The late afternoon sun angles in hard on us. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it’s hotter here. I guess even though it’s fall, it’s still Texas. We put on our big sungoggles, roll up the windows, and turn on the air-conditioning for the first time. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long to realize that the air-conditioning doesn’t work very well. John probably hasn’t had it recharged in years. I turn it up all the way, but the air it blows is mossy and acrid, just barely cool.

The other thing I realize is something I already knew. The exhaust problem that Kevin mentioned was never fixed. Consequently, rolling up the windows is not a good idea. Tepid air is not the only thing coming from the vents; there is also a mist of exhaust pouring in. Within minutes, we’re both yawning like crazy. I turn off the AC, roll the windows down, and immediately feel better. John wakes up as well.

Even still, I fear I may have pushed him too hard today. He’s talking to himself under his breath, like he’s forgotten I’m here. I’m hoping we’ll find somewhere to stay in Shamrock, which is the next big town. I check my books for campgrounds and am relieved to find one right on West I-40, parallel to 66.

After passing a fancy 1930s art deco gas station called the “U Drop Inn,” we arrive at the campground. I have John park near the check-in station. He turns off the engine.

“Is this home?”

He’s tired and disoriented. “No, John. I’m going to go check us in. You don’t need to come.” I grab my cane and purse, then slowly lower myself from the van. I’m feeling shaky, so I try to be extra careful. Halfway to the office, I think of something so I turn and head back to the van.

“Oh John, could you give me the keys?” I say sweetly. Without discussing the matter, John hands them over.

When I stump into the office with my cane, the old man behind the counter just stands there staring at me as I walk up. He frowns and snorts, as if to say “This one’s ready for the glue factory.”

I should tell you, I have no tolerance for staring, particularly with people my age, who love to act like the whole world is their television. It grinds me, especially since most of us spent our best years telling our children that it’s impolite to stare. I don’t know where this one gets off. He’s no prize, believe you me: greasy fishing hat, a forehead mole you could hang a hat on, and a face that looks like he’s been sniffing Limburger cheese for the past dozen or so years.

I stare right back at him.

“Hello,” he finally says, blinking. I guess I win.

“Good afternoon,” I say, after a long pause. “We need a campsite for the night.”

“All right,” he says, a low Texas growl to his voice. “We’re pretty open today. Anywhere in particular?”

From what I could see, all the spaces look the same, a few trees here and there, but mostly flat and dry.

“Near a shower facility would be good,” I tell him. I give him a twenty. He fills out a card, tears off part of that, and hands it to me with my change. Then he starts eyeballing me again.

“Pardon me? Is there something wrong?” I say to him, huffy now, raring for it.

“Are you ready?” he says, his voice gentler now.

“Ready for what?” My hand tightens on the grip of my cane.

“Ready to accept Jesus as your personal savior?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I say, too tired for this. “Maybe some other time.”

“Never too late, you know.”

“I know,” I say, making a break for the door, fast as I can haul myself.

Once we find the site and I get John out of the van, he’s a little better. He can still set up the electricity. I watch him closely because I’m not sure when I’ll have to do it. If he gets worse as the trip wears on, it’ll be up to me. That is, unless I accept Jesus as my personal savior, then maybe He can do it.

 

We are so pooped by the time we get settled that we both just conk out—John on the bed, me at the table after taking my meds. (I’m more comfortable sitting up sleeping these days. Lying down seems more of a commitment, fraught with responsibilities and forebodings.) It’s only 4:15 but it feels like it’s about 10:00 P.M. I can hardly keep my eyes open, but I do remember to turn a light on so we don’t wake up in the dark like last time.

When I wake up, the air in the van is hot and still. I’m not in the dark, but I am alone. John is gone. I grab my cane, get myself up, and head outside, but he’s not sitting at the picnic table. He’s nowhere around. I start to panic.

A few trailers are parked nearby, yet no one seems to be around. We’re only a short ways from the restrooms, so I head over there.

“Is anyone in there?” I yell at the men’s room entrance. Nothing. I hobble on in. The place is deserted. Just concrete and wads of paper towel and the sour tang of urine.

I head for the office, but it’s a good half block away. Along the way, every bad thing that could happen runs through my head—John walking along the highway getting hit by a car; John lost in the woods never to be found again; disoriented John picked up by strangers.

I shuffle along until I get to the check-in office. I am already exhausted and ready to weep. Luckily, the Jesus fellow is behind the counter and while he does give me the stare again, he is at least civil.

“Hello,” he says. His low-pitched voice now gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I have to be nice because he’s my only chance.

“I was wondering if you’ve seen my husband pass by? He’s about six feet tall, a little hunched over, with a green shirt and a tan golf cap on?”

Old Jesus just looks at me for a second. I think he’s going to give me his spiel again, but he doesn’t. “A man that fits that description passed by a short while ago.”

“He did? How long?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes ago,” he says, his voice gaining a little speed now, sounding more human to me, which gives me a teaspoon of hope.

“That’s him. Look, could you help me? He occasionally has little spells where he doesn’t know where he is. I’m afraid he’s going to get lost or hurt.”

“Should I call the police?”

“Let’s not do that yet.” I’ve had enough of the police for today. “Do you have a car? Maybe we could just drive around. He’s probably not far away.”

Old Jesus looks highly alarmed at this idea.

“I’m sure it won’t take long,” I say.

“I can’t leave my post here. Can’t you just drive your camper?”

I’m really starting to get scared now. “I can’t drive that thing. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

He thinks for a moment, and it looks like hard work for him. I want to smack him one, but he’s got to be the one to help me. There’s really no one else around. He’s silent for a good thirty seconds.

“Please,” I say.

Finally, he speaks. “I could see if Terry could drive you. He’s our groundskeeper. He’s got a truck.”

“That would be fine. Please hurry.”

Another bout of hard thinking. Finally, he picks up a phone and methodically punches in the numbers. Meanwhile, I’m picturing John walking around in traffic, horns blaring. I don’t think he’d be crazy enough to do that, but I just don’t know anymore. I watch Old Jesus’ face as he listens to the phone ring. It’s like staring through a screen door at an empty house. I hear someone answer at the other end.

“Terry? It’s Chet at the office. There’s a lady here who needs some help. We were wondering—”

He stops for a moment and listens. I can tell Terry is not cooperating.

“I know. She says she needs help. I can’t leave the desk.”

More talking. Finally, I pipe up. “May I speak to him, please?”

Chet looks appalled at the idea. The phone has suddenly become like the desk. He can’t abandon it. Finally, I just grab it from him. “Hello, Terry?”

There is a long pause and I think I’ve stumbled onto a cult of dim-witted Christians, but when Terry speaks, he sounds fairly normal. “Who is this?” he says.

“Terry, I’m the woman who needs the help. This is an emergency. My husband is lost, and I’m afraid he’s going to be hurt. He has spells where he’s disoriented. Could you just please come here? I just need you to drive me around the area. I’ll be happy to pay for your gas and time.”

“I’ll be there in a minute or so, ma’am.”

Sure enough, within a minute, a little maroon pickup truck with gold hubcaps rumbles up to the door of the office and honks. I hear a deep whomp-whomp rhythm vibrating from the radio.

“Thank you very much,” I say to Chet, who is now gazing off into space. Actually, I’m hoping he’ll say something spiritually encouraging right now because I could use it, but he obviously doesn’t have it in him. He just turns and stares at me.

The music cuts off. I head outside expecting to have to raise myself into the passenger side of the pickup truck, but it is actually quite low. As I twist myself in, I realize I’m getting in a truck with a complete stranger. I look at who’s driving and decide that this is probably where most abduction witness testimonies begin. She never should’ve gotten into that truck with that man.

Terry, I should say here, scares the living hell out of me. He’s around twenty years old, the last remnants of acne across his jutting cheekbones, with long dishwater brown hair streaming out from under a black watch cap that looks like it hasn’t been washed in a month of Sundays. His T-shirt is black, his baggy pants are black (with chains hanging from them), the fingerless glove on his right hand is black—everything he’s wearing is black. The front of his shirt has a greenish photograph of a downright evil-looking man with long puke-colored hair and a powder white face with a bloody X scratched into his forehead. Underneath the picture, it says:

 

100% HARDCORE

FLESH-EATING

BLOOD-DRINKING

LIFE-SUCKING

ZOMBIE

HELLBILLY!

 

Yet once I get past all that, I give him a better look and I can’t help but be reminded of my Kevin when he was that age: trying so hard to look tough, but betrayed by the gentleness of his eyes. The truck smells of cigarettes and perspiration and the artificial strawberry scent from the flaming pentagram air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

“I’m Terry,” he says, holding out his gloved hand to shake mine. I notice his other hand has a word tattooed just below the knuckles. It says “O F F!”

“Ella.” I shake his hand and try to smile. This is no time for me to be choosy. If Satan has decided to help me as opposed to what was back at the office, then so be it. Though I think both would be well advised to reconsider their role models.

“You’re sweating,” Terry says to me. It’s a strange thing to say.

I touch my forehead and see that he is absolutely correct about this. “I’m worried about my husband.”

“Sounds like Chester in there wasn’t so much help,” he says, pulling at the random straggly hairs on his chin.

I look at this child. “No, I can’t say that he was,” I say sharply. “Are you going to be any help?”

He purses his lips together in an exaggerated manner and nods. “We’ll find the old dude,” he says, as we pull out onto I-40.

Like I haven’t seen enough of this goddamned road today. A half mile up, we see someone in a beige jacket walking on the shoulder.

“Is that him?” says Terry, pointing.

“No,” I say. “John’s got a green shirt on.” I can see through the knuckle holes on his glove that Terry has something or other tattooed on his right hand. It occurs to me that if Terry ever wants to get another job, having things tattooed on his hands is not going to be considered an asset by most employers.

I sigh and I’m afraid I do it a bit louder than I mean to. Terry looks at me, and I’m surprised by the concern in his voice. “We’ll find him. I’m telling you. It’s okay.”

“Thank you.”

It’s quiet in the truck for a minute. Terry turns to me and says, “My grammy had it, too.”

“Had what?”

“I don’t know,” he says, half shrugging. “Whatever they call it. That dude’s name. The disease. She used to go walking around the neighborhood. She had to go into a nursing home. She was dead in a year.” Terry softly exhales. “She was the only one in my family worth a shit.” He looks into the rearview mirror, then at me. “Sorry.”

This young man obviously has me mixed up with some old lady who doesn’t cuss like a longshoreman. I look at him and try to smile. “It’s all right,” I say. “It’s an emergency.”

I scan the side of the road. There are a few little stores scattered here and there. He could be at any of them. We pass an old Standard gas station, then a bright-painted sign shaped like an ice cream cone that says DAIRY IGLOO. Off the road, a big penguin waves to us from the side of a white-painted cinder-block hut. People are gathered around it, either waiting in line or eating ice cream cones. A little farther from the place is a cluster of picnic tables. That’s where I see John. He’s sitting and eating a chocolate frozen custard.

“There he is!” I yell. “Pull over.”

“Where?”

I point frantically to the right. “The ice cream place. Over there!”

Terry steers us into the parking lot and we pull up almost right next to John. He looks at me. I’m sure he doesn’t recognize me since I’m in this strange little truck. I open the door and pull myself out.

“John.” I walk as fast as I can over to him and throw my arms around him. “Jesus Christ, John.” I’m ready to start bawling right there at the Dairy Igloo. I squeeze John as hard as I can.

“Ella?”

I hold on to him for dear life. “I need you right now. I need you to stay with me. We don’t have that much time, John.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Ella.”

I pull back from him and look him straight in the eyes. “Honey, you scared the dickens out of me.” People from the front of the Dairy Igloo are starting to look over at us now. I lower my voice.

John licks at his cone, looks at me like this is no big thing at all. “I just decided to go for a walk.”

“Oh, you just decided to go for a walk?” I am trying not to get mad now. I don’t want to yell in front of all these people. “John, do you have any idea how to get back from here? Do you know where you’re going at all?”

He points back the way we came. “Back that way.”

“Give me that thing,” I say, snatching the ice cream cone from his hand. I give it a lick. It’s sweet and cold and tastes wonderful and it makes me start to cry. I sit down on the bench and can’t seem to stop crying.

John puts his arm around me, gathers me close. “What are you crying for?”

“Nothing,” I say.

Just then, Terry steps from his truck and approaches us.

“Who’s this?” says John, suspiciously.

It takes me a moment to compose myself. I hand John back his ice cream cone. Snuffling, I pull a tissue from my sleeve, blow my nose. “This is Terry, the young man who helped me find you.”

“Hmph,” grunts John. He gives Terry a look like he might give a convicted felon, which Terry may be, but I doubt it.

I blow my nose again. “Terry,” I say, my voice cracking, “may we buy you an ice cream?”

He nods timidly. I pull out a twenty from my purse. “Could you get me one, too?”

Terry flashes a sad smile at me, far too sad for someone his age. I sit there next to John, my arm around his waist.

A few minutes later, Terry comes back with two chocolate-vanilla swirls and a handful of my change. I take my cone, then close his hand around the bills and coins.

The glove is off now and I can finally read the tattoo on his right hand. It says “F U C K.” Now I understand what’s on his other hand.

I know just what he means.

 

That night, we go to bed early—no cocktail hour, no slide show, no TV. I make us some grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, then give us each a Valium. I hate those things, but tonight I need to be sure that John is going to sleep. I force myself to stay up until I can hear him snoring, then I lock the door and bolt it shut. I lie down next to him so he’ll have a harder time getting up without waking me up. Tonight I’m taking no chances.

When I finally allow myself to relax, I’m not tired anymore. I start thinking about the kids. I meant to give Cindy a call today, but forgot in all the excitement. I think about Cindy’s job at Meijer’s Thrifty Acres and how hard she works, how these big stores take advantage of their employees. So many extra hours and no extra pay. I think of how tired I know she is, getting up at 4:00 A.M. every day. Then I start thinking about my old job, the one I had when we first got married. It was just a salesgirl position at Winkleman’s, but I liked being around people all day, loved the fashions, and we sure needed the money. When Cindy came along, I quit, thinking that some day I’d go back, but it never happened. John wouldn’t have gotten on his high horse about having a “working wife,” but it was assumed that I would be there to raise the kids and that was fine with me.

As the years passed, I would think about going back to work now and then, but there was always plenty to do around the house. I remember seriously considering it one day when Kevin was a toddler and being an absolute terror around the house. (He would eat everything in sight—bugs, cleaning supplies, plants, medicine—whatever it was, it went into his mouth. The poison control center knew me by name.) That child ran me ragged. And no sooner would I get him settled than Cindy would come home from school to get him all riled up again. Having a job would have been nice around that time.

I never meant to bury my talent in a napkin. The fact was, I never really knew if I had a talent for anything, except for being a wife and mother. I do know I loved doing the displays at the store. Sometimes I’d even get a chance to do a window. I always had a flair for that sort of thing—putting colors together, fabrics, textures, all of it. At the store, everyone was always pleased with what I did. Mr. Biliti, the manager, a thin man with a moustache and a little dandruff problem, always told me what a good job I had done. I remember his disappointment when I announced I was pregnant. He smiled and congratulated me, and immediately began to ignore me. Before long, it was like I didn’t even exist. He knew what would happen. He worked in a women’s store, after all.

To be truthful, I rarely thought about any of them after I left. I was happy to be where I was, happy to be a mom, with a house and a husband. And John was a good husband. We made a good home for our children. We both came from homes ruled by tyrants and adulterers and martyrs, where we lived with constant arguments and beatings, so we decided that whatever our parents did, we would do the opposite. All in all, it was a pretty good plan.

We always looked at our marriage as a team. Neither one of us is more important. I never waited on John hand and foot, like some women. If he wanted a sandwich, he could jolly well get up and make it himself. We have always been very modern that way. This is marriage, not indentured servitude.

Which is why his remarks lately about the house being “his house” and everything else being purchased with “his money” have hurt me so. I know it’s the disease talking, that people like him start getting that way about money and such. Still, it used to be that he would never say anything like that to me.

I’m not even sure he remembers that we’ve had two houses, one in Detroit before the one in Madison Heights. We, like most everyone else like us, moved out of Detroit a few years after the ’67 riots. It broke my heart to leave that house. We lived there almost twenty years. But things changed, neighborhoods changed. White people were scared, moving out by the swarm. There was blockbusting, real estate people knocking on your door telling you that “they” were moving into your neighborhood, spreading stories about break-ins and robberies. All that talk. That talk made me scared to walk around my own neighborhood.

When I grew up, we lived on Tillman Street in the city, in an area that was very poor. Black folks lived on our block with us and it didn’t matter then. We had everyone on our street—Bulgarians; Irish; Czech; lots of Poles; a Jew; some French (the Millers, who were all thieves); and a black man, Mr. Williams, who lived with his daughter, Zula Mae; even a mixed-race couple, a white woman and a black man. It didn’t matter because we were all poor. We all owned nothing and all lived peacefully.

Everything just seemed to fall apart after the riots. Coleman Young was elected mayor and made it pretty clear that he didn’t like white people. He told us all to hit Eight Mile Road and keep going. Before long, everyone I knew, my sisters and brother, all our neighbors and friends, moved out of Detroit. Except us. Again, I lived down the street from black folks and I told myself that it wouldn’t matter, but it was different this time. We were made to feel that Detroit was their city now. I guess we weren’t so used to being the minority. I didn’t want to leave my home. I loved that house. But we left it.

It still breaks my heart to see what happened. So many slums and abandoned buildings. Michigan Central Station, the National Theatre, J.L. Hudson’s, the Statler, the Michigan Theatre, all destroyed or left to rot. Now I hear white people are starting to move back into the city. Buildings are being renovated. There are new condos and developments and office complexes. Things are changing again. I don’t know what to think. What is white has become black, what is black becomes white. And these days, these lingering days, John and I live in between, in a grayworld where nothing seems really real, and the places that were once so important to us are forever gone.

 

I have to go to the bathroom, but I don’t want to get up yet. I just want to lie here for a few moments more. I wonder what happened to all of them at Winkleman’s. Most of them were older than me. They are dead now, I’m sure of that, just like almost all of our friends, the ones who moved with us from the city to the suburbs. The Jillettes, the Nears, the Meekers, the Turnblooms, almost all gone, except for a straggling widow here and there.

You worry about parents, siblings, spouses dying, yet no one prepares you for your friends dying. Every time you flip through your address book, you are reminded of it—she’s gone, he’s gone, they’re both gone. Names and numbers and addresses scratched out. Page after page of gone, gone, gone. The sense of loss that you feel isn’t just for the person. It is the death of your youth, the death of fun, of warm conversations and too many drinks, of long weekends, of shared pains and victories and jealousies, of secrets that you couldn’t tell anyone else, of memories that only you two shared. It’s the death of your monthly pinochle game.

Know this: even if you’re like us and still doddering around above ground, someone out there from your past is probably pretty sure that you’re dead by now.

 

At 4:23 A.M., I wake from my usual flimsy slumber to find John standing over me, lips knitted over teeth, forehead veined with rage. I think I’ve mentioned that sometimes he isn’t able to distinguish his dreams from reality. Sometimes he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is or who he is. And he’s mad as Hades about it.

“John, what’s wrong?” I say, sitting up in bed.

He glares at me, mouth open, his breath ragged and phlegmy.

“John, what is wrong?” I say, noticing something glinting in his hand. I thought, this is it, he’s finally gone round the bend. “What do you have there? What are you thinking? You were just having a dream.”

“No, I’m not,” he growls. “I’m awake. Where are we? This isn’t home. Where have you taken me?”

“John. This is our camper. We’re on vacation, remember? I’m your wife. I’m Ella.”

“You’re not Ella.” He barks it at me, between clenched teeth.

“Of course I’m Ella. I know who I am. I’m your wife, I’m Ella.”

His eyes soften a little as if what I’m saying is starting to make some sense to him. “What are you holding there, John?”

He holds out his hand so I can see what he’s got. It’s a knife.

A butter knife.

“Give me that, you horse’s ass.” I’m ready to smack him one by now.

When I call him that, it seems to prove to him that I am indeed Ella. He hands me the knife and I feel something on the blade, something sticky.

“Were you making a sandwich, John?” I take a closer look at him.

“No.”

“Then how come there’s peanut butter on your face?” I take a tissue from my pocket, wet it at my mouth, and wipe his upper lip.

“I don’t know.”

“Good Christ. Come to bed, John.”

It’s not the first time this has happened. The last time at home, he just shook me awake clutching the neckline of my nightgown. The time before that was the scary one. He was holding a claw hammer and he kept banging his nightstand, demanding to know where he was.

Right after that, I started having a hard time sleeping. It’s not just from being afraid of my husband. It doesn’t upset me to think about dying. What upsets me is the idea of John being alone after his spell passes. The idea of one of us without the other.

 

The morning sky is annoyingly blue. John wakes up quiet but chipper, whereas I am grouchy as hell. We have toast and tea and oatmeal, meds, then pack up and move out. Getting back on the road is a welcome relief. I decide to forget about yesterday and concentrate on what’s ahead. We have a long pass through the panhandle of Texas ahead of us, at least one hundred sixty miles.

The landscape is flat and uncheering—scalded rock and cracked earth, scabbed with wiry bush. Just to be on the safe side, I make John stop to fill up the Leisure Seeker. After I put in our credit card and get John started, I visit the ladies’ room, then buy us snacks and two big bottles of water. (I hate spending money on water, but it makes me feel better to have them.)

John is still filling up when I get back. I think he hasn’t been pressing the nozzle trigger beyond a trickle. He smiles at me as I walk toward the van. He’s wearing a big golf hat with the American flag on it that he must have found somewhere.

“We all set, El?” he says through the open window after I climb in.

“Set as we’re gonna be,” I say, surprised to hear that name again. It’s been years since John has called me “El.” These are the things the disease steals from you, one by one, the little familiars, the details that make that person feel like home. These are also the things that this trip is stirring back up to the surface again. I like that.

The nozzle snaps itself off. John hooks it back on the pump, then opens the van door. Our credit receipt curls out from a slot on the pump, quivers in the wind, then flits away. We are not worrying about such things. John settles in his captain’s chair, beams at me, gives my knee a squeeze.

“Hey lover,” he says, looking pleased, though most of what he’s feeling there is fat and titanium. I don’t mind telling you that just then, my heart soars.

I smile back, in a better mood now, and glad to see my old man. “Someone’s full of piss and vinegar today,” I say.

He pats my knee and starts the van. We need this after yesterday.

We decide to forgo the “Devil’s Rope” Barbed Wire Museum in McLean because it sounds like it could be the silliest museum in the world. Not long after, we pass a little old-fashioned Phillips 66 gas station with orange pumps and a milk-bottle-shaped chimney. Like a lot of the things that people have restored on this road, it doesn’t actually work, but it looks good.

The miles pass easily. It is hot and clear and arid, but not uncomfortable with the windows open. The advantage of traveling in fall. Route 66 is the frontage road alongside the freeway, uncrowded as we pass through towns with names like Lela and Alanreed. You could call these places sleepy, although comatose may be more like it. A sign off the freeway:

RATTLESNAKES EXIT NOW

Yet at the Reptile Ranch, there is nothing left but rubble. I almost want to have John pull over for a closer look, but instead I direct us onto I-40 to avoid the dirt road section of 66 coming up, what’s left of the Jericho Gap. Anyway, it feels so good to be moving that I wouldn’t want to ruin our momentum by lollygagging. I also don’t want to do anything that will make John any different than he is right now. He is downright chatty.

“Ella, remember when we went to Colorado that time? Where were we when we woke up and there were all those sheep all around us? God, that was something.”

I turn to John, amazed. He hasn’t recalled anything like this for a long time, but I’m not complaining. “It was Vail,” I say. “When we went out west in ’69.”

“That’s right!” he says, nodding with his whole body.

“That was so strange,” I say. “We woke up early and I happened to look outside. The sun had just come up and all these sheep just appeared.”

John pushes back his glasses with his index finger and nods again. “That man was herding them through the campground. We were right next to that hillside and they stopped and grazed all around us. I don’t know how he managed all of them.”

“Did he have a dog?” I can’t believe that I’m asking John about something that happened decades ago.

“I don’t think so.” As he speaks, John stares at the road before us as if he’s watching the scene unfold right there. “I remember how that felt. It was like time slowed down when those sheep surrounded us. Everything got so still while they grazed. They weren’t even that noisy. I remember feeling like we were trapped in the camper. But it was all right. We were just surrounded by sheep.”

“That’s what I like about vacation,” I say, gazing out my window at the brownish puffs of undergrowth dotting the roadside.

“Sheep?”

“Everything slows down. You have all these experiences in a short period. You can’t remember what day it is. Time slows like a dream.”

John looks stymied by what I just said. Or maybe he didn’t even hear me. Just as well, since I’ve probably just described his usual state of mind.

“Remember how scared Kevin was?” he says. “Poor kid had never seen so many sheep. Not even at the State Fair. I had to tell him that everything was okay. That sheep are nice and you don’t have to be afraid of them.”

“Good grief, John.” He’s giving me details that even I forgot and I’ve got a memory to match my girth. I put my hand on his forearm, run my nails through the snowy hair.

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

There are no perfect moments. Not anymore. I realize this now because this day, this brief moment where I have my John back, is the same time that I suddenly feel pressure in my body, an intense, gut-crushing discomfort like no discomfort I’ve experienced so far. I remove my quivering hand from John’s arm, glad that I didn’t sink my nails into the flesh when the first wave hit. I fumble around in my purse for my little blue pills. I look and look, my purse is full of pill bottles, just not the right ones. I find tubes of lipstick, wads of Kleenex, half-sticks of Doublemint, and John’s gun (so very heavy, but I am scared to leave it anywhere else), but no little blue pills. Finally, I locate the vial. Hands shaking like a dope fiend, I wash two down with the emergency water. It’s going to be a while, I know, before I feel any relief. I need distraction.

“Talk to me, John,” I say, wincing, but trying to keep my voice as normal as possible.

“About what?”

“Anything. I don’t care. Tell me what you remember.”

“About what?”

“About us. About our marriage. Tell me something.”

John looks at me, confused at first, as if on the verge of forgetting the question. Then he blurts it out: “How you looked when we got married. I remember how red your cheeks were. You weren’t wearing any rouge, but your cheeks were so red. I kept thinking you were running a fever. I remember kissing you on the steps of St. Cecilia, touching your face and feeling how warm it was and thinking that I wanted to feel that warmth against my face.”

I wince. “I remember you doing that. Your face was nice and cool. I was so keyed up that day. I just wanted us to be married.”

John laughs and smiles at me. I hope my grimace passes for a smile.

“Tell me something else you remember, John. Hurry.”

“I remember after Kevin was born. I went home after you were all settled in for the night and the baby was okay. Cindy was staying with your sister and I was alone at home and I couldn’t stop crying.”

“Why were you crying, John?”

“I don’t remember. I think I was happy. I remember being ashamed for crying so much.”

“There was nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie.”

“I guess not.”

I close my fingers around the armrests of my captain’s chair and ride it out. “You used to get so mad at Kevin for crying all the time.”

“I didn’t want him to get picked on at school for being a crybaby.”

“He still was anyway.” I can’t laugh or smile right now, but I want to.

John doesn’t say anything. A car passes us on the left spewing exhaust fumes. The smell of the fumes makes me nauseous. I almost think I’m going to upchuck, but I roll down my window farther and it helps.

“What do you remember about vacation, John?”

He thinks for a moment. A ragged jolt of discomfort shoots through me. “John.”

“Fire. The fires we would have. The campfire smell on my clothes the next morning when I would get up and put the same sweatshirt on. I liked that smell. By the end of the day driving, it would be gone and I wanted it back.”

“Maybe we’ll have a fire tonight.”

“All right.”

We pass the town of Groom and I can see the “Leaning Tower of Texas,” as the guidebooks call it. It’s a water tower lurched way over to one side.

“Are you all right?” John asks.

“I’m fine,” I lie. Another car rockets past us.

“What’s his hurry?” says John, irked. This has happened a lot this trip, people ticked off at the oldsters driving so slowly, but this is the first time John has noticed. I worry that we did the same thing when we were young, our impatient travels, going too fast to get somewhere, then hurrying back home. I think of the map in our basement with the tape lines webbed over the country, all those vacations, how fast this all went by. I think of the Joads trudging through the Jericho Gap, their truck being sucked into the earth. Then a quicksilver warmth starts spreading through my bones. My head loosens on my shoulders, and I can breathe again. Outside my window, I see a grain elevator in a field, its silos like fingers clutching at the sky.

I have achieved comfort.

“Howdy, partners!” says Jeanette, our pretty, perky waitress, all gussied up like a cowgirl, still young enough not to be completely beaten down by grueling waitress work. “Welcome to the Big Texan Steak Ranch!”

 

“Howdy, little lady,” John says back, tipping his golf hat to her. He’s still doing well and it’s brought out the flirt in him.

Jeanette laughs much too long and much too loudly at this. “Well, aren’t you two just the cutest thing?”

I nod and smile. Jeanette has no idea that the cute little old lady she’s waiting on is high as a kite on the dope. Maybe I took a little too much. My head is humming. My body feels liquid and electric. The discomfort is gone, but so am I. I’m lucky I made it to the table.

The Big Texan Steak Ranch is a gaudy place that looked like great fun from the outside—a giant cowboy and his giant cow, right next to a giant ranch house. John was so excited when he saw the place, I couldn’t disappoint him. (In case you haven’t noticed, I am a sucker for the jumbo tourist attractions. I still get a thrill passing the enormous Ferris wheel–sized Uniroyal tire on I-94 back in Detroit. And I used to love that colossal Paul Bunyan we had up north in Michigan. I have a photo somewhere of Cindy and myself when she was just five or six, standing next to Babe the Blue Ox. We are looking up and waving at John taking the picture from high above us in Paul Bunyan’s head.) Anyway, now that we’re inside the Big Texan, it looks more like an Old West bordello than a ranch house. On top of that, a big hunk of meat doesn’t exactly sound appetizing to me right now.

“All right, you cuties. What’ll y’all have?” squeaks Jeanette.

“I want a hamburger,” says John. No newsflash there.

“Is the eight-ounce chopped steak all right?”

I nod at Jeanette. “That’s fine for him. Well done, please.”

“You also get a salad and two sides, sir.”

John looks a tad bewildered, so I perk up, though I’m loopy myself. “Uhhh, Thousand Island dressing?” I say, stalling, as I scan the giant, crazy, cartoon-filled menu. “Mac and cheese. Fried okra.”

“Okay. And you, ma’am?” asks Jeanette, head cocked.

“I’ll just have a glass of sweet tea, please.”

Jeanette pouts theatrically at my answer. “You sure? Don’t forget we’ve got our special Big Texan seventy-two-ounce steak. Four and a half pounds! It’s free if you can eat it all in an hour!”

I stare at her blankly. “Um. No, I don’t think I’ll be having that today, thanks.”

“We’ve had a sixty-nine-year-old meemaw eat one,” Jeanette proclaims proudly.

“Is that so?” I say. “Well, this meemaw just wants sweet tea.”

“Okay! I’ll be right back with your bread and butter!” Jeanette leaves, and I am relieved. It’s a strain being around all that enthusiasm.

John looks at me, concerned. “Are you all right, honey?”

“I’m fine. Just a little queasy.”

“Are you sick?”

This might be an appropriate time to mention that John doesn’t really know that I’m ill. I mean, he knows that the kids take me to the doctor. (We tape notes all through the house—MOM AT DOCTOR. BACK IN TWO HOURS!—so he doesn’t panic when he realizes I’m not there.) But he doesn’t know why. He wouldn’t be able to retain the information, anyway. When Cindy told John about her divorce, he kept forgetting. Every time he saw her, he’d ask, “Where’s Hank?”

She’d say something like, “I don’t know, Dad. We’re divorced. He just comes by to pick up the kids.”

“Divorced!” John would say. “What? You’re not divorced.”

“Yes, I am, Dad.”

“Bullshit! Divorced? Doesn’t anyone tell me anything around here?”

“I did tell you, Dad, but you forgot.”

“Like hell I forgot.”

And so on. Every time she told him, it was like he was hearing the bad news for the first time. After this happened five or six times, we decided that John wasn’t going to remember and that it was best to act like nothing had happened. We didn’t want to keep upsetting him.

By the time John’s food arrives today, he’s no longer worrying about how I feel or anything else. He eats like he’s going to the electric chair.

 

John still seems to be doing well, so I see no harm in us driving through Amarillo, especially since, according to my books, it’s supposed to have the feel of the old road. We take Business Loop 40, which is old 66, and follow it onto Amarillo Boulevard. Traffic is heavy and while I would usually be nervous about this, I am still abnormally relaxed from the little blue pills. I do see a few old motor lodges—the Apache Motel and such, but the city seems dusty and run-down. When we get around Sixth Street, there is a little area with shops and restaurants. John slows down the van.

“There’s some gift shops. Want to stop and take a look?”

I smile at my husband. He is being an absolute dear today.

“No, I think I’m fine, John. Thanks anyway.”

He’s right, though. There are some cute shops in this area. Ten or fifteen years ago, I would have wanted to stop and look around. Even goofy with discomfort medication, it crosses my mind today. Then I realize that this would be silly.

At one time, that was one of my favorite parts of vacation, the bringing back of things. My personal weakness was pottery. No matter where we traveled, I always came back with a little something—Indian pots from Wyoming and Montana, beautiful glazed vases from Pigeon Forge, Mexican bowls from the Southwest. All beautiful, and most of it still packed away in boxes in our basement. A home, after all, only has so much room. I simply had to stop buying things. In later trips, there might have been a trinket or two brought back for the grandchildren, but now we are done with that. I think about all those boxes in the basement. The kids are going to have quite a job ahead of them.

 

Outside of Amarillo, we pick up I-40 again and I’m feeling a bit more clearheaded. Before long we hit Exit 62 and I direct John off the freeway. I rummage around in one of the storage compartments behind us until I find our old binoculars.

“What are you looking for?” asks John, when he sees what I have in my hands.

“I want to get a look at that Cadillac Ranch,” I say, gently unwinding the leather strap that’s wound around the glasses, but it’s so cracked that it falls apart in my lap. Peeved, I toss the pieces of strap in the litter bag.

“What’s that?”

I pick up my guidebook and read. “Says here that it’s some sort of art project by an eccentric helium tycoon. It’s a bunch of old cars that he buried in the dirt.”

John frowns. “Why the hell did he do that?”

I scan the side of the road with the binoculars. “I told you, it’s an art project.”

“Sounds like a waste of good cars to me.” He takes his hat off and adjusts the headband, puts it back on.

“They’re old ones from the forties and fifties.”

“Oh.” He grunts. I can tell John doesn’t approve.

I see something far off the road in the middle of a big field, like it says in my book. Way too far for either of us to walk.

“Slow down, John. Would you? I want to take a look.”

“I don’t see why—”

“Jesus, John! Would you pull over? I just want a look.”

“All right, don’t get your tit in a wringer.”

I swear, sometimes I like him better when he’s in one of his fogs. We pull over by a Dumpster covered with graffiti.

“Is that it?”

Through the binoculars, I see a line of cars buried headfirst into the dirt. There are no people around, just a couple of cows grazing nearby. “I think so.”

“Doesn’t look like they’re in good shape,” says John.

I hand him the glasses so he can take a look. “No, they aren’t. They’ve been all spray-painted and bashed up. They don’t even have tires.”

“That’s a shame. Why are they buried again?”

“It’s an art project, John,” I say, after he gives me back the binoculars. Then after a moment, “I have no idea.”

Yet the sight of these cars buried in the dirt does something to me. Tailfins pointed up toward the sky, there is something sad and disturbing about them. Our friends and relatives once desired cars like these. They were considered the height of style. We had a neighbor on our old block that lorded his new Cadillacs over us, thought he was better than us because he had a big shiny whale parked in his driveway.

“John, you remember Ed Werner and his Cadillac?”

“Oh yeah.”

“That old soak, getting home from work every night, stepping out of his Caddy with his bottle of Cutty Sark.”

“Crown Prince Sonny Boy, the car salesman.”

John remembers him all right. Now he’s long dead and these fancy cars are just junk, like what’s here at the Cadillac Ranch.

There was a time in his life when I know John would have liked to own a Cadillac. Not that we could have ever afforded one, not that I would have let him buy one even if we could. Those big cars are just too flashy.

Looking through the binoculars, my vision starts to falter, sweat collects beneath my eyebrows around the lenses. I feel languid and irritated, maybe from my meds, maybe not. This so-called art feels to me like a slap in my generation’s face, everything we worked for, everything we thought we needed after the war, our illusions of prosperity. After growing up poor, being middle class seemed like the most wonderful thing anyone could ever hope for.

The Cadillac Ranch gives me a pain in the ass. Oh, excuse me. A discomfort in the ass.

 

At Adrian, Texas, we stop at a little place called the Midpoint Café, located at the exact “Geo-Mathematical” midpoint of Route 66, whatever that means. I finally got my appetite back, even though I’m not sure what I can keep down. They do have homemade “Ugly Crust” pies, which intrigue me.

Our waitress, I’m happy to say, is not at all talkative. She looks as aged as us, which is rare for a waitress. Yet there’s no good-natured “Hello dearie, ain’t we old?” crapola. On her smock, she wears dozens of grandchild (and probably great-grandchild) photo buttons and flag pins. She jangles as she totters about with her slight limp and big sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

I order banana cream pie for me, apple for John. And milk for both of us. When it comes, I take a big sip and the coldness almost makes me sick at first, then it settles and I know I’ll be okay. There’s not much to say at the table. John’s getting tired and quiet. I’m thinking we should call it a day soon.

The pie is absolutely wonderful. Sweet, but not too sweet, with a lard crust that comes off your fork like little flakes of heaven. After we each finish our slices, we order a slice of coconut cream and polish that off in no time flat. I feel a lot better with something sweet under my belt.

The waitress leaves our bill on the table without a word. I turn to John, hold up my glass with the last of my milk in it. “We made it halfway, old man.”

John holds up his glass and touches it to mine.

 

How do you find a ghost town? Just look for nothing and there it is.

Actually, you need to get off at Exit 0 (I’m not kidding) and cross to the south side of the freeway where the road is in lousy shape, pockmarked and scattered with gravel. I direct John to turn right toward the old buildings up ahead. We have now entered Glenrio, a real ghost town along the old highway.

“Slow down,” I say. We pass an abandoned hotel with a sign in front of it:

LAS       IN TEXAS

Half the sign’s busted away, but from my books I know that it used to say LAST HOTEL IN TEXAS on one side and FIRST HOTEL IN TEXAS on the other, depending on which way you were coming. Glenrio is situated in both Texas and New Mexico. The Texas side was located in “Deaf Smith County,” the dry part of town. All the bars were on the New Mexico side. The gas stations were on the Texas side, where taxes were less.

We go by the shell of an old gas station. In front of a skeletal gas pump sits a dusty white Pontiac from the ’70s, windows busted out, a home to the birds.

“They filmed that movie The Grapes of Wrath here, John. Remember? With Henry Fonda? Hard to picture him poking around in this mess.”

“I don’t like it here,” says John.

He’s right. There’s something unsettling about this place, hollowed out, yet gorged with memories. Still, at least there are ruins here to hint at the past. But they won’t be here forever. Slowly, history crumbles away, piece by piece, until even the ghost towns disappear.

I pat a tissue to my forehead. My mouth is so dry, it feels like I’ve been snacking on mucilage. “You’re going to have to turn around. The road isn’t paved up ahead. Just pull off and circle back.”

John turns the van around, hits the gas. Just then, there’s a sound like a gunshot, which scares the daylights out of me. I hear chunk-a-chunk, and the van veers hard to the right, shifting us both in our seats. My armrest jams my side and I just about pass out. The noise gets louder. I yell to John, “What’s happening?”

John’s too busy holding on to the steering wheel, trying to keep control of the van. I see a vein sticking out on the side of his forehead. I hope he doesn’t bust a gusset. The van keeps veering hard as John pumps the brakes. He directs us toward the shoulder.

“Oh shit,” he says, his hands white and blue around the steering wheel. “I got it, I got it.”

I feel the gravel shift beneath us, the sound of rock crushed into itself, of Post Grape-Nuts amplified by a hundred. I’m sure John is going to lose control. I try to take a breath, but I can only suck air into my lungs, not breathe it out again.

“Ella, stop making that noise,” says John. “We’ve just got a flat tire.”

I hear dishes and boxes in the back of the van shift and hit the floor. The crunching noise stops, and the van heaves to a halt on the shoulder, not far from The Last Hotel in Texas. John turns off the engine and we sit there lopsided, listening to ourselves breathe.

Two long minutes pass. John just stares out at the road. The look on his face is content, like he doesn’t have a worry in the world. I’m not scared anymore, but I am getting annoyed. “John,” I finally say. “Are you all right?”

He nods.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” I say. “You said we’ve got a flat tire. Aren’t you going to go out there and take a look?”

John turns and stares, as if to say “Who me?”

Finally, he opens his door and climbs out. I decide to join him, so I look behind the seat for my cane, but it’s slid back from where I stowed it.

“John!” I yell.

Nothing. I yell his name again. No answer. God only knows what he’s doing. I decide to get the damn cane myself. I get so tired of being helpless. I search around behind the seat and find a long telescoping stick with a two-prong fork that grips things. John sometimes uses it to flip open the door lock on my side of the van.

My cane has slid quite a ways back, into the middle of our kitchen area. I hear John making noise, getting something out of a storage area, which only makes me work faster. I lengthen the stick, grab one of the legs of my cane, and drag it toward me, past a loose Corelle plate on the floor.

Outside, I find John with all the equipment out, ready to fix the flat tire. The problem is, I don’t think he remembers how to do it. I wish I’d kept my big fat mouth shut. “Let’s call the Auto Club,” I say.

“I can do it.”

I try to be gentle with him. “I know you can, I just don’t want you to hurt yourself, honey.” I also don’t want to be here for hours.

John tries to put the jack together. It’s sad to watch. I head back into the van to use the cellular phone. The Auto Club tells me that a tow truck will be here in about forty minutes. I let myself down from the passenger’s seat gently, the old discomfort rearing its thorny head again. I find that John has managed to put the jack together, has it under the van, and is cranking away at it, but nothing is happening. The jack is clicking as if it should be raising the van, but something isn’t engaged.

“John, the Auto Club’s going to fix it. Come on, let’s get out of this sun. You shouldn’t be out here. You’re going to get the skin cancer back on your head.”

“Aw, malarkey.”

“Come on.”

Amazingly, John drops the handle and as we head back to sit in the van, a car blasts past us, the first one we’ve seen since we got off the highway. I see its brake lights flash. It’s an old Plymouth with wide patches of gray primer on the side and trunk. I watch it pull onto the shoulder about a half block up. After a minute, the driver gets out, then the passenger, who is holding a tire iron.

I have to say, they don’t look like your typical good Samaritans. They look like sharpies, actually. Both are in their late thirties. The driver has a moustache, tight jeans with a maroon Ban-Lon sport shirt, and a big high pelt of hair. The one holding the lug wrench is just wearing jeans and a V-neck T-shirt and shower thongs. He’s got a scrubby beard and hair that looks like he just got up.

“Hey, folks!” the driver yells out as they walk toward us. “Need a hand?”

John looks suspiciously at them.

“We’re fine, thank you,” I say, smiling. “We just called the Auto Club.”

“Oh. Okay. When are they expected?” says the passenger.

“Probably a half hour or so.” Just then, something tells me I’ve said the wrong thing.

“That’s fine,” says the driver, pulling a knife from the back of his belt.

“Oh dear,” I say. I look over at John, who hasn’t realized what’s going on yet.

“We don’t need any help,” says John, pulling off his cap, wiping the sweat from his head with his wrist, then snugging the hat back down again.

“We’re not here to help,” says the passenger with the lug wrench. Maybe it’s his accent, but he doesn’t sound too bright.

John starts to understand. “What the hell,” he says, stepping forward.

“John, take it easy.”

The driver points at John with his knife. “Sir, you stay where you are. We’re going to need all your cash and then we’ll leave. We don’t want to hurt either of you two, but I don’t think it would be too difficult. Ma’am, I see you have a ring, why don’t you take it off?”

The passenger, wielding the tire iron, walks up to John. “Wallet.”

“Fuck you,” says John.

The passenger pokes John in the ribs with the tire iron. “I’ll just get it myself then,” he says, reaching toward John’s bulging back pocket.

“John, do what they say,” I say, handing my wedding ring to the driver. “You stay put.”

“I’ll need your purse, ma’am. Where is it?”

“It’s on the floor of the van,” I say.

“Damn,” says the passenger, fiddling with the back of John’s pants. “I can’t get his wallet out of his pants pocket. It’s enormous. Bring that knife here.”

“It’s a big wallet,” I say. “I’ll get my purse.”

He looks at me, narrowing his eyes. “Do it very slowly, ma’am.”

“That’s the only way I do anything, young man.” I press my cane into the gravel to walk myself to the open door of the van.

I hear them cursing away at John’s pants, then the tearing of fabric. I don’t know if it’s fatigue or the narcotics coursing through my veins or the fact that it made me very, very mad to give these cretins my wedding ring, but I know what I need to do. I don’t really give it a moment’s consideration.

When I turn back around from the van, I see that they have cut a plaid trapdoor in the back of John’s pants. The driver and passenger are laughing at their handiwork, until they look up at me, pointing John’s gun at them.

“Oh shit,” says the passenger, dropping his tire iron. The driver starts to raise his knife.

“Please don’t do that,” I say to him. “It’s a bad idea.”

The driver looks surprised to have an old woman train a gun on his heart. He holds the knife down by his thigh, tightening his grip on it. “He’s right here, ma’am. I could hurt him. You better put that down.”

“Yes you could, but I will definitely kill you. And if you think I’m afraid to do that, young man, you’re terribly wrong. You should understand that there is absolutely nothing for me to lose. I suppose you feel that way, otherwise you wouldn’t do awful things like this, but for me, it’s true. If you hurt John, I will most certainly kill you and do my best to kill your friend. I am long past the point of caring.”

The driver looks at the passenger, trying to figure out what he can get away with.

“It’s not going to work,” I say, taking careful aim, ready to shoot if he moves toward John. “Put down that knife.”

“Don’t forget to turn off the safety before you shoot him,” says John.

“Thank you, dear,” I say. “But it’s already off.”

“Let’s go, Steve,” says the passenger, his voice quaking. “Give them their shit back.”

I nod. “He’s right, Steve. Put the ring on the wallet and just put it on the ground and then you can get out of here. I’m not even going to call the police. I just want you to go away.”

Finally, Steve drops the knife and does what I say. He stands up, waiting to see what I do next.

“Now go,” I say, flicking my hand at him. “Find something to do with your life and stop bothering old people. You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re going to wind up a fish fly in your next life.”

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.