Mango Digger

by Bill H Myers

  It looked like we were going to have an impromptu picnic.

  Abby handed one of the bottles to Grace, and then opened the cookies. When I sat, she pointed at them and said, “I know you want one.”

  I did.

  After I took a cookie, Abby got one and moved the package closer to Grace so she could get one as well.

  With the three of us sitting at the dinette, in the parking lot of an abandoned gas station at the edge of Lake Providence, Louisiana, Abby turned to Grace and asked, “So what's a nice girl like you doing at a place like this?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Grace almost choked upon hearing the question. She laughed and said, “Spending the night at abandoned gas station wasn't part of my plan. I had a ride that supposedly was going to take me all the way to the state line. But he started getting frisky, and I made him let me out.

  “I tried thumbing another ride, but not many people pick up hitchhikers around here after dark. I couldn't find any places to stay, so when I got to the gas station, I figured it was better than sleeping in a ditch.

  “My plan was to get some sleep, then get up early and catch a ride north. But that didn’t work out. There were wild animals roaming around. I kept hearing them getting closer and closer and I was afraid to sleep. When the sun finally came up, I guess I dozed off. When I woke, you were standing there.”

  Abby nodded. “Sounds like you had a rough night. I'm glad we stopped and saw you. You said you were trying to get home. Where's that?”

  Her answer caught us by surprise.

  “Hot Springs.”

  When neither Abby nor I said anything, she continued.

  “My brother has an auto repair shop there. I work in the office. There's an apartment above the shop; that's where I live.”

  Abby nodded. “Hot Springs? Really? That's where we're going, just past it to the crystal mine in Jessieville.”

  Grace's face lit up with a smile. “That's amazing! You're the first people who stopped for me, and you're going right past where I live. It's like divine intervention. I prayed for something like this and I guess my prayers were heard.”

  She picked up her water and took a sip. I watched but didn't say anything. She and Abby were connecting and I didn't want to do anything to break the mood.

  Grace put her bottle back on the table and looked at Abby, then at me, and shook her head. “I can't believe you stopped and picked me up. It's a miracle. I could have died out there. Something could have happened during the night, and no one would ever have found me. I am so grateful you came along.”

  Abby smiled and said, “We're happy we found you.”

  She pointed at the cookies. “If you're hungry for more, I can make a sandwich. Or, if you want, we can stop in Lake Village and get a burger or something.”

  Grace smiled and said, “I don't want to put you out. Do what you'd do if I weren't here. I'll just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  With that said, I started to get up and go back to the driver's seat, but Grace had a question.

  “I don't want to be nosy, but why the crystal mine in Jessieville? Are you diggers?”

  Abby laughed. “Diggers? Not me. Walker might be one, but I'm not. We're going to the mine looking for a friend of ours. She was camping there last week, and now she’s missing. We're trying to find her.”

  Grace's eyes got wide. “Are we talking about Coleman Crystal mine? In Jessieville? Because I was there last week. All day Friday. Maybe I saw your friend.”

  Abby cocked her head. “You were at the crystal mine? Why?”

  Grace smiled and moved her hand to the collar of her sweat-shirt. She reached in and pulled out a silver chain. On the end, a clear quartz crystal. She held it out so Abby could see it.

  “I make jewelry from crystals. I went there Friday to dig, trying to get my mind off the funeral I had to go to in Baton Rouge.

  “That's where I was coming back from. I took the bus down but wanted to save money on the way back, so I hitched with a friend. Turned out not to be the best idea.

  “But yeah, I was at the crystal mine in Jessieville Friday. What does your friend look like?”

  Abby looked at me for the answer. “You have a picture of her on your phone, don't you?”

  I did, but I didn't know how Abby knew. She'd never asked, and I hadn't mentioned it to her.

  I'd taken several photos of Kat the week we camped together on Florida's nature coast. Most of them with her clothes on.

  I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the photos until I found one of Kat standing in front of her new motorhome. She was smiling and looked happy. It was the last time I saw her.

  I showed it to Grace.

  She looked at it carefully, moving in close, trying to get a better angle. She started shaking her head. “I don't know. It was crowded there on Friday, what with the Rainbow people and all. I might have seen her, but, if I did, I didn't notice anything about her or who she was with. What was she driving? Maybe she parked close to me in the lot.”

  Abby answered, “She was in her motorhome, the one in the photo. It was probably parked in the campground.”

  Grace frowned. “I drove past the campground, but it's up in the trees, and I didn't see any of the campers.”

  Abby nodded. “That's okay. It was a long shot at best. She may not have even been there Friday. You mentioned the Rainbow people. Who are they?”

  Grace shook her head, frowning with disapproval. “They're a bunch of hippies who come in each fall and camp out in the Ouachita National Forest. They show up in school buses and vans and all sorts of broken down cars and trucks. Their camp is just north of Jessieville.

  “The newspaper said there were over a thousand them camping out there this year, playing loud music, smoking pot, running around naked and doing who knows what. I've never been out there. Too many weirdos for me.

  “There was a bunch of them at the crystal mine when I was there Friday. They're easy to recognize, wearing their tie-dyed T-shirts and hemp beanies, pretending to look for crystals while trying to recruit new members.”

  Grace was silent for a moment then said, “If you don't find your friend at the mine, you might want to check the Rainbow camp. Maybe she went over there to take a look.”

  Abby nodded. “We'll definitely do that.”

  Grace put her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn, and then looked down at the map I had put on the table earlier. She smiled but didn't say anything.

  Since it looked like we were through talking, at least for the moment, I said, “I'm going to get us back on the road. If you girls need anything, let me know.”

  I went up front and got the motorhome started. I looked back in the mirror to make sure both Abby and Grace were seated. I didn't want to pull out onto the road with either of them standing.

  They had both moved to the couch. Bob had come up front and joined them. He had squeezed in between the two women and was soaking up all the attention they were giving him.

  With everything secure in the back, I checked traffic and pulled back out on the road and headed north. Hot Springs was four hours away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thirty minutes after getting back on the road, Abby came up front to join me. She settled in on the passenger seat and nodded. She seemed happy.

  A few minutes later, she leaned over and whispered, “Grace is sleeping on the couch. She had a rough night and could barely keep her eyes open while we were talking.

  “I told her to get some rest. We’ll wake her when we get to Hot Springs.”

  It sounded like a good plan to me. Having filled up with gas at Love’s, we had enough gas to get there without having to stop again.

  An hour later, we crossed the Arkansas state line and the two-lane road widened to four. It was in good condition and we had no problem cruising at the speed limit. There were a few small towns where the posted limit dropped to thirty-five. A couple of these had stop lights, but most didn't, usually just a cluster of three
or four buildings on the side of the road. We'd slow down as required and then get back to cruising speed after passing through.

  The only city of size was Pine Bluff and we could smell it long before we got there. They have a big paper mill just outside of town, and the pungent rotten egg smell hits you hard. Had I not known about the mill, I would have thought one of us had gotten really sick from something we ate. The smell was that bad.

  But I knew what it was and told Abby about it as soon as I got the first whiff. As it got stronger, we covered our noses with our shirts and tried not to breathe too deeply. I kept wondering how the locals could put up with it.

  Somewhere along the line, I'd learned they called it the “smell of money,” because the paper mills had created a lot of jobs and boosted the local economy. Still, there wouldn't be enough money to get me to put up with it.

  It didn't seem to bother Grace; she slept right through it, or pretended to.

  Ten miles north of Pine Bluff, we got off the four-lane and onto US270, the two-lane road that would take us through the piney woods and rolling hills of southern Arkansas all the way to Hot Springs.

  Surprisingly, the road was in excellent condition. There was almost no traffic and the motorhome had no problem with the small hills. I set the cruise control to fifty-five and enjoyed the drive.

  Fifteen miles outside of Hot Springs, I turned to Abby and said, “It's time to wake her. She needs to show us the way.”

  I'd been to Hot Springs before and pretty much knew how to get through town, but I didn't know where Grace lived or where she wanted us to drop her off. If it were on the south side of town, we could take the bypass; but if it were on the north, we would have to go through downtown, past the national park and Bath House Row.

  I watched in the rear-view mirror as Abby sat down on the edge of the couch and tapped Grace's shoulder. She said, “Grace, we're almost there. Hot Springs.”

  She had to say it twice, louder the second time, before Grace heard her and woke. She sat up, stretched and looked out the window. We had gotten to Jones Mill, a small town on the outskirts of Hot Springs and Grace immediately knew where she was.

  She stretched again and said, “That was quick. How long did I sleep?”

  Abby answered, then helped Grace get up off the couch and led her up front. She put her in the passenger seat beside me and then she went back to the couch.

  I turned to her and asked, “Where can I take you?”

  She smiled. “My brother's shop. It's on the north side of town at the junction of highway 5 and 7. Best way to get there is to stay on 270 until you get to highway 7 and then go north.”

  I nodded. Highway 7 would take us through the old part of Hot Springs, the downtown area through the national park and past Bath House Row. From there it would go north toward Jessieville and the crystal mine.

  Even if Grace hadn't been with us, this was the way we would have gone.

  For the most part, after reaching the city limits, it was stop and go traffic. Not too much congestion, just a lot of stop lights as inbound visitors were funneled into the valley where the national park and hot water springs were located.

  Sitting up high in the motorhome, we had a grand view of the city as we passed through. Abby had never visited, so Grace told her the history of the places we passed. She explained that even though Hot Springs was famous for the hot water that bubbled out of the ground, all the springs except for one had been capped by the park service. The water was way too hot to get into, and it was deemed too dangerous to leave the springs open to the public.

  So instead, the hot water was piped from the capped springs into the bath houses that lined Central Avenue. For more than a hundred and fifty years, people from all over the world had come to take baths in what were said to be the healing waters.

  Unfortunately, over time, the heat and humidity of the water had taken a toll on the interiors of the grand halls, and one by one they had closed their doors and been left to the ravages of nature.

  They were too costly for the park service to renovate, and they sat idle for almost thirty years. But the community didn't want to lose the bath house heritage, so through a cooperative effort with the park service, local entrepreneurs had gotten involved and had so far saved three of the buildings. One had been re-purposed as an art gallery, one as a health spa and the other as a restaurant.

  Abby was impressed with Grace's knowledge and asked, “Do a lot of people still come for the hot water? Do they really come to take baths?”

  Grace nodded. “Yeah, a lot of people believe the hot waters do have healing properties. Doctors included. In fact, there was a time when doctors across the world would send patients here to take the baths. Famous people. Presidents, gangsters, baseball players, they all came.

  “But not so much anymore. I've taken the tour but never really saw the point of paying to sit in a tub of hot water, especially with a bunch of strangers walking around.

  “If it were like the old days and the springs were natural and outdoors and free, I might consider it. But with the water being piped in, I can't see paying fifty bucks for a twenty-minute soak.”

  I didn't say it out loud, but I agreed with her sentiment. Fifty dollars was a lot to pay for a few minutes in a bath tub filled with piped in water.

  As we reached the end of Bath House Row, Grace pointed out the Arlington hotel and told about its long history of attracting the rich and famous. Al Capone, President Truman, and Bill Clinton stayed there when they were in town.

  Leaving the Arlington behind, we passed a series of small shops and art galleries leading into an area known as Park Avenue. It was on the north end of Bath House Row and was originally where tourists had stayed in small motor courts. But after the big hotels were built, the motor courts closed and many went to ruin.

  The area had seen some tough times, but it was clear that it was changing. A new coffee shop, a pizzeria, and a few art galleries had sprouted up and many of the quaint old buildings were being rehabbed.

  Leaving Park Avenue, the road north took us back into the piney forests. Along the way, a road off to the right led to Gulpha Gorge, the National Park campground. I'd stayed there once before, and if I needed a place to camp in Hot Springs, it would be my first choice. But we weren't staying in Hot Springs; we were going to the crystal mine.

  We were about six miles past the national park when Grace said, “If your friend came up here to dig crystals and if she didn't find what she wanted at Coleman's, she might have gone to another mine. There's one in Mount Ida that's known as having the best jewelry points. That's where the locals go when they want to find crystals they can sell.

  “But your friend couldn't get there in a motorhome. The mine is six miles down a narrow dirt road and there's no campground. If she wanted to go there, she'd need to get someone to take her. But if she wanted to find crystals to sell, that'd be the place.”

  Abby was interested. “What's it called? This hard-to-get-to mine?”

  “Sweet Surrender.”

  She touched the crystal hanging on the chain around her neck. “That's where I found this one, at the Sweet Surrender mine.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Up ahead, on the right. Just past the greenhouses. Pull in there.”

  We had gotten to the junction of highway 5 and 7, just north of Hot Springs. Grace was telling me how to get to her brother's shop.

  I slowed the motorhome and following her guidance, pulled off the road onto a driveway just past a row of greenhouses. A sign out front read, “Miller's Pit Stop, truck and car repair.” The lot was small, but plenty big enough for the motorhome. I pulled in and parked.

  The building looked like it had once been a gas station with two service bays. A glassed-in office on the right with a second story added above. That was probably where Grace lived.

  A six-foot-high chain link fence separated the front lot from the back where several older cars and trucks were parked. Tall weeds sprouting between them
suggested they had been there a long time, maybe even before her brother opened the shop.

  On the front lot, to the left of the service bays, sat three green Jeep Cherokee wagons, each with a “For Sale” sign on their windshields. Next to the Jeeps, an older Dodge conversion van. It too had “For Sale” sign on it.

  The door to one of the service bays was open, and I could see a car up on a lift with a man working under it. The office looked empty. No one inside.

  As soon as I had the motorhome parked, Grace stood and said, “Don't go anywhere, I want you to meet my brother.”

  She grabbed her suitcase and hurried to the side door. She tried to open it but it was locked, and she couldn't get out. While she was standing there trying to figure how to unlock it, the man who had been working under the car turned and saw the motorhome. He nodded, pulled a rag out of his back pocket, wiped his hands, and started walking toward us.

  He was about halfway across the lot when Grace finally got the door open. She stepped out, and the man's face lit up when he saw her. He ran over to her and said, “Grace, why didn't you call? I was worried.”

  Instead of waiting for an answer, he wrapped her up in a bear hug and said, “I'm glad you're back.”

  When he released the hug, he looked up at the motorhome and said, “Looks like you're riding in style. You want to introduce me to your friends?”

  Abby had gone out the side door, closing it quickly behind her so that Bob wouldn't get out. I went out the driver's door and walked over to join her.

  Grace made the introductions. “Walker, Abby, this is Daniel, my brother.”

  He smiled and shook our hands. He started to say something, but Grace interrupted. “They rescued me. Probably saved my life. They saw me on the side of the road and stopped to see if I was okay. I wasn't. They offered me food and water and a way to get back here. They were headed to the crystal mine in Jessieville. Going right by here. What are the odds?”