Part of me, I have to say, wanted to drop everything and head there immediately after my last conversation with her. Caleb, more cool headed, pointed out that after several decades, another couple weeks would hardly matter. Gently phrasing his words, but also reminding me that there was a good chance the guy had passed on by now. Injured as he had been. Or even living, he would be over 90, perhaps even more befuddled day to day than Vera sometimes was.
What a wonder that woman is, waiting decades to tell anyone her story and then leaving out a critical piece. It was how the story unfolded for Vera herself, she had tried to explain to me – as far as she knew for 12 years, he was dead. Another half dozen passed before she found out that he was married with kids in Monterey. And now, it’s all in the distant past. Vera is hard pressed to even leave her room these days, much less traipse around seeking her old boyfriend. Possibly she wouldn’t want him to see her now, when his memories were of her so vital and lovely as a young woman.
My initial internet search turned up nothing, I guess not surprisingly. Little info to go on, a common surname. But obviously we can dig deeper. If nothing else on this trip, I’ve learned how much you can glean from chatting up retired people in their own comfort zones.
Caleb and I have finished our circuit, and return to the breezy shade of the pavilion area. It would be tempting to stay the night here, but that would leave too many overheated hours. Anyway, we’re due for a motel tonight, headed for an area with low prices and minimal scenery. A pool, I’m thinking, even a little one, for this heat. The luxury of a long shower not dependent on poking in quarters. A movie on TV. Sex on a firm mattress.
I put away my camera, and we get back into the car. I crank the AC. “Is there anything else you want to see between here and Winslow?” he asks. “I’d be up for an early check in.”
“Fine with me. Next photo op isn’t until Flagstaff.” I glance over, looking for traffic as we merge on the highway.
He’s grinning, and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about showers and sex on a bed too.
We easily find an adequate if unlovely motel. Even taking our time, the shower and bed are put to good use, and then the pool, before we drag ourselves back out to do laundry and look for a decent dinner spot. Pizza in the room appears both cheapest and tastiest option. We order and time it with the laundry.
Caleb finds the Diamondbacks on TV, and settles in, almost purring between beer and the remains of the pizza, the game on TV, and the updated stats from the newspaper we got at the laundromat.
I spread out with my laptop and catch up on a week’s worth of email. I’m pleased to see a couple job inquires – even if they’re small I should have something to bring in some cash when we get back. I send updates to Caleb’s mom and to Clint, the cousin to whom we’ll eventually be delivering the truck (in one piece, I assure him). And to Vera, of course, letting her know where we are, things we’ve seen. Family on facebook have posted a bunch of pictures from Caleb’s Uncle Frank’s birthday dinner.
I drag Caleb’s attention away from the game long enough to show him a shot of Lucia and several of the younger cousins posing comically. And Frank grinning over a giant cake that may actually have 60 candles.
“Fire hazard,” he mutters, attention waning in favor of the game. He stretches out, long limbed and very relaxed.
I feel that way too. We’ll fall asleep early, I’m pretty sure, and sleep well even if there are highway rumbles. Sex and pizza have been doing that to us since we were twenty somethings. I lean a little toward him, and he idly strokes my outstretched leg. It’s good, it occurs to me, that even in our lowest moments, we haven’t lost this physical connection. I think for a moment of Grandma Vera. Of the two of us, old like that, of how we’ll be toward each other then.
It’s not a fun thing to contemplate, and my own vanity makes me focus first on how I’ll look externally, rather than the physical limitations I’m likely to have. But at least I picture us as still together. And that makes me think again of Vera. Widowed these past, what, 20 years. And Lucia – I’ve never urged her to marry young even though we did, but I’ve always, always, most hoped she could find a true partner.
I send a note to Lucia, teasing about the picture and updating her on our travels. Her most recent message included a link to a website about Route 66. I click it open to a dramatic and well balanced photo that looks to be from the mid-30s, early in the Dust Bowl migration. I was expecting something just thrown together, but this site is nicely designed (I should know, having designed this sort of site myself). Good flow, logical progression of clicks. And here are before and after photos, dozens of them.
I’m immediately drawn in, tickled at the familiarity. The recent pictures are just what we’ve been seeing. They are well composed and including both modern elements (massive trucks, heavyset people in casual clothes) and traces of the past, of the way lots of the places seem timeless. The old pictures, carefully credited, are a mix of Dorthea Lange-esque portraits and marvelously pristine images of rickety old cars, desolate patches of the old route.
I stare at the weather worn faces, the somber expressions that show both pain and perseverance, pride. The contrast between these faces and the modern equivalents, chubby, bland, chatting outside stores in a mini-mall, or staring dully at a cell phone. There is text too, just simple notations about the locations, and the photographer’s observations about her modern day places and subjects, how some things have changed and how some haven’t. Just enough to tease you into clicking further into the history of that time.
I start to interrupt Caleb again, but let him be. There’s a blog too. The photographer, the modern one, lives in southern California but regularly makes trips to Santa Fe, where she displays her work at a gallery. But this, all this, the before and after series, the commentary, the historical background, her witty observations on the blog – it’s all posted here for free. Done and done well, no charge. Though presumably one might look for her name in the gallery if in Santa Fe.
I lean back onto the fat oversized motel pillows for a moment. Suddenly, almost gaspingly, I am deflated. Whatever I hoped might come out of my work, Uncle Stan’s lovingly preserved but honestly not grade A images, it’s already been done, and done better. Created, edited, posted online for all the world here at a simple click. This much talent, but in a way it’s nothing special.
I remember first posting images on Shutterfly, setting up my account with Flickr. Brief exchanges with total strangers who clicked on to comment. How flattering, how energizing, but also how quickly it was frustrating. A world of mostly mediocre photography, and there I was, my little work quickly disappearing like a few random drips into the ocean of available images. I have modest skills, but they are just that. Modest talent, nothing more.
Who am I kidding about this whole project, I ask myself, the day’s fine serenity fast dissipating. We’ll get back, we both have to work again and catch up on our debts, then maybe I’ll find time to finish my own before and after photo series, my own nice website. But that’s all it will be; best not track the hits because I’ll be disappointed when it’s only family and friends.
Caleb rouses himself up for a moment, exclaiming over a catch in the field. “Watch this replay,” he urges me.
Obedient, resigned, I watch some young man at the peak of his career leap up to snag a ball before it sails over the fence. For every one of him, a million more watch, knowing whatever their dreams, they could never be that guy.
And yet, Caleb is psyched. He saw it happen. He’s enjoying watching the game.
I settle back, and put away my laptop. Whatever’s churning in my head, I can’t deny that we had a nice day. A day we never would have had, except for being out here chasing my dream. Weeks that can’t be taken back, that will be part of our shared history. If nothing else, I tell myself, try to embrace the process.
Long Road to California Page 11
