officially become a hophead. Frankly, I thought it would be more fun than this. I still have no idea why the kids love the dope so much.

I keep a close eye on John as he drives. He reminds me of the John of forty years ago (without a cigarette between his fingers), eyes trained on the road, very alert, not even yawning. I see no traces of the “highway hypnosis” that they used to warn us motor travelers against.
(Chew gum! Open the windows! Sing along with the radio!)
We are both too awake, one of us too aware.

John and I are tethered to the interstate tonight. No side trips in search of the pink concrete of the original 66. At night, there’s just too much chance that we would get good and lost. This way, all we have to do is stay on I-40 and keep moving for as long as we can. Yes, it’s a shame that we’re driving through the Painted Desert in the dark, but tonight is special. We need to get to our destination soon. I can tell.

“I’m going to play some music, John,” I say, fumbling with our bulky case of remaining eight-track tapes. We used to have a lot more, but our stereo has devoured them over the years. I find one called
Provocative Percussion
by Enoch Light & the Light Brigade and plug it into the player. “Blues in the
Night” comes on way too loud, scaring the crap out of both of us. John must have accidentally turned it up when it was off. I turn it down and it sounds all right for a moment, but then the music starts to warble. The woodwinds are pulled thin, and the plucky guitar notes ring flat, but I don’t care. I need sound. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I don’t like my thoughts anymore. They are not to be trusted.

My mouth is so dry. I take a sip from one of the bottles of emergency water. I look over at John and he looks back with the emptiness in his eyes, but also with affection. He whistles along with the music and taps on the steering wheel.

“Hello there, young lady,” he says, smiling at me.

I turn down “Fascinating Rhythm,” which is so chipper and cheery that it’s almost too much to handle, even with the distortion slowing it down.

“Do you know who I am, John?”

“Sure,” he says, smiling, faking it for me.

“Who am I then?”

“Don’t you know who you are?”

He’s tried this before. “Sure, I know,” I say. “I just want to know if you know.”

“I know.”

“Then who am I?”

“You’re my lover.”

“That’s right.” I lay my hand on his knee. “So what’s my name?”

He smiles again. His lips move, but nothing comes out. “’S Wonderful” comes on the stereo, sounding like it’s being played on a tuba.

“What?” I say.

“Is it Lillian?”

I take my hand away. Son of a bitch.
Lillian?
“Who the hell is Lillian?”

He says nothing. I know he’s confused, but I don’t really care. “You heard me. Who’s Lillian?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” I smack him in the arm. “You just said Lillian was your lover.”

“I don’t know.”

I don’t know what this means, but I want to strangle him. When I used to ask John if he’d ever step out on me, he always used to say that he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t faithful. Now I’m wondering. “Who’s Lillian?” I repeat.

“I’m married to Lillian.”

“No, you’re not. You’re married to me. I’m Ella.”

“I thought your name was Lillian.”

“We’ve been married practically sixty years. You can’t remember my goddamned name?”

“I thought—”

“Oh shut up,” I say, punching the off button, then yanking the cartridge from the stereo. The music sputters out as tape spills from the slot.

John sighs, leans back in his seat, and sulks. I do the same.

The miles pass silently. The moon rises, about three-quarters full, revealing vague clues of the Painted Desert: silver glimpses of veiny hills, ridged brick-striped plateaus, and puffy glow balls of scrub. It’s a relief to get off the freeway in Holbrook for gas. I recall that there’s something to see here, but don’t feel like looking in my books. Then just inside the city limits, in front of a rock shop, I see a gathering of gigantic prehistoric creatures—dinosaurs, brontosauruses, stegosauruses—all colors and sizes, loitering along the road between scattered chunks of petrified wood.

“Well, look at that,” I say to John, though I’m still ticked at him.

“There’s Dino,” he says, brightly.

The tallest one does look like the old Sinclair dinosaur. Towering over the others, neck swanned, the stone reptile peers curiously at us from the side of the road. He knows his own kind when he sees them.

We turn a corner through this deserted burg and pass down Main Street. That’s when I remember what’s in Holbrook and it ain’t the dinosaurs. Before long, I can see the neon blazing green against the desert horizon.

WIGWAM MOTEL

Have you slept in a wigwam lately?

Behind the sign and the office, there is a glowing half circle of shiny white teepees, each ringed with crimson rickrack, a single spotlight bright at the crown.

“John. Do you remember staying here on our first trip to Disneyland?”

“We never stayed there,” says John.

“Yes, we did. It was small inside, but it was comfy. The kids loved it.”

It crosses my mind to pull in there, knock off for the night and sleep in one of those concrete wigwams again for old times’ sake, but we are getting so far into Arizona, making steady time, that I don’t want to stop. Besides, I remember our slides of the inside of our wigwam, the dinky log furniture, the cramped bathroom. It was tiny. We might as well just sleep in the van.

Down the street, we stop for gas, use the credit card, slide in and out of the restrooms. We don’t speak to a soul.

A dozen miles in the velvet darkness. Briefly on 66, we pass a place with a giant jackrabbit standing sentry in the parking lot. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. The dinosaurs were much more friendly looking.

Later, back on I-40 near Winslow, a roadrunner zips across our path. I remember these little birds from previous trips. Frankly, I remember them being faster than this one. John never even saw it as it crossed the beam of our headlights. I
saw it only for an instant. When we hit the poor thing, there was barely a noise to speak of, just a
thup,
as if we had run over a milk carton.

“What was that?” said John.

“I think we hit a bird,” I say, my voice splintering. “A roadrunner.”

“A what?”

“A
roadrunner
. You know, like what Wile E. Coyote used to chase?” I feel bad for the little creature. It all happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to make a peep. This seems like a bad omen. Suddenly, I feel like one of those sailors who must wear an albatross around his neck after killing it. I try to think about something else.

The frantic part of my discomfort is gone now, and I feel less in a panic to get to Disneyland. A quick check of my books tells me that we have another six hundred miles to the end of the road, then another fifty to Anaheim. I was a fool to think we could make it there tonight.

It’s almost 10:30. John keeps yawning and rubbing his face.

“John, do you want a Pepsi?” I say. “I think we have one somewhere.”

He shakes his head. “Not thirsty.”

John could drink tea, coffee, and pop all day long, but here in the middle of the desert, he’s not thirsty.

“John, do you want to stop for the night?”

He says nothing.

“You want to drive a little more?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t we head for Flagstaff and get something to eat?” I say, not knowing if anything will be open this late, but we’ll try.

We get to Wendy’s just as it’s about to close for the night. The voice of the woman at the drive-thru is the first that we’ve heard all night besides our own. We sit in the parking lot and watch the sky and mountains grow brighter as they switch the signs off, then moments later, the dining room lights. The moon and a nearby streetlamp allow us just enough light to see each other inside the van.

John chews his hamburger intently. I suck hard at the straw in my Frosty, but nothing happens. Through the windshield, the world tonight feels to me like an alien place. I haven’t been out driving at this time of night in many years, much less in an unfamiliar area. These are the things that scare you as you get older. You understand night all too well, all its attendant meanings. You try to avoid it, work around it, keep it from entering your house. Your weary, but ornery body tells you to stay up late, sleep less, keep the lights on, don’t go into the bedroom—if you have to sleep, sleep in your chair, at the table. Everything is about avoiding the night. Because of that, I suppose that I should be scared out here in the dark, but I am finally past that, I think.

John clears this throat as he finishes off his single with cheese. He licks catsup off his finger and glances at my burger on the console, only two bites taken out of it.

“Go ahead,” I say.

John picks up the burger and digs in. I pop the top of my Frosty and go at it with a plastic spoon. The ice cream cools my parched throat and calms my stomach.

Every once in a while a car hisses past.

John stops chewing. He puts my hamburger down, wipes his lips with a napkin, places his hand on my thigh. “Hi lover,” he says to me, completely forgetting what happened before.

He knows who I am. He knows that I am the one person who he loves, has always loved. No disease, no person can take that away.

The lobby of the Flagstaff Radisson is lovely. I wonder if they’ve just recently renovated the place as I wheel on up to the check-in counter. Tonight I have broken out the You-Go, my rolling walker. It’s got lockable hand brakes, a basket for my purse, and a seat in case I get tired, all with a jazzy “candy apple red” (as Kevin calls it) paint job. We’re at that point where I need more support to keep me steady on my feet. We cannot afford any more falls.