“I’m going to stop for something to eat. I’ll buy you a sandwich if you like; maybe eating will take some of the meanness out of you. Or you can see if you can find another ride. I don’t know why your attitude is so bad, but I don’t need it.”
I wasn’t at all hungry; my stomach shivered with cold.
Eventually he pulled his rig into a cafe parking lot, parked it with skill, and shut it down. “Junction a mile ahead,” he said. “You can catch a southbound ride there. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” I said, and with trembling fingers unwrapped myself from the blanket and felt for the door handle.
“Keep the blanket.”
“Oh, no, that’s all right. Listen,” I said, folding the blanket and stowing it behind the seat. “I’m sorry if I was a bother.”
“No bother, just no fun. I can have a better time alone,” he said, then jumped down, waited for me to get out, then turned his back on me and walked into the cafe.
He turned his back on me and walked into the cafe.
He turned his back on me.
I watched him go, trying to raise enough indignation to go after him, but I couldn’t.
Again, life was hard; it settled heavily on my shoulders. I watched him go, thought of running after him, apologizing. I thought of following him into the cafe, ordering a cup of hot chocolate, but I wouldn’t be mistaken for begging another chance. I watched him go, then settled my pack on my shoulders, adjusting it away from the tender spot where it had been rubbing, and began walking. Next time I would be nicer.
Steadily moving, placing one foot in front of the other, eventually I could make out the junction. It was one lone streetlight shining a yellow pool of light at a lonely crossroads. As I got closer, it seemed lonelier and more barren with a light snow falling diagonally through the spill of light.
I felt more and more depressed as I looked at that little cone of light, with the silence of the night and the closeness of the snow surrounding me. I finally arrived at the crossroads, stood on the curb under the light, and that was the end of my endurance. I dropped my pack to my feet and locked my frozen knees, standing up as straight as I could, my shivers bordering on convulsions. I could not go on.
It would have been better if Ned had never picked me up at all. Becoming semi-warm and then freezing again was much worse. My down coat was no match for this biting wind; the portion of leg between my coat and my boots had no feeling, nor did my toes. My fingers were stiff.
I put each hand up the opposite sleeve, and stood straight, shoulders hunched up about my ears. If I remembered the fireside talk in Seven Slopes correctly, I would soon become sleepy as my blood thickened and ran sluggishly through my brain, and I would just lie down to rest, to take a little nap.
Such a pleasant notion. I closed my eyes. Taking a little sleep sounded like a wonderful idea. I could almost imagine a nice, friendly little dream, and maybe, maybe when I woke up, I would be at home, in bed, cuddled down soft and warm, this whole thing having been a terrible nightmare.
Or maybe not. Maybe dying right here, right now, would be best. There would be no more running. No more loneliness. No more being the stranger, the different one. I wouldn’t have to get well, or get better, or strive to try to stay awake during the daylight hours. I wouldn’t have to worry about my past, or my future. Or Her. I felt myself teeter. I thought I’d better lie down before I fell down, but my mind was too busy to hold that thought long enough to act. Why did everybody think of slitting wrists or hanging? This was so superior. Just go outside on Christmas Eve and take a little nap.
Even the cold lost its threat. The concept of cold ceased to exist. The cold became my friend, my companion. Come in, come in. You and I will rest together for a long time. How comforting. How luxurious.
Then there was a terrible noise, and I opened my eyes and a car was in front of me, honking. A man looked out the window, and I wanted to wave him on, no thank you, I’m fine now, but my arms were too tired, so I just closed my eyes again.
My arms were too tired to resist him, too, when he came around and pushed me into the front seat of his car. My knees wouldn’t bend, and I was afraid he’d break my bones, but even that didn’t matter too much. Sitting was an improvement over standing. I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling the vibrations of his voice, and slept.
“I showed the police in Seven Slopes all the information I had on those three murders from Westwater. I got their attention.
“Then one cop started to tell me about all those missing-persons reports that had been filed, up about five hundred and seventy percent in the last year. Damn these little towns. They keep their cards held so close to the chest—they’re afraid for their precious tourist industry. Their lid on publicity kept Angelina in business. It let her slip away, too.
“Drugs, they thought, or flakey people who were not where they said they would be. Transient place, during the season, they said. Can’t be held accountable for tourists.
“But I knew better. I knew better. Angelina. Damn.
“I spent a while in Seven Slopes, talking to people—people where she worked, people where she hung out, waiting for another clue, combing through the newspapers, the wire press, the police reports. Just waiting for another clue. We started to get a little press on the situation, and some national cooperation, and I finally felt like I was doing something positive.
“And every time I saw hitchhikers on the road, I stopped and yelled at them. Jesus, kids out there accepting rides with strangers. They have no idea, they have no fucking idea at all what’s out there.
“ ‘Things can happen to you just because you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ I’d tell them. ‘You keep hitchhiking and you’re putting yourself right smack dab in the center of harm’s way. You’re asking for it. Don’t flirt with danger. Stay the hell out of its way.
“ ‘Go home,’ I said. ‘Lock your doors.’ ”
24
When I awakened, I was naked in limp, white sheets, and glad the nightmare was over. I could sleep the rest of the night in peace. I pulled the blankets up and rolled over.
Simultaneously I smelled the rank odor on the pillow next to mine and felt the gnawing ache in my legs. It hadn’t been a nightmare. I became instantly awake and alert. On guard.
I checked quickly around me, noted the sleazy motel room, noted also that I was alone. Then I examined myself.
I seemed to be untouched; at least the creature who had slept next to me had had the decency not to deposit his odor on me, or in me, as I slept. My feet and legs ached, the meat of my calves felt squishy as I pinched it. The pinch didn’t hurt, I couldn’t even feel it, but the ache remained. Fear sank into my bowels. My legs had been frozen and thawed. I swung them out of bed and tried to stand up. Fire flushed through me, but I stood.
I found my clothes folded neatly on top of the dresser next to his briefcase. He hadn’t deserted me. He would return. The neon from the motel sign cast pink through the window. The evening felt early.
By the time I finished showering, I was light-headed and weak-kneed. I came dripping from the bathroom and with blackening vision made my way to the bed. Once down, with deep breaths, my sight cleared and I saw the weasel of a man standing over me, holding a paper bag of foul-smelling food.
“Here,” he said. “Better eat something.”
I took the bag from him, but had no stomach for what it contained. I picked at it while he watched me; I listened to him talk as he sat on the edge of the bed. I hoped to discern who he was, what he wanted, where we were, and where he was going.
“I drive nights. That’s the best time. I usually stop where I’m going and get a couple hours of early morning sleep, freshen up a bit and I’m ready for my sales calls. I guess you’re lucky I drive nights, otherwise you might still be out there. Storm hit pretty bad up there, too. You’d still be s
tanding there, up to your nose in snow.”
My gratitude was less than overwhelming.
“Anyway, I’m glad to see you awake and eating. I was afraid for a while I was going to have to call an ambulance. I mean, you sure sleep soundly, but then I’ve never seen anyone frozen like that before.” His smile was fleeting, nervous.
I tired of the food and dropped it to the floor.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m healing.”
“Well, listen, I’ve got to get back on the road.” He checked his watch. “It’s after five. I hate to leave you here, but it’s either that or take you with me, at least as far as a hospital, but I can’t be responsible for your bills.”
“I don’t need a hospital. Where are you going?”
“Texas.”
“Driving through New Mexico?”
“Hope to make it the whole way through tonight.”
I pulled myself out of bed and staggered toward the dresser.
“Hey, wait.”
“I’m going with you, if you don’t mind.”
“I mind. I think you need medical attention. Listen. Right after I leave, you call the hospital to come get you.” He approached me. “I know about these things. You can’t pay, but they’ll treat you. If you’re with me, they’ll stick me with the bills and I’ve got a wife . . .” His hand went around my wrist.
“Don’t touch me,” I said flatly, and his hand jerked back. I sat on the edge of the bed and began to dress. “I don’t need a hospital; I need to get to New Mexico. I’ll go with you.”
“I don’t think so. I think you’re trouble all the way around.” He took his briefcase and little traveling bag from the dresser and opened the door.
I was powerless to stop him. I sat on the edge of the bed, not even knowing if he’d paid the motel bill, and watched him go through the door—the man who’d saved my life. He set his bags on the sidewalk outside and looked in at me as he reached to close the door. My jeans were on but unzipped, one boot was on, my shirt was unbuttoned, my hair was wet. My body ached and I was bone weary.
In that split moment, I saw myself as he must see me, alone, forlorn, and abandoned, and instinctively I knew how to play my hand.
“Please?”
His pointed face softened and his shoulders sagged. He turned to face the parking lot, hands on hips, and I knew I had him. He turned back.
“All right. Two conditions.”
I finished dressing.
“One, you’re out of my car before morning, and two, if you get sick, I’m dumping you on the side of the road.”
He came in and picked up my pack, carried all three bags to the car. I followed, each step painful from my toes to my hip joints. The darkness outside was fresh and new; it welcomed me. I was on my way to Sarah’s. I would be there, if not tonight, then the next.
Riding in his car was harder than I thought. His continual chatter rasped my nerves, particularly because every minute or two he asked some kind of question that required some answer, and therefore effort was expended in listening and understanding. This was very hard with most of my attention on the overwhelming, frightening ache in my legs.
I tried every imaginable position, but nothing helped. It didn’t matter if I was cross-legged, sitting on my heels, or lying on the backseat with my feet elevated. The ache was the same. I could not get comfortable, and the pain made me restless. I could not sit still.
Around midnight, we crossed over into New Mexico and stopped at a standard, twenty-four-hour truck stop for something to eat. He helped me to a booth, where I sat, pale and trembling, while my traitorous legs screamed at me, and he went in to wash his hands. It was a foolishly long time before I realized he wasn’t coming back. When the knowledge finally struck, a stone plopped into the pit of my stomach and sat there, amid the emptiness and bile, and I lifted the greasy menu and found that he’d slipped ten dollars beneath it before slipping out the back.
I ordered hot chocolate and sipped at it, avoiding the curious eyes of the resident night people. My legs radiated so much pain they seemed to warm the booth.
I had been abandoned. I was on the run, alone, half-crippled, in the middle of nowhere. He had left me cold, without so much as a good-bye. My self-pity flamed into anger. How dare he! Hadn’t we shared . . . What?
Just exactly what had you shared, Angelina, I asked myself, and then I realized the worst. The man had saved my life, fed me and driven me, and I had never even asked his name.
The pain in my legs was momentarily forgotten as I marveled at this. What had I become, that I could be so insensitive? My face burned, I held a mouthful of cocoa on my tongue until I could swallow it past the clump of self-pity in my throat, my vision blurred under the wash of unfallen tears.
Don’t stop now, Angelina, I told myself. I blinked away the tears, swallowed the chocolate, and swooned slightly with the onslaught of pain from my legs. Sarah. Sarah will know what to do and how to do it. The vision of Sarah stretching on her floor, every fiber tight and smooth, her skin glowing with perspiration and the flush of health made me smile. That is what I want, I thought. And Sarah will know how to give it to me.
I ordered another cup of chocolate and a rare steak, rubbed my legs, and began to look around. The first thing I noticed was the placemat. It was a map of the state of New Mexico, with a big star in the northwest corner that said, “New Mexico State Cafe!” in outlined, dramatic letters. It matched the lettering on the menu. This version of “You Are Here” on the map probably saved the bored waitresses thousands of questions. It lifted my spirits; I hadn’t far to go.
I drank the second cup of chocolate and ate small bites of the overcooked steak. The cafe was fairly empty on this cold Christmas night. Truck drivers were at home with their families. I would be fortunate indeed to find a ride.
And if I didn’t?
The flush ran through me again. Where would I spend the day? Where could I sleep and not freeze? I needed shelter, darkness, a box—I needed to remember that She was still lurking, just waiting for me to give in, just watching, patiently, oh so patiently.
I calmed myself, rubbing my thighs, and tried to remember, not so long ago, when I was younger, more adventurous, when I never had to worry about where I would sleep—I was One With Creation, and I belonged wherever I happened to be. What had happened to those days?
I was not sure. But something had. Carefree life was for children—the child I had been at that time—that time before Earl Foster, before Lewis, before Boyd.
Three men sat on round green swivel stools at the Formica counter in the New Mexico State Cafe. One boy chain-smoked cigarettes in a corner booth while his rat-haired girlfriend slept with her head on his shoulder. A tiny woman sipped coffee and patted her lipstick with a handkerchief after each swallow, and I began to focus on her. Once I saw the flask she tipped into her coffee each time the tired waitress filled her cup.
She saw me watching and raised an eyebrow, offering me a nip. I smiled, amid my very personal pain, and declined. In a moment, she had joined me, uninvited, but I was too weary to protest. Her reddish-brown hair was so neatly coiffed that I thought she’d tamed it with a hair net. Bright spots of rouge dotted her powdered cheeks, and her eyebrows had been drawn on in a fine line. Brown eyes twinkled out of a wrinkled face with precise lips. She was no larger than I—an elf, I thought—and I smiled at her.
She patted my hand with her old spotted one. “Traveling alone?” she asked. I nodded. “Me, too. This is my Christmas trip, a little Christmas present I give myself every year. I just love to travel. At night, that is. The daytime is too scary for me, all those trucks and buses and . . . things.” She tipped again into her coffee, then screwed the thimble top on tight and slipped the silver flask into her purse. “Do you like . . . the night?” And her bright little eyes turned predatory as she h
ooked them into me over the rim of her coffee cup.
I nodded.
“Thought so. Ever wish you were different?” The thrumming in my legs lessened. I couldn’t believe this woman. She spoke to my soul.
“Yes. I do.”
“Forget it.” She waved her hand across the table. “We are the way we are. You’re young enough to accept it and enjoy your life in the night. I wasted mine trying to change.” Her hands made little piano-playing motions on either side of her coffee as she looked into it, brow furrowed, thinking. “So what do you want?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What is it you want? Night people always want something. They’re always going somewhere or seeking something or just plain out to get something. What’s yours?”
I thought for a moment. “I need to get—” I shoved my plate over and pointed at the map on the placemat. “Here.”
“I can drive you,” she said. “What do you want there?”
I was torn between being incensed at her probing questions and being nice and cooperative in exchange for the ride.
“Friends,” I finally choked out. “I have friends to visit there.”
“Ah.” She chuckled and signaled the worn waitress for more coffee. “A life raft. Someone to save you? That’s fine. I’ll drive you. You will find that it won’t work. But I’ll drive you.” She paused while the girl filled her cup, then she emptied the last dribble of liquor into it and stirred the black liquid with a spoon. “Will you let me?”
I nodded. She smiled at me, turning her head this way and that, looking me over, and I sipped my cold cocoa and felt the ache in my legs and was glad this woman, this old, strange, intriguing woman, would take care of me, all the way to Sarah’s house. We sat in silence for a long time, almost too long. And then, with a gasp, I remembered.
“My name’s Angelina Watson. What’s yours?”
“Rosemary. Rose.” Her sharp eyes glittered at me as she finished her coffee in silence. Then, with lips tight, she drew money from her leather handbag and set it on the table. “Shall we be on our way, then?”
Black Ambrosia Page 16
