by Sharon Sala
West Texas was flat as hell and nearly as hot. Chance rolled the windows down to let in air, but the heat only circulated. His air conditioner in the pickup needed coolant, or something else. He’d stopped earlier and lost precious hours trying to fix it. He didn’t want to stop and check it again so he just turned it off. He’d have to tough it out until he reached Odessa. And from looking at the map, there was only an inch left to go. Unfortunately that inch would translate into at least fifty more hot-as-hell miles.
It was late afternoon. He’d driven like a madman when he’d first left the ranch. Putting distance between himself and Jenny had been the only assurance he had that when night came, he wouldn’t turn around and go back. He hadn’t been gone a day and he already missed her.
“Stop it, fool,” he told himself. “Concentrate on Odessa, that gas station, and the yearbook. On the facts!”
He increased his speed and stared down the long, flat road stretching out before him. But there were no answers waiting in the dancing waves of heat that shimmered across the blacktop. Only tumbleweeds and mesquite and, occasionally, a lone herd of cattle, grazing on the sparse forage of the dry, brown land. It made him homesick for the Triple T and the greener, rolling hills and scattered clumps of trees, the creeks that ran into rivers, and the herds of horses running across the pastures.
A lone truck came barreling down the straight highway toward him and honked loudly as it passed, as if the driver was assuring himself that he wasn’t the only man left on earth. Chance looked down at the gas gauge. “With a little luck, I should just about make it.”
He drove on into the setting sun.
“You want a room for the hour, the night, or the week?” the woman asked, as she stuffed a used-up cigarette into an overflowing ashtray and blew the last remnant of her smoke into Chance’s face.
It was dark. The broken neon lettering outside reflected off the lenses of the woman’s horn-rimmed glasses. Chance tried not to stare. His eyes burned, his nose twitched, but he kept his mouth shut. He pulled out a credit card and handed it to her.
“I’ll be here a while,” he said. “I didn’t think reservations would be necessary here, or I wouldn’t have stopped.”
She had the grace to blush. She fluffed her peroxide blond hair and pursed her lips. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem, sweetie,” she said. Her eyes swept over him. Chance felt like he’d just been bar coded, scanned, and had a price shining on his butt.
“Let’s hope not,” he drawled as he took back his credit card and grabbed the key she slid toward him.
“First room at the far end,” she called. “Thought you might want some privacy.”
He nodded as he walked away.
“Oh,” she yelled as the door started to swing shut, “the pool is temporarily out of order.”
Chance smirked as he got in his truck and drove down the length of building until he reached twelve B. How in hell did a pool get “temporarily” out of order?
You’ve picked a winner this time, Chance. Let’s hope this place looks better in the light of day.
8
It didn’t. Chance stepped out of the motel room and stared up at the cloudless sky and the already hot sun drifting toward zenith. He’d overslept. He’d been so damned tired last night, and then hadn’t been able to sleep. The intermittent guests in the room next to him had banged themselves and the bedstead against the wall until he’d been ready to kill. The sighs and moans sounded way too pat to be real. He suspected he’d just taken a room in a twenty-dollar a shot, come and go, motel. He wondered if the peroxide blond clerk with the horn-rimmed glasses was the one doing the honors and then doubted it. A man would have to be past desperate to consider that.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him that food had been the last of his worries yesterday. A small diner across the street from the motel beckoned. Judging from the assortment of cars and pickup trucks parked in front of it, the food had to be good. Business was brisk on Second Street.
A stiff wind pulled at the brim of his hat as he started across the street. He jammed it a little tighter and lengthened his stride. As he pushed open the door of the diner a cowbell hanging over it jangled, but the noise was lost in the din of busy waitresses and hungry customers calling for service or just another cup of coffee.
“Sit anywhere you want, honey,” a woman said as she sailed past with a coffee pot in her hand. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Chance took her advice. There wasn’t much choice in seating. It was either share a table with two elderly men, or take a stool at the counter. He chose the stool. A coffee cup appeared in front of him, full of hot, steamy brew. He drank, thankful for the kick of caffeine and the heat that slid down his throat and nestled in his stomach.
It might be close to ninety degrees outside, but Chance felt cold as ice. Breath constricted, his eyes narrowed, his belly churned behind his belt buckle. He cupped his hands around the thick crockery cup just to have a place to put them. He’d never had such an urge to bolt and run in his life.
“Okay, good lookin’, what’ll it be?”
The voice startled him as well as the question. His eyes darkened as he looked up at the waitress who was waiting with pencil poised.
“Eggs, over easy, bacon and biscuits,” he answered, almost expecting her to point her finger at him and scream in recognition. This wasn’t going to be easy. He took another long swallow of coffee and shoved away the fear. Dammit to hell. This was my idea. Nobody made me come. Now get your butt in gear, McCall, and quit acting like a fool.
The silent pep talk did wonders for his nerves. That and the second cup of coffee the waitress poured before turning in his order. Chance dug in his shirt pocket, pulled out the old blue matchbook he’d found in his suitcase, and fiddled with it absently, turning it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger as he watched the mirror over the counter, staring at every customer who came and went, hoping that someone would look familiar to him. They didn’t.
“My God!” the waitress cried loudly, as she slammed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. “Where did you get that old thing? I haven’t seen one in years.”
She snatched the matchbook out of his fingers and turned it over.
“Yeah! I was right! It’s from Charlie’s Gas and Guzzle. Hell, honey, where did you come from…the Twilight Zone?” Her laugh was shrill. So was her voice. Several people at the counter turned to stare.
Chance didn’t know whether to answer, or let her answer for him. She was so bent on talking, he opted for the latter.
“Look here, Marsh. How many years has it been since you seen one a these?” She didn’t wait for this Marsh fellow to answer. “Where did you get this, honey?” She shoved it back in Chance’s face. “From a flyin’ saucer?”
She must have fancied herself quite a comedienne because she repeated her question to this Marsh fellow just to get another reaction.
Chance took the matchbook back from her and smiled before he picked up his fork and began to eat.
She evidently decided that he was one of the strong, silent types, because she tried another approach. “You vistin’ or just passin’ through?”
Chance chewed and swallowed. “A little of both,” he said quietly. He flipped the matchbook over and stared at the logo. “Is this station still here?”
“Shoot no, honey. And for all intents and purposes, neither is Charlie Rollins.”
Chance frowned. Who was…? He didn’t have to ask. The girl was full of information.
“Charlie Rollins was the owner of this station. The station is gone and, for the most part, so is Charlie. He’s got that forgettin’ disease. Whadaya call it? You know the one I mean…Owlzeyemer’s, or somethin’ like that.”
“Alzheimer’s?”
“Yeah! That’s it. He don’t remember nothin’. His wife died. His daughter come back long enough to put him in one of them homes for old people, and then she left. I heard she don’t even visit. I guess it don�
�t much matter. If he don’t know her, what good would it do to come.”
“Where is the home?” Chance asked, shoving his empty cup toward her. He watched, fascinated as she talked, poured, and waved at a customer who was leaving, all at the same time, and still didn’t spill a drop.
“Why? You gonna go see him? It won’t do no good. He won’t know you.”
But she shrugged and gave him directions, and watched thoughtfully as the tall stranger dropped a generous tip by his plate and sauntered outside as if he had all the time in the world.
“Ten years ago, I’d already have had your phone number and you’d have had the hots for me, sweetie,” she murmured to herself.
“Hey,” Marsh called, tapping his empty coffee cup on the counter as a reminder.
“Comin’ right up,” she said, watching as Chance walked across the street to his red pickup truck. Something about that man was very familiar. She shrugged, stuffed the tip in her pocket, and headed for Marsh.
The Golden Years retirement home was easy to find and the parking lot was nearly empty. Chance grimaced as he parked and headed for the front door. This was going to be one for the books. He couldn’t remember a damn thing, and he was searching for answers from a man with Alzheimers. He walked in the door and then caught his breath at the sight. The parking lot might be nearly empty, but the lobby was nearly full…of wheelchairs and their aging occupants.
“Can I help you?”
The twangy, nasal question from the young woman behind the desk got his attention. So did the scent of the building. It was overpowering: a combination of antiseptic, cleaning solutions, liniment, and aging bodies.
He shuddered. If he had a choice, he’d just as soon go fast, not linger in a place like this. His depression deepened. Looking for answers here was futile. If it weren’t for Jenny, he would have already turned around and headed back to Tyler. But he owed it to her. He couldn’t make a commitment to her without being certain that his past was clean.
“I’m looking for Charlie Rollins.”
Her eyebrows rose perceptibly. “Are you family?”
Chance frowned. “No. Do I have to be?”
“No,” she answered, “but he’s never had any visitors.”
“Then it’s time he did,” Chance said, and waited for her to direct him. She pointed down the hall.
“First door on your left past the bathrooms. Don’t expect much,” she cautioned. “He has good days and bad days.”
“What’s today like?” Chance asked.
She shrugged.
Every light in the room was on, the window shades pulled up, the curtains tied back. The bed was neatly made, the room immaculate, although sparsely furnished and, at first glance, empty. Chance started to walk back to the desk to ask if there was another place Charlie Rollins might be, when he happened to look down. A pair of legs protruded from under the bed. Chance’s heart thumped. What in hell?
And then a pair of hands cupped the bedframe and pulled sharply. The strength in the gnarled and knotted fingers was evident as an old man shot out from under the bed. Chance stared. Charlie Rollins was on a creeper. The kind mechanics lie on when working underneath vehicles.
“Didn’t hear you drive up,” Charlie said, as he got to his feet with surprising agility. “What’ll it be? Gas or directions?”
God in Heaven! Charlie Rollins was operating his gas station from his room. At least Charlie thought he was operating his station. And if Chance wasn’t mistaken, Charlie had just pulled out from under his bed as if it were a car. Chance wondered what he’d been doing under there and hoped that whatever Charlie removed during the day, he put back before night. If not, his mattress was likely to go through the frame and onto the floor.
“Well, boy?” Charlie prompted. “I ain’t got all day. I got to get this car fixed before Mabel Geraldine comes askin’ or there’ll be hell to pay. She ain’t got no patience at all.”
“Sorry.” Chance grinned. “I just need a little information. Maybe you can help?”
Charlie scratched his head. A foggy look began to pass through his eyes. “If I can. Seems like it gets harder and harder to remember things anymore. Guess I’m gettin’ old.”
Chance nodded. “I’m trying to locate some people I used to know. I heard that they lived around here some time back. The family name was McCall. Did you happen to know anyone by that name? There was a boy named Chance. Maybe he worked for you…or lived close?”
Charlie picked at a week’s growth of scraggly gray whiskers and began to fidget. “I don’t think I know no McCalls,” he mumbled. “I know Mabel Geraldine. She wants her car fixed. I can fix cars real good. Do you need yours fixed, boy?”
Chance sighed. This had been a long shot, and obviously a wild one. “No, Charlie.” He patted him on the shoulder and then flinched as he felt the sharpness of the old man’s bones through the thin shirt. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”
Charlie grinned. He couldn’t remember when someone had last offered him something. But trying to think of what he could ask for sent him back into a fog. He walked around in a nervous circle and patted his pockets, muttering to himself about losing his wrenches.
Chance tried not to stare. Sadness overwhelmed him. Poor Charlie Rollins. He’d lost his wrenches…and his mind. At least the doctors thought Chance’s memory loss was temporary.
“I’ll be going now,” Chance said softly. The look of relief was instantaneous on Charlie’s face. “Thanks for the information, Charlie.”
“Anytime, boy, anytime.” He laid back down on the creeper and positioned himself, watching the tall man’s legs from floor level as he walked through the door and out of the room. “You come back, Chance, boy. You come back soon. I’ll need you to close for me tonight,” he said.
And then he pulled himself back beneath the bed and began to hum “The Yellow Rose of Texas” as he worked.
Chance didn’t hear Charlie’s last words. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. By the time Chance reached the desk, Charlie Rollins had forgotten that he’d ever said them.
Chance drove up one street and down another, his eyes searching constantly for something familiar. The acres and acres of pump jacks at the edges of the city were mind boggling. He knew from the signs on the highways, that the Permian Basin, on which Odessa rested, was one of the richest oil fields in the United States, maybe the world.
He took careful note of the business he passed. Especially the older ones. But nothing rang true. He watched the faces of the people on the street, hoping that someone would look familiar…or that he’d look familiar to one of them. He was desperate for anything that would tell him that he’d once been a resident of Odessa.
Yet the oddest thing kept happening. No matter which side street he took, or how far off the main highway he drove, he invariably came back to Grandfield. The street kept taking him places and then pulling him back. Chance didn’t know how. It had to be instinct. It damn sure wasn’t something conscious. As far as he could tell, he’d never been here before in his life.
“Did you see that?”
“What?” Bettye Collins asked, as she swiveled the chair back to face the mirror, combed and parted another section of hair on Dotty Parson’s head, then snipped.
She had to finish this cut and style. She had a perm due in forty-five minutes and it would take hours to finish. She’d be lucky if the perm lady’s hair didn’t fall out on the rollers. She’d had one too many home-bleach jobs. Bettye had talked for over an hour on the phone, trying to persuade the woman to wait until her scalp healed and her hair was in better shape, but the woman was adamant. She had a class reunion to attend and wanted to look like a million bucks. It was Bettye’s opinion that she’d never look like that, even if she had the money to prove it.
“Did I see what?” Bettye prompted, as she snipped a good inch of split ends off of Dotty’s hair.
Dotty Parson’s mouth was hanging open like a landlocked fish on the banks of a
pond. “That old red pickup truck. The one that just turned the corner and headed east. I swear on my mamma’s grave, that was Logan Henry.” And then she frowned. “At least it looked like he used to look. You know, before he got all gray and gained that twenty pounds.”
“You’re seeing things,” Bettye said. “Logan Henry wouldn’t be caught dead driving an old dirty pickup truck.”
“I guess,” Dotty said, and frowned at herself in the mirror. “Do you think I’d look good as a redhead?”
“Only if you never set foot outdoors again,” Bettye answered. “That complexion of yours would be redder than your hair, and you know it. If you want to change the color, you oughta let me try…”
Their conversation turned to more important matters and, for the moment, the red pickup was forgotten. But, later that night, when Dotty went home, she asked her husband if he’d seen a stranger in town that day driving a red pickup truck up and down the streets. He stared at her fancy coiffure in dismay. That and the fact that she’d even noticed another man caused a fight to erupt that totally drove Logan Henry and his existence permanently from Dotty’s mind. It was just as well.
Chance was tired to the bone. Tired and disappointed. His visit to Charlie Rollins had been a lost cause, at least as far as Chance was concerned.
He turned into the motel parking lot. The only thing he’d accomplished today was fix his air conditioner. Buying the part for it had prompted him to make an additional purchase. The set of wrenches he’d bought, and had wrapped and delivered to Charlie Rollins, had probably caused all kinds of commotion at the Golden Years retirement home. The way Charlie operated, he’d probably screwed and unscrewed every nut and bolt on his bed so many times, he’d stripped them out. There’d be hell to pay when bedtime came tonight, but a man had to have wrenches if he was going to work on cars…and beds.
