“Well, thanks,” the man said, putting the car in gear.
“Actually, I was kind of looking for a ride.”
The man looked back at me. “Oh,” he said. Then he turned and studied the windshield.
I was close enough now to see that he was beginning to lose his hair. It wasn’t receding like Father’s, but thinning, with spots of scalp showing through.
“I have some money,” I offered.
“Where you headed?”
“A funeral. I mean New York. I’m going to New York.”
“A funeral?” He looked at me again, his gaze taking in my wet, muddy clothes.
“If you can get me even remotely close to there …”
Though the man didn’t say anything, he was nodding. Whether it was my ragged appearance or the absurdity of hitchhiking to a funeral, I seemed to have gained either his pity or his trust.
“What the hell. Hop in. I can get you to New London. That’s assuming we don’t run out of gas.”
Down the empty stretch of highway we drove, the headlights shining off the slick blacktop. The Cadillac sat low to the ground and didn’t have much in the way of shocks, for even the smooth highway felt bumpy. But I didn’t mind. Compared to walking, the miles felt effortless.
Neither of us spoke during the thirteen miles to the next gas station. As the man filled up, to which I contributed two dollars, I looked at the nearby payphone, knowing one phone call would end it all. Regardless of what Father had told her, Mother would do everything in her power to get me home once she learned I was hitchhiking. A car would pull up in a few hours and I would be whisked back to Long Island. But when my hand reached for the door handle, Chris’ words came back to me: You’ll see what I’m talking about when you show up at that cemetery tomorrow and look your father dead in the eye.
I had to get back on my own. I had to prove that I no longer needed him.
We left the rural highway and merged onto I-95. The welcome sign to Connecticut gave me confidence for the first time since landing in the helicopter. It was nearing four in the morning, and the ten miles to New London went by quickly. The storm had passed, but the night was still damp. The only sound besides the unsteady hitch of the engine was kicked-up water from passing semis.
The man dropped me off at a truck stop just off the interstate, saying that I should be able to get a lift from one of the truckers. I thanked him for the ride and threaded my way through a maze of eighteen-wheelers.
Dolly’s Diner was in full swing. Truckers lined the bar, cigarettes and coffee close at hand. The one nearest me cast a hunted glance down the bar before removing a silver flask from his leather jacket, which he used to top off his coffee. He swirled his drink with a dirty finger before taking a sip. When he looked up and saw me watching, he smiled a toothless grin, his open stare drilling through my numbness and fatigue.
I went to a corner booth and skimmed the menu. The combination of bright lights, country music and smell of frying bacon jolted me out of my stupor. Though I felt everyone’s eyes on me, it was good to be around people again. I searched the bar for a sympathetic face, dreading the moment when I would have to ask for a ride.
A pear-shaped woman who smelled of grease and cigarettes took my order, her eyes never lifting from her notepad.
“You got money, right?”
“Yes,” I said, reaching into my pocket.
“I believe you. Hate to ask, but sometimes you never can tell.”
I sat and watched the trucks thunder by. How many all-night diners were there between here and New York? How many hitchhikers strung out from a night of no sleep? Was I the only one spending their last crumpled dollar bill? I had seven hours to travel just under a hundred miles. All I needed was one or two more rides. But something stronger than sleep deprivation made me doubt I would ever get home.
Grandpa had died and everyone was going about their lives like nothing had happened. It was disrespectful that I hadn’t learned of his death until days afterward. I would still be at Wellington if David hadn’t called. I vowed not to disrespect Grandpa’s memory by pretending nothing was wrong. The quick ride to New London felt like cheating. The truth was that I wanted to hitchhike. I wanted to walk for miles in the rain. My own misery would prevent me from forgetting what had happened.
I devoured my breakfast. I procrastinated asking for a ride by flipping through the business section of The Providence Journal—the same paper that had dubbed us the Headliners. I convinced myself that if I looked up, instead of a room full of sullen waitresses and callous truck drivers, Chris, Roland and Derek would be there. It would be September again, and our fathers would be in the headlines.
“You done with the Sports, fella?” a deep voice asked.
Two booths over sat a bear of a man. His hands rested on an unopened menu, palms up, like turtles overturned on their shells. He wore a baseball hat low on his forehead, the bill curled down as if he wished to keep the diner’s bright lights out of his eyes. He would have looked more at home with the other truckers at the bar, but he sat alone in this booth not far from mine, alert despite the early hour.
“Much obliged,” he said when I brought him the Sports section.
I returned to my seat and continued perusing the paper with little interest. It was at Wellington that I had gotten in the habit of reading the morning paper, but it no longer seemed necessary. It still felt like evening, and the paper (though it was yesterday’s) marked the end of the day.
“Well, if it isn’t old Sal,” the waitress said, coming over to the man’s booth. “By the way, I’m mad at you.”
“How come?” the man asked, setting the paper down.
“How come? Why do you think, how come? It’s been three weeks,” she said, holding up three fingers. “Three weeks. You think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Ah, they went and changed up my route. Had me going all the way to Ohio.”
“Ohio? What’s in Ohio?”
“Timbuktu, that’s what.” Sal smiled. “Maybe I’ll take you there someday.”
“Promises, promises …” the waitress said, making me wonder how it could be the same wary-eyed woman who had served me.
“But I’m back on my old route,” Sal said, as if nothing could make him happier. “You’ll be seeing plenty of me. Probably get sick of me.”
“Oh I doubt that. You want the regular?”
“Don’t you know it. And don’t be forgetting that waffle. The wife has me on another diet, but what she don’t know won’t hurt her.”
“She’s a gem,” Sal said after the waitress had left. “The heart and soul of this place. Takes a special person to clear dishes and refill coffee two hours before dawn.”
The waitress brought out Sal’s food in half the time it had taken mine, and after another volley of flirtations, she left him to his breakfast. Sal removed his baseball cap and stuffed a napkin down the front of his shirt, though it covered only a fraction of his broad chest. Finding little interest in the headlines, I kept glancing over at him, disregarding Mother’s chiding that she could think of nothing ruder than watching someone eat. Though he never looked up from his plate, Sal seemed to know I was watching him.
“My one remaining vice,” he said, taking a drink of coffee. “No more booze. No more smokes.” He turned and cast a longing glance at the bar. “Just coffee.”
“Where you headed?” I asked.
“Providence to Trenton,” he replied, disregarding the empty booth between us. “My old route. Two hundred eleven miles with one stop in between. Can do it in just under five hours on a good day. It can get a little dicey in the afternoon, but she’s smooth sailing in the morning.”
“You call this morning?”
He smiled and wiped the back of his hand across his cheek, a quick motion that made a sound like sandpaper over wood. “What gets me is the paper. They don’t get ‘em out until five, sometimes five-thirty. I like my paper with breakfast, but here I am, reading yesterday’s news.” He shoo
k his head. “Always a day behind.”
The waitress returned to refill Sal’s coffee. “You okay?” she asked me, and I nodded.
Sal lifted the coffee cup to his lips. “Can give you a lift if you’re heading west.”
“Really? That’s … that’s great. I’m going to New York.”
“Can get you as far as Greenwich. Have an hour pit-stop in New Haven to unload. Will hit Greenwich at seven-thirty. Give or take.”
“That’s great. Thanks. Thank you. I’m actually in a hurry. The thing is—”
Sal stopped me by raising a thick-knuckled finger in my direction. “A good-looking kid going from New London to New York on Sunday morning. Probably going to church.” He returned his attention to his Belgian waffle. “Some things I don’t need to know.”
I joined Sal as he finished breakfast. He sweat while he ate, as if the act of raising a fork to his lips was an effort. As he was paying the bill (which he hadn’t bothered to look at), a girl about my age entered the diner. She was stunning. Her hat and scarf—both a bright yellow—danced in my vision. She went straight to the bar and spoke with one of the waitresses, pointing at a display case of pastries. The crowd of truckers, the cloud of smoke, even the early hour, seemed like such an unlikely place for her. I felt guilty just for looking at her, for letting my eyes linger on this dash of pleasure thrown into my bleak, unending day.
Sal picked up on my stare and twisted around in the booth. “That’ll put a spring in your step.” He smiled. “Why, you should see yourself. Looks like you’ve had about four of these.” He rattled his empty coffee cup.
Embarrassed, I looked away.
“Well don’t look at me,” Sal said. “You’ll be seeing plenty of my fat face. Go on, look while you can. Just remember to blink.”
“Maybe she’ll stay for breakfast,” I said, my eyes returning to the girl. A waitress had retrieved a box of doughnuts, and the girl was reaching into her petite purse (also bright yellow) to pay for it.
“Sure. Sure she will,” Sal said, laughing lightheartedly. “She’ll probably sit down right beside you.”
“I’d settle for being able to watch her eat breakfast.”
“Son, let me give you a piece of advice,” Sal said, pulling the napkin out of his shirt. “A beautiful woman never stays in one place for long. They’re like hummingbirds. You ever see a hummingbird? Beautiful little creatures. Fit right in the palm of your hand. You get all worked up over seeing one, but before you can catch more than a glimpse, they’re off flying somewhere else, their wings beating so fast you can barely see ‘em.” Sal cast another glance back at the girl. “Enjoy her. She’ll be gone soon.”
“Where do you think she’s going?”
“Somewhere, anywhere. To see and be seen. She’ll stay long enough to get you worked up, to get you feeling real good about yourself.”
As Sal said this, the girl scooped up the box of doughnuts from the counter and, throwing one end of the yellow scarf over her shoulder, walked out of the diner.
“And there she goes,” Sal said, not bothering to turn around. “And all that’s left is that flat out empty feelin’ we’re both feelin’ right now. That’s how it goes. I’ve been getting peeks of ‘em all my life.”
“You have?”
“Sure I have. See ‘em from up in the cab. One of the perks of my line of work. A couple seconds here, a couple seconds there. Sometimes you’re passing them, but most times they’re passing you. In the convertible with the music on, their hair blowing in the wind. Riding next to their boyfriend, their pretty legs stretched out on the dash. Always on the go. Always tryin’ to be someplace they’re not, their wings beatin’ a million miles a minute.” He threw up his hands. “That’s life on the road. Seeing people, sometimes even meeting them, but never knowing them. You’ll see what I’m talking about soon enough. Speaking of which, it’s time to scoot.”
Before leaving, Sal leaned over and whispered, “Not to be nosy about your finances or nothing, but were you able to leave much for a tip?”
I admitted having spent the last of my money on the meal.
“Not a problem,” he said, placing two dollars on my table. “Given your circumstances, I’ve got you covered.”
It was still night, or at least still dark when we left the diner, a damp chill lingering in the air. Streaks of dew ran down the windows of the parked cabs, and the sound of traffic foretold the coming day. Sal worked the clutch and eased us onto the open road. We drove west into darkness. The town of New London rolled by the window, two banks of yellow lights divided by a broad river. Sal was silent behind the wheel. He took sips from a thermos, the white glimmer of his eyes never straying from the road.
I didn’t want the sun to rise. I had been awake too long, and the thought of a new day made me want to close my eyes and listen to my dreams. I watched the highway with heavy eyes. When I closed them, images of the girl with the yellow scarf rose before me …
I was jarred awake when the steady rumble of the engine stopped.
“You always mumble in your sleep?” Sal asked.
“What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“You were talking in your sleep,” Sal said, swinging the door open and easing himself out of the cab. “Something about snow melting. Let’s hope we got a ways before that happens. Get out and stretch your legs if you like.”
The night had finally ended. The sky was flushed with light, the sun cresting the horizon. We were parked amidst a neighborhood of warehouses—brick, windowless buildings separated by the stitches of a railroad track. Semis were lined up in either direction, their trailers backed to loading docks.
I was fumbling through my backpack for another candy bar when I came across one of Mother’s letter. Though I had already read it, I couldn’t remember a single thing she had written.
Dearest Jacob,
I’ll apologize in advance for the brevity of this letter. These past few days have been hectic, yet rewarding. But do tell—I want to hear about your week in Greenwich! I want all the details! Do you remember Heidi Gilford? Probably not, you were so young. Heidi was one of my roommates at Wellesley. She lives in Greenwich and has been hectoring me for years about paying her a visit. Such fond memories.
I inform you (with more than a little regret) that our work here is coming to a close. The fledgling ospreys have grown stronger than I ever thought possible. I have read countless articles and watched dozens of videos, but witnessing this miracle of nature firsthand has been an experience I shall never forget. We will be releasing them to the wild this weekend. It’s such a thrill knowing what a difference we’ve made, but so incredibly difficult to let go. I have fallen in love with these innocent, majestic creatures. How I wish your father could be here to see them.
I look forward to hearing from you. How I enjoy finding one of your letters in the mail. Thanksgiving can’t come soon enough, and our happy little family will be reunited once more.
All my love, Mother.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. While she obsessed over her precious birds, I was hitchhiking across three states because she hadn’t bothered to tell me of the death of my last surviving grandparent. I started to read the letter a second time, but stopped halfway through and pitched it out the window.
I dozed in and out of consciousness, half-listening to the muffled sounds from the back of the trailer. I didn’t come fully awake until Sal climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Ten minutes behind,” he said, adjusting the brim of his hat. “Not to worry. Nothing we can’t make up on the road.”
The daylight brought out a cold grayness in Sal’s eyes and highlighted the creases in his skin, making him look older than he had in the diner. I sensed that this was the least enjoyable part of his day. He was in his element on the open road and in the diner before dawn, but he disliked this necessary interruption in New Haven.
The hour of sleep had revived me, and I watched the mile markers to New York dwindle. The only ti
me Sal moved was to change his grip on the wheel. He passed the time by talking about life as a truck driver, ending each story with his own homespun, broad-shouldered advice.
“It’s my first time hitchhiking,” I admitted.
Sal nodded. “Nothing to be ashamed of. People used to do it all the time.”
When I told him the unusual circumstances that had brought me to Dolly’s Diner at four o’clock that morning, he didn’t ask a single question. But his silence had a way of pulling the story out of me.
“Would your grandpa want you to be there?” he asked when I told him that I was attending the funeral against my father’s wishes.
“Absolutely.”
“Then you’re doing the right thing. But it’s never easy going head-to-head with your old man. I hated my dad growing up. Couldn’t stand the sight of him. He was as strict as they come, and in his eyes, I could do no right.”
Sal smiled at his misfortune.
“Do you get along now?” I asked.
“He’s been dead for years. Died when I was about your age. Lung cancer. Smoked like a chimney. Hit him hard and fast. Dead as a doornail three weeks after he was diagnosed. That was just like him though. Nothing halfway, not my dad. He had too much pride to let some disease whittle away at him. He was never weaker than me. Strong and full of the devil. Then he was six feet under.”
“That had to be tough,” I said, surprised at the ease with which Sal spoke of his father’s death.
“It was, no doubt about it. Though I was glad when it happened, if you can believe it. It’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. I hated him that much. But when I saw him lying in the casket, I cried my eyes out. And that surprised me more than anything. Couldn’t figure it out for the longest time. If I hated him so much, then why was I crying? But you see, that was just it. My childhood was no pleasure cruise, and who better to blame than my old man? And then, just like that, he was gone. I actually came to miss hating him. I needed him more than I thought. My sister once told me that I needed that touch of evil in my life. Nothing made sense without it.”
The Keeper of Dawn Page 27
