Lila stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long while before she spoke. Without taking her eyes off herself, she said, “I want everyone to love me—but always from a distance.”
10
Seven and a half miles outside Fort Dram, Texas, Sharleen stood at the side of Interstate 10, the white-hot glare of the sun beating down on her head, the steam of the blacktop burning through the thin soles of her sandals. She knew it was seven and a half miles, because she had walked every flat sizzling inch of them. So had Dean, and he had carried their bag as well. When they had first begun to walk, it seemed like the best thing to do. After only three miles of their last ride, Sharleen had begun to suspect that maybe the truck driver was being too friendly to her. They’d gotten out fast. Maybe he meant no harm, and maybe she had been too quick to get Dean away from the guy, but when the trucker had taken her hand and asked if she wanted a chance to steer, she’d become afraid that somebody might get hurt.
Yes, it was the right thing to do, she reasoned. It’s what Momma would have told her to do, if Momma had been there. But even with her momma so long gone, Sharleen would still never want to do anything that might bring shame down on her momma’s head. All those things her daddy had said were a lie. She made a silent prayer: Thank you, Lord, for getting us out of Lamson and to Fort Dram, and for getting us out of that truck and on this here road that’s burning my feet, instead of staying in the truck and maybe ending up burning in Hell. The thought that maybe Dean and she would go to Hell for what they had done to her daddy came to her. But surely Jesus would understand. “Dear Jesus, forgive us. It won’t happen again,” she said.
Dean was struggling along beside her, sweat rolling off his forehead and down his face, his white T-shirt now gray against his muscular chest, damp both from walking and carrying the one suitcase they had between them. He had broken at least two of the Ten Commandments, but Sharleen couldn’t see Jesus not forgiving Dean. And if Jesus sent Dean to Hell, Sharleen was surely going to beg to go right with him. Not, she thought, that Hell could be too much hotter than Interstate 10 outside Fort Dram, Texas. A white Chevy sped by, its wake more like a gust from an open oven door than a breeze.
“Sharleen!” Dean called out. “That was a New Hampshire tag! Ain’t never seen one of them! What does it mean—‘Live Free or Die’?”
“Means they don’t cut you no slack in New Hampshire, I guess,” Sharleen told him. Since Dean was a little boy, he had sat beside the highway, watching for out-of-state tags. Dean’s ambition was to see all fifty license plates. At home, he’d sit beside the highway for hours, though not much passed but local Texas plates, and the others often flew by too fast to decipher. Still, Dean was real patient.
“Now I got me fifteen, Sharleen: Texas, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Florida, New Mexico, Arizona, New York, Ohio, Colorado, Indiana, California, Tennessee, Mississippi, Louisiana, and New Hampshire!”
“That’s real good, Dean.” She wondered how far it was to the next town, and how far that town was from the one after that. She couldn’t remember how many miles across Texas it was to the border. For a moment, she felt so overwhelmed by fatigue that she wasn’t sure she could take another step.
But she had to. And she had to risk taking another ride. Because they had to get out of Texas, and maybe even out of the country. And if a trooper or even a local sheriff drove by, she was sure that she and Dean would be in a world of trouble.
They had carried their father’s body over to Boyd’s Trans Am along with the bat, then pushed the car behind the dumpster. Sharleen said a prayer, best she could, and asked God to accept the two souls. But she didn’t imagine even Jesus could forgive her daddy, and she knew she never could. Then she and Dean lit out, stopping only to take Momma’s Bible, some clothes, and the few bills and change that they had saved in the place under the kitchen cabinet. They’d walked all night, gotten a ride to Fort Dram, slept all the next day in a park next to the post office, then caught another ride, the ride that hadn’t worked out. Sharleen knew she had to make a plan, a good plan, but all she kept thinking, over and over with each step, was “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
She heard it long before she saw it. The car’s engine sounded strong and sure as she squinted against the light to catch a first glimpse. Out of the waves of heat rising from the road they had just walked, Sharleen could make out a silvery glint. Before she realized it, it was near, the first car they had seen all afternoon that wasn’t going so fast it was almost a blur.
Without a word, the two of them got into their positions. Dean stood at the edge of the road, one thumb out in the air, the other thumb tucked passively onto a belt loop. Sharleen sat on the suitcase, shaded slightly by Dean’s shadow, and slumped down, elbows on knees, to hide the obvious curves of her body.
It was a Pontiac, she could see. A big car, tinted windows shut tight against the heat of the day. Sharleen caught a glimpse of the driver as he came to a stop just beyond where they stood. Old guy, maybe fifty or sixty. Another plus. And he had a dog with him. Would a pervert have a dog? She hoped not. They both rushed up to the lowering window on the passenger side and peered in.
“Where you headed?” the old guy asked.
“Montana,” said Dean.
“California,” said Sharleen. They had answered together.
The driver laughed. “Confused, ain’t you?” he asked, smiling.
“No, we know where we’re going,” Sharleen spoke up. “First we’re going to California, then, later, to Montana. Where are you headed?” she added, deciding that this ride might be okay. She saw Dean reach out to the dog, a big black Lab.
“To California and beyond. Hop on in,” he said, and reached across the seat to open the front passenger door. Sharleen eyed Dean, then opened the rear door and sat in the back. Dean pushed the bag onto the seat next to her and got in the front beside the dog, just like she had told him to. With the doors closed, it became immediately, blessedly cool.
Sharleen looked around and noticed the driver’s large satchel on the floor at her feet, along with a beat-up five-gallon can. Overflow from the trunk, she thought. Must be going to be away a long time to have this much luggage. She leaned her head back on the soft headrest and felt herself sink into the plush upholstered seat. The cool breeze from the air conditioner came wafting back to her, drying the sweat from her damp shirt, the chill making her nipples hard. Dean turned back to her for a moment and grinned.
“What’s your names?” the driver asked as the car gathered speed.
“I’m Sharleen, and this here’s my brother, Dean,” Sharleen answered, touching her brother gently on the shoulder with one hand while straightening her messy hair with the other. “What’s yours?”
“Dobe Samuels is as good a name as any, I figure. Named the dog Oprah ’cause she’s fat and black and smart. No disrespect intended.”
They rode in silence, Dean petting Oprah, Sharleen lulled by the air conditioning and the motion of the car. Blessed relief, she thought as she thanked the Lord for their good fortune. She noticed the back of Dobe’s neck and saw that he had a fresh haircut. The collar of his cotton shirt was clean and pressed. Sharleen checked the rearview mirror to see if he was eyeing her and was satisfied to see he wasn’t but seemed instead to be staring at the long stretch of road before them.
Hanging from the mirror was a small plastic-coated sign that said, “My boss is a Jewish carpenter,” written in a sort of churchy print. Who’s his boss? she wondered, then realized what it meant. He’s a Christian, she said to herself, and felt the last of the tension leave her body with a sigh. Thank You for this message, she prayed.
Then a car pulled up behind them, real close, almost like it was following them. She felt her stomach lurch, just like it did when David Janssen was almost caught on each episode of The Fugitive. Sharleen turned around, looked, and was grateful to see it wasn’t a cop car. But maybe it was plainclothes police: she felt her heart begin to pound.
> “I’m doing sixty-five and the guy is on my tail,” complained Dobe.
“The dirty dog,” Dean agreed, then looked at Oprah. “No disrespect intended,” he added.
Dobe laughed. “Oh, she don’t take offense easy.” Dobe patted Oprah, and her heavy tail thumped. “Guess a dog is the only thing that loves you more than you love yourself.” The car behind them pulled ahead to pass, and kept right on going. Slowly, Sharleen’s heart stopped pounding.
They drove for a long time, the Pontiac easily eating up the miles that Sharleen had dreaded walking. They were far from Lamson. They looked like a family on a vacation drive. And maybe no police would notice them now. They’d be out of Texas in no time. Maybe it would all be okay.
Dobe was the first to break the long silence. “Need to stop at that station up ahead,” he said, as he slowed to turn into the isolated filling station.
Sharleen became immediately alert. “Are you going to get gas?” she asked. Did he expect us to pitch in for it? she thought. With only sixty dollars between them, Sharleen and Dean could not afford gas, and only an occasional something to eat.
“Well, you’ll see,” Dobe answered. He drove the car past the single, rusting pump and came to a stop. He got out of the car and greeted the figure of a young man almost obscured by the shadows on the porch.
“Howdy,” Dobe called, then opened the rear door to the car, reached in, and took out the gallon can that was beside Sharleen. Dobe left the door open, told Oprah to stay, and took two steps toward the young man on the porch. He was sitting on a straight chair, tilted back, his feet on the railing. Sharleen noticed that the guy, who was wearing coveralls, hadn’t said anything.
“Could I trouble you for some water?” Dobe called out, holding up the empty can so the man on the porch could see it.
“What about gas?” the man asked.
“Don’t need none. Just water.”
“I sell gas.”
“I don’t need gas, young feller. Just water.” Dobe smiled broadly, takin’ no offense, even if some was intended.
Sharleen then got out of the car and stood with her hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans. “We’d be much obliged,” she called out. In the many towns they’d lived in, she had known a lot of ornery backcountry trash. She didn’t want no scene now.
The man on the porch put the chair right and placed both feet on the floor. A shaft of sunlight caught his long, horselike face, and she watched as his small eyes opened wider.
“Sure thing, ma’am,” he said. “’Round the side. He’p yourse’f.”
Dean jumped out and went with Dobe. “What do you need water for, Mr. Samuels? The car’s not overheating.” Dean was almost as good with motors as he was with animals.
Dobe reached down and picked up the brass spigot of the hose, turned on the water, and placed the spigot in the can. “Son, you’re about to see a miracle of modern science,” Dobe told Dean as his eyes watched the water climb to the top.
“What kinda miracle?”
“I’m going to pour this here water into my gas tank, then drop in a magic tablet, and I’ll have instant gasoline.”
“You can do that?” Dean asked, his voice gone high with amazement. “Sure. Just watch.”
Dean called over to Sharleen. “Hey, Sharleen! Dobe’s gonna make his car run on water. He got a special pill.” Dean was wearing a grin as wide as a wave on a slop bucket and watching Dobe’s every move.
Sharleen eyed Dobe as he started walking back to the car, straining to carry the gallon of water. What kind of foolishness is this? Sharleen wondered. Is Dobe one of them guys that make themselves look smart by teasing Dean? There were enough of them back in Lamson. She’d play along, but try also, as she always did, to protect Dean’s feelings. Still, she felt disappointment in Dobe, funning Dean like that. “Why, sure he can, Dean. And he’s the only one in the world can do it, too.” Sharleen didn’t show any surprise until Dobe actually began opening the gas tank.
“Mister,” the man in the coveralls said, as he came down the two steps from the porch. “If’n you mix water in with yer gas, you ain’t driving this car out a’ here. I bet you five dollars you cain’t do such of a thing.” He stood with his hands in his pockets, grinning for the first time since they pulled up.
“That wouldn’t be a wager, young feller. That would be pure theft,” Dobe said as he tilted the water can into the gas tank. Dean and the coveralls man both gasped.
“Whoa, don’t do that, mister! You’re going to ruin your car.”
Dobe ignored the stranger’s protest and finished pouring in the water, then called out to Dean: “Son, get me the box of tablets out of the glove box, would you?”
Dean nodded eagerly, ducked into the car, and carried a box to Dobe, who placed it on the hood and opened it. Both Dean and the good ole boy drew closer, eyeing the array of red, horse-sized capsules. Dobe took one out and held it up to the sun, then slowly, as if performing a ritual, dropped the capsule into the gas tank and shut it.
Dobe leaned toward Dean and tossed him the car keys. “Start ’er up, son, while I get us a couple of Dr. Peppers.” He walked past the yokel toward the soda machine just as the engine coughed into a roar.
Sharleen looked back at the idling car, then toward Dobe. She wasn’t sure what was happening. What was in them pills?
“Where’d you get them pills, mister?” The gas jockey’s voice was filled with awe. He was as surprised as Sharleen herself.
“I made ’em,” Dobe said, walking back toward the car with four cold Dr. Peppers in his hands. “I invented a way to make gas out of water.” Dobe passed two bottles of pop to Sharleen and Dean, then gave a third to the gas pumper.
“My name’s Samuels—Dobe Samuels,” he said, also offering the man his hand. “What’s yours?”
The young man accepted the pop and the hand. “Eb Cloon.” Eb walked over to the car. “How many miles to the gallon can you get on it?”
Dobe took a long drink of pop, then said, “Ain’t quite like gas that way. One gallon of water and one of these pills is the same as three or four tanks of gas.”
“Three or four tanks?”
“Sharleen, have we stopped for water before today?” Dobe asked.
“No, this is the first time,” she answered.
Dean was excited. “Sure didn’t,” he said proudly.
“And this mornin’ I started in San Antonio.”
“What’s they made of?”
“That’s the funny thing, Eb. If I may call you Eb?” Eb Cloon nodded. “Made from stuff around the house. Nothing you ain’t got in your kitchen cupboards right now. But I sure ain’t gonna tell you any more than that. Lots of folks purty interested, I can tell you.”
“How much do them pills cost, anyway?” Eb asked.
“They’re not for sale, young feller. I’m on my way to show my invention to one of them big oil companies.” He took another gulp of soda and turned to walk back to replace the empty. “Can’t say more, but they’re mighty interested, I can tell you that.”
“I’d buy me a couple of them pills, if the price was right,” Eb offered.
Sharleen watched Dobe rack the empty bottle and then raise his head skyward as if considering. “Will you promise not to try and copy the recipe?” Dobe asked. Eb nodded agreement.
“Well, I could let you have a few at five dollars apiece, but you can only have ten of ’em. We got to get to California, then on to Montana,” he said, and turned and smiled at Sharleen. He had a nice, friendly smile. “That’s if you let me have some more water for my dog. She’s gettin’ powerful thirsty.”
“Well, sir, I’ll take them,” Eb said, and turned and almost ran back to the house to get the cash. “Take all the water you want,” he shouted as an afterthought.
“Now, remember,” Dobe said after he gave a pan of water to Oprah, watched her lap it up, and handed Eb ten red capsules, pocketing the crumbled wad of dirty bills that made up the fifty dollars. “One gallo
n of water and one of these pills will last you as long as three tanks of gas. Mebbe four, but I ain’t makin’ no exaggerated claim.” Eb nodded. “Wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”
Dobe told Oprah to get back into the car and sat down in the driver’s seat, vacated by Dean; and Sharleen again slipped into the back. Dobe started the motor, lowered his window, and extended his hand. Eb took it. “I’m sure you’ll get what you deserve,” he told Eb.
“Mr. Samuels, I sure do thank you. Wait’ll Pa sees this,” Eb said, and stepped back, grinning.
“Don’t mention it,” Dobe said. “I only wish I had more to give you.” He put the car into gear and pulled out, waving friendlylike at Eb as he did.
Dean was only silent for a little while. “Mr. Samuels,” Dean said when they returned to the highway, “you’re going to be rich when you get to California.”
Sharleen caught Dobe looking at her in the rearview mirror. “I’m already rich enough, son,” he said, patted Oprah, and winked at Sharleen.
Sharleen woke early, while Dean slept on beside her in the single bed they had shared, leaving the second bed untouched. She got up slowly, so as not to wake him, and went into the tiny bathroom of the motel cabin. The crisp, clean sheets on the bed when they got in last night had felt so good that she had moaned with pleasure as she slid between them. Tired, full, and happy, both Sharleen and Dean fell immediately to sleep, Dean’s arm wrapped protectively around her. She touched the green-plaid bedspread on the bed as she passed, wishing she had had one as nice as that when she was a little girl. The solid-green drapes with the green-plaid pullbacks framed the light coming in the window. The gray hooked rug felt soft and warm under her feet as she padded barefoot to the bathroom. All of it was so nice and clean—jest like a room in the Sears Catalog. It was the nicest room she’d ever been in. This was the fourth motel they’d stayed in, after almost a week on the road with Dobe, and Sharleen still couldn’t figure out the danger. The Lord had surely provided. And, as if it were a sign, Sharleen had found a Bible at each of the motel rooms.
Flavor of the Month Page 9
