“My, my,” Sister Wanda said once inside. “This is quite the luxurious setup.”
The Fortune puffed out its lemon-scented mist and started playing a cello concerto. It blinked, I also have Beethoven and Brahms if you prefer that to Bach. The Fortune seemed to know better than to offer Sister Wanda any Bronze Age music.
“Your bicycle can play classical concertos? We have a lot to catch up on, my dear. You were going to tell me something about Clunk and a parade?”
Sister Wanda unrolled her sleeping bag and pulled out her own tiny spiral notebook. She started flipping through it, and Bicycle could see it was filled with precise pencil marks and sketched maps showing Sister Wanda’s route.
“Let’s start comparing notes and see what we can learn from this,” Sister Wanda said. “Then we’ll figure out some dinner.”
Bicycle dug through her pack and brought out her yellow notebook. She looked at its scruffy, chocolate-stained cover and thought about all the miles contained within its pages and felt like she might cry. She handed it to Sister Wanda. “Here, you can look at this if you want, but I’m too tired,” she said sullenly, pulling her blanket out of her pack and lying down on the far side of the tent. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep until she really was.
* * *
—
The next day offered some long downhill stretches that ought to have been a blast to barrel down, but Bicycle couldn’t enjoy them. She stuck to the Sacred Eight Words when Sister Wanda tried to engage her in conversation. The nun finally gave up and lapsed into an I-know-what’s-best-for-you silence as they cruised along.
They passed a big black-and-red WELCOME TO NEVADA billboard with the image of a pickax-holding prospector. Bicycle didn’t care. Sister Wanda stopped at a gas station and bought a postcard of a jackrabbit with miniature antelope horns glued to its head and GREETINGS FROM NEVADA! scrawled across the top in big yellow letters. She wrote a brief note letting Brother Otto and the Top Monk know that she’d found Bicycle and would be depositing her safely at the Friendship Factory soon. Bicycle got a postcard to send to Green Marsh and couldn’t think of anything else to write except:
Dear Griffin, Jeremiah, and Estrella,
Sister Wanda found me. I’m doomed.
Bicycle
The sun rose higher and began baking the world around them. Bicycle was wiping small rivers of sweat from her face, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. “Holy spokes! I thought Utah was hot,” she said.
“If my memory serves me, and it usually does,” Sister Wanda said, “you’ve not seen anything yet when it comes to heat. I’ve read about southwest topography and terrain, and the desert and mountains ahead won’t be any roll in the park, let me tell you. This part of Nevada is like a big rumpled carpet. We’ll climb up a mountain, coast down the other side, then ride a long, flat stretch. A few miles later, another mountainous rumple in the carpet of the desert to climb, then another stretch of desert flatness.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I don’t just buy us bus tickets to Calamity and be done with biking,” Sister Wanda continued.
Bicycle wasn’t. She didn’t want to get to the Friendship Factory any faster than she had to.
“But this area of Nevada isn’t like Washington, D.C. There isn’t a subway or bus that can take us where we need to go. So we’ll make do with the four wheels we’ve got. We’ve both proved we have the muscle power to make it another three days, haven’t we?”
Bicycle didn’t answer.
“Just make sure to drink enough water. And don’t provoke the wild cows,” Sister Wanda admonished.
The Fortune beeped as if to support Sister Wanda’s suggestion. This desert region of Nevada routinely averages over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. My sensors indicate extremely low humidity. Drinking plenty of water and not provoking the wild cows would be wise.
“I’m not going to provoke anything!” Bicycle said. She muttered to the Fortune, “You don’t have to agree with everything she says. Can’t you be on my side?”
The Fortune blinked quietly for a few moments and then replied, I cannot be on your side. I would be unrideable from that position. But I will always be underneath you.
Bicycle considered that. “Thanks,” she said. “I think.”
Bicycle didn’t want one more thing to worry about, but she couldn’t help keeping her eyes peeled for wild cows, whatever they might be. She saw plenty of yellow road signs warning of roaming cattle, elk, and antelope, but the land seemed devoid of any animal life. Only the furry wink of a single rabbit tail hinted at creatures active in the bone-dry stillness.
If Nevada animals were few and far between, Nevada people were equally as scarce. They didn’t pass any towns for a very long time. The sole signs of human habitation along the highway were tiny convenience stores attached to tiny casinos with names like Fat Chance and Lucky 7. They camped their first night in Nevada down the street from an establishment called the Jailhouse Motel.
The next day, Bicycle continued to ride in silence, her emotions cycling through despair, to anger, to regret, to brief stints of frenzied escape-plan-making, leading back to despair when she looked at the upright and unyielding figure riding beside her. Even when the pair went to a SlowDown Café for a late lunch, Bicycle found she didn’t have much of an appetite. She mechanically chewed and swallowed her tumbleweed lasagna and elk chops until she couldn’t stand to put another forkful in her mouth. What was the point in eating? It would only give her energy to bike. What was the point in biking? It would only bring her to Calamity. There was nothing fun about riding across the country when your destination was nowhere you wanted to end up.
The chef who came to check on how they’d enjoyed their meal gave her a long look as she pushed lasagna noodles around with her fork. “Are you Bicycle? The girl everyone’s been keeping track of, headed to California?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she said. She hoped he’d understand that her lack of appetite had nothing to do with the quality of his cooking and everything to do with the heavy feeling in her stomach.
“I am Bicycle’s guardian, Sister Wanda,” Sister Wanda introduced herself. “How kind that you have been looking out for her. Your food is tremendous.”
“Thank you. We are pretty proud of it,” the chef answered. He dropped a dish towel on the floor and as he bent down, he whispered to Bicycle, “Are you okay? Is this the lady in black that has been asking after you? She doesn’t look as bony as some of the other chefs said, but they were right when they said her eyes bore right through you.”
Bicycle tried to think of some way to tell the chef the mess she was in, to ask for help. She opened her mouth and nothing came out, like a monk-in-training who couldn’t pick which of the Sacred Eight Words to use. Without much conviction, she eventually said, “I’m okay.”
The chef tilted his head. “If you say so. I’ll wrap up those leftovers and make a Feed Bag for you.” He took her food back to the kitchen.
Sister Wanda stood up as the chef brought back Bicycle’s leftovers and Feed Bag and headed for the door. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve miles to go before we sleep.”
* * *
—
Sister Wanda spent that evening comparing her maps with the Fortune’s navigation system and confirming their route to the Friendship Factory. The next day a road sign informed the pair that they were traveling on HIGHWAY 50—THE LONELIEST ROAD IN AMERICA. They pedaled past the Loneliest Hardware Store in America, the Loneliest Golf Course in America, and they got some bagels at the Loneliest Jewish Deli in America. Finally—it was bound to come along at some point—they rolled into the Loneliest Town on the Loneliest Road in America. It had a casino, three restaurants, and an opera house.
“An opera house is lovely, to be sure, but let’s see if they have the real measure of civilization: an ice cream parlor,” Sister Wanda said. “We’re nearly to Calamity. We’ll stop here to have a treat before finding a campsite, and I’ll use their pay phone
to call the Friendship Factory and tell them to expect us tomorrow.”
It didn’t take long to hunt down Lonesome Licks, where they each sat at the counter with a peanut butter hot fudge sundae piled high with handmade whipped cream. Bicycle knew Sister Wanda was trying to be nice by treating her to ice cream, but as soon as the sundae was sitting in front of her, a sick-to-her-stomach feeling rose up. She unenthusiastically poked at the whipped cream with her spoon, tummy gurgling and lurching, and knew she couldn’t eat it. She decided she should choke down a vitamin pellet from the Fortune so she wouldn’t waste away to nothing.
“I’m going to get something from the Fortune,” she said to Sister Wanda, who was already deep into her own sundae. Bicycle shuffled out the door and over to the bicycle rack, eyes watering from the intense heat. She didn’t even see the man standing next to their bikes until she bumped into him.
“Excuse me, sir,” she apologized.
He didn’t answer. He was staring at the Fortune as if he were in a trance.
“Uh, excuse me?” she tried again. “I need to get to my bike, please.”
The man swam out of his trance and focused his eyes on Bicycle. “Hmmm? Oh, certainly, go ahead.” He stepped back, looking dazed.
Bicycle got close to the Fortune, checking that her pack was still secure. Nothing seemed to have been touched, but she felt nervous about the attention the man had been paying the bike. She kneeled down and pretended she was adjusting her brake cables, but instead she shifted to the side and peered discreetly at the man behind her.
The dapper gentleman was still standing there, looking off into space. His well-trimmed hair was glossy black shot through with a few strands of gray. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, a pale blue shirt, and a silver tie. The tie was decorated with little shapes that Bicycle made out to be question marks. She gave him one more look and decided he seemed harmless enough. She stood up, pressed the purple button for a vitamin pellet, and returned to the air-conditioned comfort of her stool in Lonesome Licks. Sister Wanda had already made short work of her sundae and was over in the corner, using the pay phone to call the Friendship Factory.
The door jingled as the gentleman came into the parlor. Bicycle chased the vitamin pellet down her throat with a gulp of ice water as he sat on the stool next to her. He ordered a double-thick cactus milk shake. She tried to look at him out of the corner of her eye, and noticed he was looking at her out of the corner of his eye.
He then whispered to her out of the corner of his mouth. “Did they send you to find me?”
She turned to face him. “Excuse me?”
He agitatedly flapped his hands at her and whispered more loudly, “No, don’t look at me! Pretend we’re not talking. Just tell me: Did my children send you? Or the government—do they want me to try inventing something else for them?”
Unnerved, she quickly turned her head to face forward and whispered back to him out of the corner of her own mouth. “Uh…no idea who you are, sir. I need to be going now.” She started to inch off the stool, ready to dash for the safety of Sister Wanda’s side.
The man dropped the pretense of secrecy and faced her, speaking in a regular tone of voice. “You mean you showed up on that bike in this town without looking for me?” He clapped his hands together like a toddler on Christmas day. “The Wheels of Fortune got a chance to spin after all! Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Luck Alvarado. My dear, are you all right?”
Bicycle’s jaw had dropped down onto her chest. “D-D-D-Dr. Luck Alvarado? Inventor of the Wheels of Fortune 713-J?” she stuttered.
He nodded happily.
She attempted to recover some politeness. “Hello. I’m Bicycle.” She didn’t know what else to say, so she just kept staring at him.
“I’m sorry, this is probably very startling for you,” he said. “I forget sometimes that not everyone ponders the worldwide currents of luck. And this is quite a surprise, even for me.”
Sister Wanda had noticed their conversation, and now she came over to introduce herself as Bicycle’s guardian, a retired Nearly Silent Nun.
“I am the inventor of Bicycle’s bicycle,” Dr. Alvarado said, standing up. He suavely kissed Sister Wanda’s proffered hand. “Always a pleasure to meet a Nearly Silent Nun, retired or not. Your work is so valuable. Come, come, we must get to know one another better. You will tell me your story? And I will tell you mine? And we will find how our stories came to intertwine here at Lonesome Licks.”
“I don’t know…,” Sister Wanda began.
“Oh, please, you must humor me. It isn’t often that I get to delight in the company of two lovely ladies.” He took her hand again and gave it another peck, and Sister Wanda turned the faintest shade of pink.
“I suppose we have time for a chat before we have to set up camp for the night,” she said. “You’re an inventor, you say?”
He ushered them to a table, and the waiter brought over his milk shake. Between long pulls on his straw, Dr. Alvarado explained how he’d ended up on the loneliest stretch of Nevada. From what Bicycle understood, he’d been given a big pile of money by the government to work on the Wheels of Fortune project. However, after official inspectors checked out Dr. Alvarado’s finished prototype, the government withdrew their money.
“Apparently, when they requested that I invent the perfect long-distance traveling machine, they were envisioning armor-plated tanks with various guns and explosives. Not harmless blue-and-yellow bicycles.” He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m not a tank sort of person. However, that was not why I left Kansas.” He looked pained, pausing in his tale to slurp some cactus milk shake.
“It didn’t matter much to me that the government withdrew their money. However, when my children found out about it, they went through the roof. They have been living off my invention money their entire lives. Never had jobs or families of their own. Their mother passed away when they were very young, and I am sorry to say I do not seem to have been a good father. Do you know the expression ‘He is a good egg’? It is a compliment—it means someone is a good person. My children are the opposite. They are rotten eggs.” He sighed.
“Anyway, it turns out my son and daughter had big plans to spend that government money on some extremely expensive cars with hot tubs and movie screens built into them. We had a fight. They demanded that I get the money back. I told them they could live without their movie-star cars. Then my son, pretending to be me, called the government representative and agreed to build a huge tank with machine guns and grenade launchers if they would send another check. My daughter was coaching him through what to say on the phone when I came upon them. I grabbed the phone, canceled the plans, and told my children that was the last straw.
“I left everything behind—including the Fortune 713-J, even though it could have helped me in my travels—and took off with nothing but the clothes on my back and the brains in my head. I did not tell my children where I was going. I did not even know myself where I was going. I felt certain that as long as I was around and they could sponge off me indefinitely, my rotten eggs would stay spoiled. It seemed like the right thing to do. I needed a fresh start.”
As he’d been talking, he’d taken several straws from the straw dispenser and was absentmindedly weaving them together into a delicate bracelet.
Bicycle said, “They still seem to care an awful lot about money.”
Dr. Alvarado raised his eyebrows. “You’ve met my children?”
“I have. I bought the Fortune from them,” she said, thinking back to the brother and sister gloating over the cash box at the Alvarado Estate auction. “I think you did the right thing.”
Dr. Alvarado handed her the plastic straw bracelet. “I continue to hope so. At any rate, I walked away from my home and hitchhiked the highways of America, looking for a place where I would be free to pursue my studies, someplace my children could not track me down. All I needed was peace and quiet to begin again. I wanted to find a location far away from everywhere.” H
e spread his hands to indicate the town around them. “I settled here. I still invent things and sell them, but now I focus more on my real passion, trying to scientifically understand luck.” He drank the last of his milk shake and said, “Now it’s your turn. What twists and turns of fate brought our fortunes together?”
Bicycle caught him up on the auction in Kansas and her adventures in the Wild West. Sister Wanda explained that their journey would be ending tomorrow at the Friendship Factory in Calamity. Bicycle added, “The perfect name for a disaster,” and Sister Wanda gave her a warning look.
Dr. Alvarado made charming and sympathetic noises that somehow convinced both Sister Wanda and Bicycle that he understood and agreed with each of them, and invited them to stay in his guest room for the night. He wanted to take a look at the Fortune in his workshop, explaining, “I am very excited to see how my invention has been working.”
Sister Wanda said, “I never turn down an opportunity to learn something or teach Bicycle something new. Lead on, sir.”
They walked from the ice cream parlor toward Dr. Alvarado’s place, a modest one-story house at the end of a nearby cul-de-sac. He ushered them through the front door and told them to make themselves at home. Sister Wanda was immediately captivated by his library, opening a manuscript entitled The Physics and Chemistry of Luck. Dr. Alvarado hoisted the Fortune over one shoulder, and he and Bicycle descended a staircase to his workshop. The cool and cavernous basement workshop was full of projects in various states of completion. Electronic tidbits, drills, and soldering irons littered two long workbenches.
Dr. Alvarado clamped the Fortune up on a stand where he could see it better, dragging over a tall lamp for more light. He pulled out a cable and hooked up the Fortune to a computer with an oversized monitor. He started tapping keys, glancing back and forth between the bike and the monitor. “Well, well,” he said, beginning to type more feverishly. “Well, well, well!”
The Adventures of a Girl Called Bicycle Page 16
