“I understand,” Judy said. “I would feel the same way. Still, I need a solution that won’t put me in jail.” She sighed and looked up to the ceiling. Her eyes went back and forth like she was in a wide-awake REM state. Finally, after a few minutes she said, “I think I’ve thought of something. Do you have a picture of your daughter with Davis?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
They ate dinner at a truck stop in Utah. It was a bustling place whose customers consisted mainly of large men with booming voices. From their table, way in the back corner near the kitchen, the smell of battered chicken and pan-fried potatoes filled the air. When the food arrived, Laverne was delighted to see the piled-high plates and the beverages served in tall glasses filled with crushed ice. “You can always tell where the good food is by seeing what place is busy,” Laverne said, digging into her meatloaf. Marnie nodded in agreement even though she wasn’t as in love with the BLT she’d ordered. The bacon was nice and crisp, but the tomato was an anemic pink, and the iceberg lettuce was fringed with brown. Still, most everything else was fine. The waitress, a peroxide blonde of about sixty-five named Shirley, was friendly, and everything on the laminated menu was cheap.
When they finished, Shirley brought a handwritten bill on a scrap of paper the size of a postcard. “You can pay up front at the register,” she said, slapping it on the table. “You drive safe now.” Marnie imaged that she had said these words a thousand times or more. They had to be etched into her mouth, her vocal cords, the very core of her.
When Laverne went to get her wallet, Marnie stopped her and opened her bag. “It’s my turn to pay. Remember?” They’d taken to trading off now that it was just the two of them. It seemed easier.
Laverne nodded. She put down her napkin and said, “I’ll make a pit stop then, while you pay.” She trundled off with her purse clutched to her side and greeted the truckers sitting at the counter as she went past. Marnie opened her wallet until she found a twenty and then got in line behind a man at the pay station. It was there she noticed the boy sitting on a folding chair behind the cash register, his ankles tied to the chair legs with twine. He wore ripped blue jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt and had a red bandana wound around his floppy black hair like he was from a 1990s boy band. He looked to be about Troy’s age, maybe a little older. From the look on his face he was in complete misery; he kept shooting glances at the parking lot and nervously chewing his lip. Marnie found herself strangely drawn to this kid. “Are you okay?” she asked him, and when he looked up, she saw intense gray eyes fringed with dark lashes.
“Don’t worry about the likes of him,” the heavyset man behind the register said. Without Marnie realizing it, the line had shortened and it was now her turn. “The kid’s getting what he deserves.”
“I told you that my dad was going to come back for me! He has my wallet,” the teenager said, and it was part wail, part indignation. Marnie knew that tone well. She’d heard it from Troy many times.
She moved closer to the counter and handed the man her bill and money. “What did he do?” she asked, looking over sympathetically. The kid looked like he needed a good hug. She was tempted to scoop him up herself.
“He ordered food and now he can’t pay. And if that’s not bad enough, he tried to pickpocket one of my waitresses. He had his damn hand right in her pocket. If another customer hadn’t noticed, he’d have walked off with her money.” The man shuffled through some bills, double-checking before handing them over the counter. “The police are on their way.” He raised his eyebrows menacingly at the kid. “Or at least they will be as soon as I call. I’m tempted to just inflict some punishment of my own.”
“That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?” Marnie said. “He’s just a kid.” The boy raised his head and gave her a grateful look. With his hair poking out of his bandana he looked heartbreakingly young. She could imagine him standing in front of the mirror in the morning, trying to get the bandana angled just right and then unwrapping it and doing it over again. Image was everything at that age.
He shrugged. “I run a business, not a soup kitchen. And the girls who work here deserve every penny they make. They don’t need some punk ripping them off.”
Marnie took her change, and when the man’s beefy hand brushed hers she got what felt like a cosmic jolt. Suddenly she saw the whole thing as if she were looking down on the scene. The repentant boy on the bench, the unyielding diner owner, and even herself, Marnie, formerly a mouse, but now someone who took charge. They were all pieces in a real-life board game and it was her turn to make a move. Behind her another customer, a large trucker, said, “Are you finished?” and she turned to see beefy shoulders, tattooed arms, and a handlebar mustache.
“Just a minute,” she said to him, and then to the owner: “I would like to pay the boy’s bill.”
“Lady, I know you’re being a Good Samaritan, and that’s real nice and all, but in the long run, you won’t be helping him. I know his type. He needs to learn.”
“I insist,” she said. “Just tell me how much and I’ll pay it right now.”
The boy leapt to his feet and moved forward, dragging the chair with him. He was taller than she’d thought, maybe three or four inches taller than herself. Still, something about him made him look small. Maybe it was the untucked T-shirt two sizes too large for him. “I swear I’ll pay you back, miss. I mean it, I’ll do anything—”
“Hey! Get back there and sit down,” the owner said, swatting him with an outstretched arm. “I will kill you.” The way he said it made the hackles on Marnie’s neck rise and stopped conversation in the diner. Customers paused mid-chew to see what the ruckus was about.
The handlebar mustache guy standing behind Marnie said, “Eh, Scooter, if the lady is willing to pay, let the kid go. Why be such a hard-ass?”
Scooter? Was there ever such an unlikely pairing of man and name? Marnie watched this drama play out while still aware of Laverne returning from the ladies’ room. Marnie held up a twenty-dollar bill and raised it in the air. “Let’s just settle up, sir.” She added the sir as a courtesy. “If you let him go, I’m sure this young man will never bother you again.”
“That’s for sure,” the kid said, frantically. “I’ll never come in here again.”
“Damn right you won’t.” The owner plucked the twenty out of Marnie’s hand. “This should cover it.” He stuck the bill into his drawer and slammed it shut. Furious, he took scissors and cut the twine holding the kid hostage. “Now get the hell out,” he yelled at the boy, who didn’t wait but hastily dashed out the door. “Good riddance,” the owner muttered loudly. An unnecessary show of authority, Marnie thought. With the disturbance now over, the other customers resumed talking.
Laverne came up alongside Marnie with a puzzled look on her face. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you outside,” Marnie said.
“Well, that was real nice of you to pay for him,” Laverne said in the car, after Marnie had explained. They were still in the parking lot, the engine idling. Marnie felt it necessary to have the diner in sight, almost as if it would help illustrate the story. “Not too many people would have done that for a kid they didn’t know.”
“Oh, you would have done it too, if you saw him,” Marnie told her with certainty. “The look on his face would have broken your heart. Poor kid. All I could think was that I’d want someone to help Troy if he was in the same situation.”
“You were looking at him with your mom eyes,” Laverne said.
“I couldn’t help it,” Marnie said, adjusting the angle of Carson’s GPS, which was suction-cupped to the windshield again. “I guess we should hit the road. I want to get another two or three hours in before we stop for the night.”
They circled the building and turned onto the frontage road that would take them to the freeway. Marnie couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw a familiar figure in the distance. Like a mirage, the kid in the red bandana stood on the shoulder of the road, his thumb held up hitchhik
er-style. “That’s him,” Marnie said, excitedly, “the boy from the diner.”
“Looks more like a man than a boy to me,” Laverne said, but Marnie disregarded her comment and slowed the car until they were alongside him.
“Hello,” she called out. “Remember me? I’m the lady who paid your bill.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I know.” He shuffled his feet in a way that struck her as being modest. “Very nice of you. Thank you.”
“Do you need a ride?”
Laverne reached over and gripped the loose skin on Marnie’s elbow. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
What a weird sensation, having someone pull on your elbow. Marnie shook her off. “We’re heading west toward Las Vegas.”
The kid didn’t wait but went to the back door of the car even before Marnie could undo the lock. There was an awkward exchange when he pulled on the latch at the same time as she was releasing it, so it didn’t work, but the second time their timing was better, and he got the door open and scrambled into the backseat like he belonged there. “This is great, thanks,” he said. “I’m going the same way you are.”
“Where exactly are you going?” Laverne asked. “And why don’t you have a ride?” She sounded downright mistrustful.
To counteract Laverne’s rudeness, Marnie said, “My name’s Marnie and this is my friend Laverne. We’re from Wisconsin.”
“I’m Max,” he said, fastening his seat belt in one smooth motion. “From Colorado. I’m heading to California. I’ll go as far as you’ll take me.”
“I have a stepson about your age,” Marnie said. “His name is Troy. I haven’t seen him in quite a while.”
“You have a last name there, Max?” Laverne’s forehead furrowed in disapproval.
Marnie could have clunked her on the head for being so abrupt. “There’s no need to interrogate him,” she said primly. “He’s had a rough day.” She steered the car back onto the roadway.
“Yeah, it’s been a rough day. My dad abandoned me at the truck stop. He has a powerful bad temper and he randomly got pissed off and just stormed out.”
“What was he so mad about?” Laverne asked.
“I said I wanted to live with my mom. That I was sick of taking his abuse.”
“Well, good for you!” Marnie said, hoping her enthusiasm would set a tone and encourage Laverne to be a little more welcoming. “And is that why you’re going to California? To see your mom?”
“Yeah, that’s why,” Max said. “She has custody, but my dad took me for a visit and wouldn’t let me go back. He wouldn’t let me call her or anything. I miss her so much.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Marnie said. She wished she could turn around and give him a smile, but she had to settle for a glance in the mirror. He didn’t meet her gaze though; he was too busy looking out the window. “Do you want to borrow my cell phone to call your mom?”
“Nah. She’s at work right now, so I couldn’t talk to her anyway.”
“You could leave a message,” Marnie said. “I’m sure she’s sick with worry.”
“I called her from the restaurant and said I was on my way. She knows I’m fine.”
“Oh,” Marnie said. Something about that didn’t ring true. Hadn’t he said his father wouldn’t let him call his mother? She was sure of it. So how had he called from the restaurant? The kid didn’t seem to have a phone on him. Or anything at all for that matter—just the clothes on his back. And there’s no way the owner would have let him call. That maniac was an inch away from killing the kid. And over what? Twenty dollars? Although now that she thought of it, that must have been a heckuva lunch. The total combined for her and Laverne’s lunch came to less than fifteen. Clearly she’d been ripped off.
“What are you going to do once we drop you off?” Laverne asked. “With no money and no phone?” She’d turned around so far her body had twisted out from underneath the shoulder portion of the seat belt.
He shrugged his shoulders defensively. “I’ll figure out something. People are nice. I’m sure someone will help me out. You did.”
“Is that a style with the kids now, a scarf wrapped around the head?” Laverne asked, casting a critical eye.
“It’s a bandana,” Marnie said. “I like it.”
Max said nothing. He looked preoccupied, as if watching the passing cars in the left lane fascinated him. With one finger, he pushed the bandana upward, giving it a jaunty look.
“It looks good,” Marnie said, but Max’s eyes never veered from the window.
“How old are you anyway?” Laverne asked him.
“Old enough,” he said, in a bored, disaffected way. “I’ve been on my own for a long time.” Marnie thought he probably meant he was taking care of himself for a long time. She remembered being that age and thinking that adults were extraneous. At fourteen or fifteen she’d been convinced that if her parents suddenly disappeared off the face of the planet, she’d manage just fine on her own. Maybe even better than when they were there.
Laverne turned up the radio, and country music blared out of the car’s speakers. She leaned toward Marnie and said something indecipherable out of the side of her mouth.
“What?”
She repeated it, but Marnie still couldn’t make it out. Finally, Laverne fumbled through her purse until she found a pen. She wrote on the back of an old receipt and held it against the dashboard, sneaking a look back at the boy. The note said, BOY UNDERAGE TAKE TO POLICE STATION.
Marnie looked from the note up to Laverne, whose forehead was creased with worry. She glanced in the rearview mirror to see that Max now had his head tipped back and eyes closed. His unlined face and long lashes made him look like a small child, and she could see that his tough-guy exterior was just a façade for a sweet, mixed-up kid. Could he be lying to them? Maybe. But she didn’t want to believe it. She turned back to Laverne and shook her head.
Laverne gave her a withering look and took pen to paper again. At the bottom of the receipt she added: NEXT STOP. I WILL CALL.
“If you insist,” Marnie said, and this time didn’t even bother lowering her voice. Laverne underlined the words with a pointed finger for emphasis, but Marnie pretended not to notice and lowered the volume of the radio.
They’d driven for a half hour or more when Laverne broke through the silence. “You can’t keep him, you know. It’s not like finding a stray puppy.” She fiddled with the sun visor, first putting it up, then reconsidering and lowering it again. “He’s somebody’s kid.”
“I know that,” Marnie said evenly, but inside she’d bristled. Oh why had she agreed to let Laverne come along? She’d have been better off driving by herself. She was thirty-five years old and capable of making her own decisions. She didn’t need a keeper.
Laverne, oblivious to Marnie’s irritation, continued. “We could get ourselves in a mess of trouble taking that kid over state lines. We could be charged with kidnapping or something.”
Now that was something she hadn’t considered. Marnie massaged her forehead and deliberated. She sighed. “At the next stop, I’ll have him call his mom and talk to her myself,” she said.
“And we never did find out his last name,” Laverne said. “Very fishy.”
“Kids hate answering questions,” Marnie said, remembering how it was with Troy. “If you give them time, eventually it spills out.” She knew this from personal experience. Over the last year or so, she’d learned not to ask Troy how his school day had gone. He acted as if she was prying. Instead she gave him some space, both physically and emotionally, trusting that if he needed to talk, he’d come to her. And he always did. Granted, it was often at inconvenient times. She’d be watching a movie on TV and just getting to the climactic part and wouldn’t you know it—there would be Troy, a dark silhouette in the doorway wanting her immediate attention. She never let on that his timing was poor, just shut off the movie and made room for him on the couch. Brian never had the knack or patience for it, even after she explained it to h
im. Troy would want to talk and his father would say, “Does it have to be now?” and Troy would lower his head and duck out of the room. She knew there would never be a better time. Moments like that pass, and then they’re gone.
“I know kids hate answering questions,” Laverne grumbled. “I raised three of my own, so I know full well, but jeez, I don’t think asking his last name is prying.”
On this leg of the trip, Marnie developed a new appreciation for Jazzy and Rita. When those two had been in charge, she’d never had to worry about getting lost or how far it was to the next stop. Between the GPS and her phone, Jazzy attended to every detail. Laverne had the same equipment at her disposal but failed to keep up. Marnie saw the sign for the rest area a full thirty seconds before Laverne announced they were approaching one. Really, she wasn’t much help at all.
It was late when they arrived at the rest stop and not a moment too soon, according to Laverne, who swore her bladder was fit to burst. It was so late, Marnie wondered if the place would be closed, but when she said as much, Laverne said, “Rest stops never close,” in a way that implied Marnie was clueless. This from a woman who’d never left Wisconsin until recently.
The rest stop was lit up, and as they got closer, they saw a few other cars. “We’re here,” Marnie chirped, shifting into park and shutting off the engine. Stepping out of the car, the warm, thick air greeted her like a vaporous blanket. It was so easy to get used to air-conditioning, to think that comfortable temperatures were a given.
Standing on the other side of the vehicle, Laverne pointed and said, “Are you going to wake up Johnny Depp, or should I?” When Marnie said she would, Laverne added, “Good, ’cause I’m late to a meeting.” And off she went, her short legs scissoring quickly up to the building.
Marnie had already decided she’d pay for a hotel room for Max that night. Hopefully they could get two adjacent rooms, so she could keep an eye on him. She’d talk to his mother tonight, and they could work something out. Maybe his mom would want to meet them in Las Vegas? That’s what she would do, if it were her son. She opened the car door in back and leaned over Max, who still had his eyes closed. She watched him sleep for a minute or more. He looked so peaceful, she hated to disturb him. “Max?” she said gently, almost crooning the word. “We’re stopping now. Do you need to use the restroom?”
The Long Way Home Page 18
