They’d traveled more than a thousand miles, Sharleen figured, and they’d finally left Texas yesterday. Dobe stuck to small roads, and sometimes he doubled back a bit. He also stopped for water three or four times a day—because he was experimenting on mileage, he said. And at each stop he topped off the tank with water and sold some of his pills. It seemed so easy that Sharleen had come to accept Dobe’s offers of meals and a place to stay—and he hadn’t tried to touch her or nothin’.
Sitting on the bathroom stool, Sharleen looked around the tiny, spotless white-tiled room. There were two towels for each of them, also two new, tiny, wrapped pieces of soap. They were really nice, and it seemed such a waste to use ’em just once and leave them. She longed for the neatly wrapped little soaps, but she wouldn’t steal nothin’. She finished, flushed the toilet, then stepped back with a giggle as it made a strong whoosh noise, then went silent.
She pulled back the white shower curtain and turned on the water, amazed at how powerful the spray was compared with the trickle she was used to in the trailer back in Lamson. There were two more tiny bars of sweet-smelling soap here, and a little bottle of shampoo. Dobe had told her they came with the room and she could keep them, but still she hadn’t liked to. Just in case.
This place must be very expensive, she thought, but she couldn’t tell. She had never been in a motel before this week. This place seemed a little nicer than the other ones, but all of them were a treat to her. And Dean was in hog heaven.
Back in Lamson, Dean’s biggest treat, aside from sightin’ a new license plate, was always watchin’ the Andy of Mayberry show. He’d seen all of the episodes many times by now, but he was never bored by them. He loved Aunt Bee, laughed at Gomer, and got frustrated with Barney, the deputy. It seemed to Sharleen that Dean liked Opie most of all. Well, she figured, in a way he was Opie—a motherless country kid in a small town. ’Cept his daddy was no Andy Griffith. Now, on the road, more than anything else he was missing the nice Mayberry people. So, when they pulled in last night, and there was a TV running the episode of Aunt Bee’s pickles. Dean was soothed and happy.
Before she fell to sleep last night, her thoughts were how lucky she and Dean were to have met Dobe, and to eat in nice restaurants and sleep in clean beds. Now she added having hot showers to the list. As she patted herself dry, she happened to look out the bathroom window in time to see Dobe Samuels walking back from the gas station across the highway. He was carrying two gas cans. Oprah followed behind him.
Sharleen watched from the steamy bathroom window as he went to his car, opened the trunk, and, after a quick look in both directions, emptied the gas from the cans right into the trunk of the car! Then he closed the trunk cover and walked around to the spot where he had poured in the water yesterday. He knelt down and looked under the fender, then pulled something. Water rushed out and made a puddle around his feet. Oprah licked at it. Dobe reached into his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his hands. Then he turned and began to walk toward Sharleen and Dean’s room.
She ducked back, away from the window. What had she just seen? Sharleen felt her hands begin to tremble. She wasn’t positive, but something about it all sure didn’t seem right. She quickly pulled on her jeans and T-shirt and tried to open the door before Dobe knocked. She didn’t make it in time.
Dean stirred at the sound of the knock, and Sharleen gave him a poke as she passed, indicating the bathroom behind her. She had to squint to make out Dobe’s face, because of the strong early-morning sun behind his head.
“You kids ready for some breakfast?” he asked.
“I sure am,” Dean called out, still shaking the sleep from his head as he walked toward the bathroom.
“Then meet me in the coffee shop in ten minutes,” Dobe told them cheerfully, and turned back to the main building.
Sharleen waved at him as she closed the door, then yelled in to Dean, “Ten minutes, Dean. Make it snappy.” While he washed and dressed, she neatly made the bed, dusted the room, and folded the towels.
The coffee shop was almost empty as she and Dean entered, except for a few truckers at the counter. Sharleen led Dean to the booth where Dobe already sat waiting for them, reading a paper. She slid into the seat opposite Dobe, and Dean sat beside her, his long legs sticking out into the aisle. The waitress came over, poured them each a cup of coffee, and freshened Dobe’s.
“What would you like, kids? Anything you want, remember. It’s on me,” Dobe said, pushing aside the menu without opening it.
Dean suddenly came to life, brought around by either the coffee or the offer of food. “Steak and eggs,” he said. “And grits. And pancakes on the side—with syrup.”
Dobe laughed. “That’s what I like to see, a man with no fear of cholesterol.” He looked at Sharleen. “And a woman, too. Oh, and, miss?” he asked the waitress. “Could I have a side order of bacon to go? Seems my dog gets surly if she don’t get her breakfast bacon. She likes it crispy.”
Restaurant bacon, just for a dog? Sharleen was awed. But then the scene at the trunk of the car came back to her. Maybe for Dobe money was easy come and easy go.
They ate in silence, the forks and coffee cups the only sounds at the table. Dean was finished first. He dropped his fork noisily, leaned back, and patted his stomach with two hands. “I’m full as a goose in a corn crib. I better walk around for a minute. I’ll take the bacon out to Oprah for you, Mr. Samuels, if’ that’s all right.” Dobe nodded. “Sharleen, I’ll be outside,” Dean promised, and headed for the door.
Sharleen sipped her coffee, then placed it gently on the saucer. “Mr. Samuels,” she began.
“‘Mister?’” Dobe asked, his brows raised. He smiled and put down his paper. “I think this is going to be serious.”
“Dobe,” Sharleen corrected herself. She would give him a chance to explain. “I know you’re a very smart and kind man, but, well, with that gas pill, I can’t help feeling there’s something I just don’t understand.” Sharleen hesitated, not wanting to offend the man but also, if there was something not…well, not right about what he was doing, she had to know. She and Dean were in enough trouble already.
“What don’t you understand, Sharleen?” Dobe asked.
It was best to tell him what she’d seen, she reckoned. “I saw you pouring gasoline into the trunk of your car this morning, and now I’m confused.” Sharleen added quickly, “Not that I’m judging you or nothin’, Dobe. It’s not for me to judge anyone. But, you know…”
“I see,” he said. Dobe’s voice lowered, and he leaned forward and looked directly into Sharleen’s eyes. “I respect you, young lady.” He paused for a few moments, as if he was thinking of how to say something, then continued. “I can tell when people are in trouble, and I can see you and Dean—well, let’s just say you might need a friend. And I see how you watch out for that boy, and how he looks out for you. It’s nice. Real nice.” He paused. “You know, God gave me a certain talent, and I use that talent to make money. I don’t know why he didn’t give the talent to everybody. And I never do evil to those that do good. You watch, and you can see that. You do, don’t you?”
She thought of Eb Cloon, of the other men, of their meanness. She nodded. “I do understand—but maybe me and Dean better move on.”
Dobe looked at her, it seemed sadly.
“Well, I sure would hate that. I got this gift, and the least I can do is share some of the Lord’s bounty. Plus, sure is lonely on the road. Even with Oprah. So’s I’m asking if you would be kind enough to let me take care of you and Dean as far as California. I can see Dean needs some taking care of.”
Sharleen thought about how good it felt to have the comfort of a ride, good food, good beds. But Dobe was telling her that he was doing something wrong. Get thee behind me, Satan, she thought. But Dobe, with his kind face and crinkled eyes, didn’t look like Satan. Was he lookin’ for somethin’ else from her?
“Dobe, you know me and Dean don’t have no money. There’s nothing we
can do for you other than help with the driving. Nothin’ more I’m goin’ to do for you.” There, she’d said it.
Dobe continued to look into Sharleen’s eyes. “I respect that. You don’t owe me nothing, Sharleen. I appreciate the way you get out of the car when we stop at a service station. You pretty up the scenery. That really helps me out. Without you, sometimes I don’t think I would have even gotten the water. Or the attention. These ole boys can be right mean. All’s I’m asking is that, when we stop someplace, you get out of the car again, like you been doing. Sometimes it takes a pretty face to get what a good Christian should offer by nature.”
Sharleen lowered her eyes.
“Dobe, those pills don’t work, do they?”
“They work for me, Sharleen. And I never sell too many. It isn’t a big sting. Only people who want something for nothing buy them. I’ll never ask you to lie—all you do is stand beside the car. I’m not putting you on the grift. I’ll never ask you or Dean a question you can’t answer honestly.” He paused for a moment, then went on: “I’ll get you both to California—and to Montana, if you want—well fed and well rested.”
Sharleen sat for a long, silent moment, her hands clenched in her lap. “Okay, Dobe. Just so long as I don’t have to lie, or do anything else that’s wrong, we’ll go.”
Dobe offered his hand across the table and gave Sharleen’s a firm shake. “You do me a great favor, ma’am,” he said, then tipped an imaginary hat.
Dobe leaned back against the restaurant banquette and stretched, then smiled. “You know, I’m a lot older than you, and take kindly to women. I’d politely ask for your favors, but I know how it is between you and Dean. You’re safe with me. Anyway, the last few years I’ve switched my affection from women to dogs. You can make a real fool of yourself with a dog, and she won’t lose respect for you—in fact, she’ll make a fool of herself, too.” Dobe joined Sharleen in a laugh. Then he got a serious look on his face. “See, I have a practical problem. Never did like any woman on the grift. Con them, con me, I always found. But good women are too dependent and too shockable. Either don’t want nothing to do with me or want what I got but don’t want to know how I got it. Makes for a lonely life.” He paused. They sat there together, the sun pouring in through the diner’s window, in a friendly silence and a pool of sunlight.
Then Dobe leaned toward her. “Sharleen, when I went to wake you up this morning, I saw that you only used one bed last night. And that’s your business. Just let me give you a little advice. What you do ain’t nobody’s business. But a lot of people you’ll meet will think it is, so I don’t think you should call Dean your brother no more. Sharleen, tell people he’s your boyfriend. That’s what people want to hear, so it makes it easier on you.”
Sharleen blushed deeply, and her mind began to race. What was he talking about? But she knew, of course. All these years of being so close to Dean, their warm times in bed, the comfort they took from one another. But never was it ever spoken out loud by either of them or anyone else until this moment. She pushed the shock of it from her mind. But she had to say something.
“He is my boyfriend,” she said, returning Dobe’s steady gaze as she felt the blood still rushing to her face. “I only say ‘brother’ so’s people don’t think we’re living in sin.” The lie felt heavy on her tongue. Now she’d broken another commandment.
Dobe sat back in his chair. “Sorry for the misunderstanding,” he said, and lowered his eyes. Then Dean returned to the table, and Dobe stood up and stretched. “Time for us to hit the road. Let’s have us some adventures.” He clapped Dean on the shoulder, and Sharleen could see how the fatherly gesture pleased Dean. Their daddy had only touched Dean when he meant him harm.
As Dean walked ahead of them in the parking lot, Dobe leaned toward Sharleen and said, “He’s a real enthusiastic boy, Dean is. And good-natured. I’d sure hate to see him ever lose that.” He looked sideways at Sharleen.
“So would I,” Sharleen agreed. Then all three of them got into the car.
11
Mary Jane sobbed herself into a light sleep. It had been four days without a word from Sam. She alternated between being frantic with worry and livid with rage. She ate two bags of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. She drank the end of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and started a new one. She passed out, woke up hung over, showered, drank, and slept again. She couldn’t leave the apartment for fear he’d call and she’d miss him. Anyway, she had no place to go. She had Chinese food delivered—vile sweet-and-sour pork and moo-shu chicken—and ate it for lunch and dinner. Now, in their big bed alone, she tossed in her sleep. The ringing telephone roused her, and she rushed to it. Sam, she thought. Oh, thank God!
She made herself stand beside the battered black phone and wait one more ring before lifting the receiver. “Hello.” Not too breathless, not too pathetically eager, she hoped.
“Hi, Mary Jane. It’s Neil. Are you okay?”
“Oh, Neil.” It felt as if all the air was sucked out of her lungs. “No, no, I’m not okay. I feel terrible, as a matter of fact.”
“Well,” Neil said, “you know what Confucius says: ‘Shit happens.’”
“Yeah, well, Protestants say, ‘If shit happens, you deserve it.’”
“More Sam crap?”
“No less. He’s gone walkabout. I haven’t heard from him.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Spare me! Just cheer me up.”
“I think I got just the prescription. You didn’t forget I’m breaking in the new material at the Comedy Club tonight, did you? My last gig before the big time.”
Oh, damn, Mary Jane thought. Of course she had. Jesus, she didn’t even know what day it was. “No, Neil, how could I forget?” she lied.
“So you’ll be there? I reserved a table right up front for you and the shmuck.”
“Oh, I’ll be there.” She knew how Neil felt about Sam in general, how he’d feel about the argument, and she didn’t want to go into it all with him. She sighed, miserable but loyal. She added quickly, “What time’s the show?”
One more thing to do that she didn’t feel like doing, she thought as she hung up. Midnight, her fat white Persian cat, jumped up onto the counter and pressed himself up against her, his squashed-in face expectantly looking toward her own. She opened the cheap, scratched metal kitchen cabinets. No more Tender Vittles. She searched the shelves until she found a can of tuna stuffed behind a box of stone-hard brown sugar. “Here,” she told the cat as she opened the can, “knock yourself out.”
She stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, making it almost hotter than she could stand. She had just finished the first shampoo of her thick, heavy dark hair when the phone rang. She flung open the curtain, leaving the water running, and ran down the narrow hall, trailing soapy footprints. She slipped when she stepped into the kitchen, caught herself at the edge of the table, twisting her ankle, and lunged for the phone.
“Hello,” she panted.
“Hi.” Sam’s voice was dead, cold, the way it always was after a fight, but it was Sam’s voice.
“Hi.” Well, Christ, that was stupid. “Are you okay?” she asked. Fuck. That was pathetic.
“Yeah. What about you?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Listen, M.J., I’m sorry about the other night. I didn’t think. You know. Coming back from L.A., and the negotiations. There’s been a lot of pressure on me lately and…”
Oh, sweet Jesus! He’d apologized. Tears filled her eyes. “Hey…” she interrupted. “I understand. I do. And I’ve been thinking.” She paused now, took a deep breath. It would be all right. He’d said he was sorry. She’d go with him to L.A. He’d still love her. And she could still love him. “I want to go with you,” she said. “The part doesn’t matter. We matter. I’ll get my shot later. I’ll just wrap up a few odds and ends here, stick Midnight in a box, and hop a flight to L.A.”
There was silence at the other end of the phone. A long
silence. “Sam?” she asked. “Are you still there?”
“Sure. Sure. I’m…I’m just surprised, is all. But that’s fine. That’s great. I’m just, well, surprised.” He paused. “Look, we have to talk, M.J. Maybe I can come over tonight and…”
“I have to go see Neil,” she interrupted. “It’s his last gig.”
“Oh, fuck Neil!” There, he was irritated again. “The guy’s animus is scary.”
She sighed. “I’d rather fuck you. Baby, it’s been a long time to do without you. Listen, I have to go, but the show’s at ten; I’ll be home by midnight. How ’bout if we make up then?” She packed all the warmth into her voice that she could manage.
“Yeah. Fine,” he said, and hung up.
She did, too, and as she turned she caught her own reflection, her hair full of lather, her body naked and wet. She forced herself to look. Her breasts hung, like sagging water balloons, to the place on her rib cage where a small roll of fat had developed. It, in turn, rested on the swell of her round belly. Her fat belly, she corrected herself, which protruded over her pubic hair. Her hips were another monument to fat, the saddlebags visibly divided into three small but distinct ripples. Cottage-cheese thighs. Even her knees were ugly. She had let herself go and become a rounded, disgusting fertility figure. Even her thick, long hair, her one beauty, was starting to show gray streaks. She’d let herself go, something no actress could afford to do. No wonder Sam didn’t sound happy on the phone, or eager to make love. Oh, God, how could anyone love me? she wondered. She was so very, very lucky to have Sam.
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