by Heidi Lang
“‘Whoa there, friend,’ Edgar said calmly. ‘We may have missed the gold rush, but we’ll find another way to make our fortune. I promise.’ And Johnny believed him. He could see that Edgar had changed on this journey, hardening like the crust of his bread, and knew he was determined to strike it rich, or die trying.”
Claire shifted on her cooler seat, caught up despite herself. In front of her, Patrick leaned against the window, mouth half-open as he listened. And outside, the abandoned factories faded away, replaced by trees, their branches tangling, twining, twisting up into the sky, like fingers reaching for gold just out of reach. She closed her eyes and let her dad’s words wash through her as she pictured California. For a second, she remembered that spotless condo, but then she let that go, too, and just focused on palm trees and golden beaches and impossibly large, impossibly blue skies . . .
“I suppose we could try working for someone,” Johnny said.
Edgar shook his head. “One thing I learned when I worked in my uncle’s bakery is that you’ll never get rich working for someone else. No, we need to strike out on our own. Somehow . . . someway. Doing something.”
Johnny grinned. “You’ll have to give me more to go on, my friend.”
“Excuse me,” a girl said. “Do I . . . know you?”
Edgar turned. A familiar girl stood before him, her strawberry blond hair curling gently around her lovely face, her eyes a deep, vivid green, her lips parted just slightly, and curved in the hint of a smile. He could have spent a good half hour describing her beauty, but in the interest of any future audiences listening to his tale, he restrained himself.
Dimly, he was aware of Johnny saying something behind him, but the words slid through his ears and back out like water trickling from an open hand. But the girl’s next words stuck, and stuck hard. “Ah! You’re the boy with the bread!”
Boy? Edgar ran a hand over his face. True, he’d never had much luck growing facial hair, but still, he no longer thought of himself as a boy. After all, he had traveled across the ocean with a pod of whales, fought off two men with a loaf of bread, and ridden all the way across this great nation in search of his fortune. But before he could argue, the girl laid a hand on his arm, and all his words, his fancy new English words, twisted together like his uncle’s famous pretzel bread.
“Thank you for helping me,” she said, her words as soft as her touch. “My name . . . is Evangeline Rose.”
“Gnnurh,” Edgar managed.
Evangeline’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting.”
“Darling! Where have you gotten yourself off to—ah.” A man stepped forward, tall, broad shouldered, and wearing an expensive hat that shadowed his ruggedly chiseled face. As soon as he saw Evangeline standing so close to Edgar, his face grew even more shadowed. “Is this man bothering you?” He pulled her behind him, tilting his chin up so Edgar could see the dangerous glint of his eyes.
Anger flashed across Evangeline Rose’s lovely face and then vanished, like a duck sucked beneath the surface of a river by a hungry alligator, leaving the barest of ripples behind. Edgar was feeling quite unsettled by this strange man, and his metaphors had grown a little dark.
“I appreciate how you take such good care of me,” Evangeline said, tugging her arm free. “But in this case, really, it’s not needed. This is just the bread boy I told you about.”
Edgar could have died right there on the spot. Just the bread boy?
“Ah,” the man said. “Hello, bread boy. I’m Dirk Rockaford, Evangeline Rose’s fiancé.”
“I told you, I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Evangeline Rose protested.
“Soon-to-be-fiancé,” Dirk amended smoothly, confidently, “not to mention the local lawman in these here parts.” He twisted so the sunlight hit the edge of his shiny badge, and made sure Edgar noticed his equally shiny pistol, tucked into his belt. “But I reckon you won’t be much trouble, eh?”
“No, no trouble at all,” Johnny interrupted, stepping between them. “We’ll just be on our way.”
“Much obliged.” Dirk tipped the edge of his hat and smirked. Edgar itched to respond, but before he could, Johnny yanked him away.
Edgar spared one last glance at Evangeline Rose before Johnny pulled him around the corner and away from her.
“That gal will bring you nothing but heartbreak,” Johnny said quietly. “Focus on the gold. That’s what’ll bring you happiness.”
“Wise words.” A woman’s cool voice spoke from the shadows of a nearby saloon. Both Johnny and Edgar froze. The saloon doors swung open, and the woman stepped out into the sunlight, her hair flowing down her back in an inky river. “You boys look like you’re in need of a little fame and a lot of fortune. Name’s Kennedy, by the way. Ken for short.”
“Ken,” Johnny said approvingly. “I like your style.”
“And I like your beard.”
Edgar cleared his throat. “About that fame and fortune?”
Ken smiled, a dangerous smile, the kind of smile that made Edgar think of knives in the dark. “How would you feel about teaming up for a cattle drive?”
“I’ve heard it’s the new gold rush,” Johnny whispered to Edgar.
“What would we need?” Edgar asked cautiously. He wasn’t sure he trusted Ken, with her princess hair and her wicked grin.
“Only what we have right here.” She spread her arms wide. “An adventurous spirit, a few trusty horses, and the desire to work hard and get rich.”
“Where would we go?” Edgar persisted.
“Texas.”
A whole different world. “And from Texas, we would be driving the cattle to where?”
“Kansas.” Ken tossed her mane of hair back and put her hands on her hips. “Most crews have at least ten men, but if there are only three of us, it means we won’t have to split the profits as much. Think you can handle it?” She looked them up and down and raised her eyebrows.
“I can handle it,” Johnny said immediately, puffing out his chest. “Edgar?”
Edgar hesitated. He didn’t know the first thing about Ken or cattle drives or Texas, but then Ken said the words that sealed his fate: “If you do this, I’ll sing your praises to my good friend.”
“Your good friend?”
“I believe you’ve met her already.” Ken’s smile this time wasn’t a single knife in the dark, but a whole armory. “Her name is Evangeline Rose.”
“And then what happened?” Patrick asked.
“And then, er, your poor dad got a little . . . turned around,” their dad said, looking out the window, his face scrunched with worry.
“Wait, what?” Claire sat up straighter and looked around. Rows of identical houses looked back at her, the kind with fake shutters made of plastic and painted in alternating colors.
“I was trying to find us a restroom,” her dad said.
“It’s called GPS, Dad,” Claire said. “I’m sure it’s on your phone.”
“Did ole Wrong Way Jacobus use GPS?” he asked. “I don’t think so.”
“Maybe he should have. Then he wouldn’t be stuck with a name like ‘Wrong Way,’” Claire muttered.
“And deprive us of a great story?” Her dad grinned.
“Fine. Copilot.” Claire pointed at Patrick. “Do your job.”
“Can’t. The map is under Dad’s seat.”
Claire sighed and dug the road atlas out.
“You touched it first!” Patrick said. “That means it’s your job.”
“That is so not how it works,” Claire grumbled. But since her dad had been making a series of random turns for the past few minutes, she decided not to waste more time arguing. Who knew where they’d end up? Still grumbling, she flipped the pages until she found a map of Ohio, then squinted at the road numbers and did her best to navigate them.
“I feel I’ve earned copilot credit,” she said once they were back on the highway.
“Maybe so,” her dad said.
“Too bad that is so not how it works,” Pa
trick said mockingly.
Claire resisted the urge to smack him with the battered atlas and instead idly turned the pages until she got to a map of all the major highways in the US. She found US 20 and traced their route from Ohio on to the tip of Pennsylvania, right through the middle of New York, and into Massachusetts. “Wait, we’re taking Route 20, right?” she asked.
“Right-o.”
Claire let that one slide. “That doesn’t go near Maine.”
Her dad shrugged.
“It does go to Boston, though, like you thought. We could probably just go there.”
“Oh, we have to do Maine,” he said.
“Why?” Claire asked.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Because . . . we have to go to the Atlantic Ocean.”
“But Boston is next to the ocean.” Claire watched her dad, the way his jaw muscles bunched, how intently he stared out the windshield. Like he could see their path ahead. Like he had his own plan, a plan he wasn’t ready to share with them.
“But Maine is the best place to touch the ocean . . . if we want to catch a glimpse of the lost city hidden beneath its watery depths.”
“There’s a lost city?” Patrick breathed. “Like the ships in Lake Erie?”
“Exactly so, only twice as haunted.”
Claire sighed. “That’s the Lost City of Atlantis, Dad. Not Atlantic.”
“There can be more than one lost city, Claire-bear,” he said, his tone way too reasonable, like cities got lost all the time. “This is the lesser-known but much more fascinating Lost City of Atlanticis.”
Claire groaned. “You’re not even trying anymore.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m trying.” He grinned.
Claire shook her head. But as her dad pulled into a strip mall and parked in front of a fast-food joint, she realized her dad had accidentally told her something true: he really wanted to go to Maine. The question was, why?
CHAPTER 16
“And here we are, our camp for the night!”
Claire blinked bleary eyes. She’d been half asleep, imagining men in hats and palm trees swaying in sudden wind gusts, and a woman who looked suspiciously like her dad’s old friend, so it took a moment for her to realize . . . “A rest stop? Seriously?”
“Yep! Nice and safe here. Plus, look at that! Bathrooms, just for you, Claire-bear.” He grinned.
“You’re kidding, right?” Claire ran a hand through her hair. This rest area looked just like any rest area, with blazingly bright lights every few feet and several battered wooden picnic tables sitting on top of patches of dead grass. A few other cars were parked nearby, and across the parking lot loomed several giant trucks. Their drivers were probably sleeping here, too.
“Hop to it, kiddos. We’ve got another long day of driving ahead of us tomorrow.”
Claire grabbed her toiletry kit from where it hung on a hook below the table in back. Apparently this was her life now, sleeping in rest stops like a trucker despite being a twelve-year-old girl. She sighed loudly, then sighed again, but her dad and brother ignored her, so she slipped a blank postcard out from her backpack. Ronnie would understand. Ronnie would listen.
Claire dug around in her bag, her fingers hesitating over the colored pencils, but in the end, she just grabbed a pen. “I’ll get ready in a minute,” she told her dad. He nodded and closed the side door, leaving her alone in the van.
Claire idly drew a few lines on the front of the postcard, thinking. What should she tell Ronnie? About the park? Julian? The quest for Maine? Maybe she could tell her about the dog walkers, the truth of the van, or—
Claire blinked. A dog stared out at her from the card, tongue lolling, ears small and pointed. She’d been doodling without realizing.
She stood up, postcard clenched in her hand. After a second’s deliberation, she shoved it inside her pillowcase. She’d work on her letter later.
In the rest area bathroom she changed and brushed her teeth, then washed her face at the sink.
“Baby wipes,” a woman said, passing Claire some paper towels to dry her face off.
“What?” Claire asked.
“You’re in the van out back, right? The Sprinter?” The woman had short black hair and kind brown eyes, her lips a vivid red that matched her button-down shirt. It was the kind of red Ronnie would have appreciated, and Claire found herself nodding, even though she wasn’t sure if she should be telling strangers she was staying in a van. “I thought so. Baby wipes are the best. Back when I lived in my truck, I always kept a packet in the door.”
“You lived in your truck?” Claire gaped at her. She looked so . . . normal.
The woman laughed. “Is it so hard to believe? It was a few years ago. My landlord died, rest his soul, and his son wanted me out, pronto. Jacked up the rent too high for me, and I couldn’t find a place that would take me and my dog.” She shrugged. “I’d rather live in my truck with my dog than give him up.”
“That’s terrible,” Claire said.
“Eh, it wasn’t all bad. A bit of a tight fit, and everything I owned was covered in dog fur, but that’s nothing new. Sometimes I even kind of miss it, the freedom of it.”
“Really?” Claire found that hard to believe. Would she miss traveling around in a van, too? Doubtful. “How long were you, uh . . .”
“Houseless?” the woman suggested. “Six months and change.”
Houseless. Claire rolled that word around in her mind, then realized the woman was staring at her.
“It can be a little tough,” she told Claire gently, “but I got through it, and so will you.”
“Oh, but I’m not—” Claire stopped. She was houseless. And for all she knew, it could be for six months, or maybe longer. It could be forever.
“And in the meantime, baby wipes.”
“Baby wipes,” Claire repeated. As she headed out into the night, she wondered how many people lived in their car or truck or van, people she wouldn’t have guessed, ordinary-seeming people. Apparently it wasn’t just for glamorous vanlifers and weirdos like her dad.
When she got back to the van, her dad had already set up his bed and the hammocks and was in the process of covering all the windows. Claire helped pull the curtains and put up the front window covering without a word, then crawled carefully over a sleeping Patrick, his arms wrapped around Chomps, and into her own hammock. Outside, she could hear cars pulling up, people chatting as they got out, the slam of a car door. She shifted, her hammock squeaking. A truck rattled past, then another. She shifted again. She felt strangely exposed, sleeping out here with people and cars moving past her.
“Something bothering you, Claire-bear?”
“What could possibly be bothering me? Except that I’m sleeping in a hammock, in a car, in a rest stop of all places.”
“Not true.”
“No?”
“No. This isn’t a car, it’s a van.”
Claire clenched her hands and counted to five, then released her fists. “I’d smack you with my pillow if it wasn’t such a pain in the butt to get out of this hammock.”
Her dad chuckled. “I figured that would keep me safe.”
Claire lay awake in her hammock a long time. More people. Someone laughing. Footsteps scraping super close to the van. “Dad?”
“Hmm?” he asked sleepily.
“Did you lock the doors?”
“Yep.”
She listened to her heart, pounding, pounding, so loud her head felt like it was throbbing with that beat.
“Want me to double-check?” her dad asked after a long moment.
“Could you?” She waited for him to make a comment about troll spies or secret assassins, some story that would make her feel silly for her door-lock obsession. Instead, she heard a rustle beneath her as he got up, and then the loud click of the doors.
“Better?” he asked.
Claire nodded, but realized he couldn’t see that. “Thanks, Dad,” she whispered.
“No problem-o. Good nigh
t, Claire-bear.”
Claire relaxed. And when she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of Wrong Way Jacobus and his loaf of bread, of Ken and her long princess hair, and of Evangeline Rose, whose smile was soft and sweet and reminded Claire of her mother. “No child custody sought,” Evangeline Rose said, picking up a thick black marker and checking off a box.
Claire woke suddenly, completely, her heart hammering. Her hair was sticking to her face, and when she brushed it away, it felt damp. She must’ve been crying in her sleep.
She rolled over on her side, and something poked her in the neck, jabbing out from under her pillow. She felt around with her hand and pulled out a slightly bent postcard, the one she’d accidentally doodled on. She couldn’t see it in the dark, but she brushed her thumb over the surface as if she might be able to feel the pen marks.
Maybe it was time to stop thinking about her mom and that checked box.
Claire lay there, remembering the divorce papers and how her dad had folded them smaller and smaller. She closed her eyes and pictured him folding them again, folding them until they were so small they disappeared, and her heart rate finally slowed, her body relaxing. But now that she was calm, she realized she had another problem: she really, really had to pee. She had to pee, and she was trapped in this hammock with no way out except for climbing over her brother and then stepping on her dad’s head. And even then, she’d have to go outside, in the dark . . .
Darn her dad and his lack of van plumbing!
Claire lay there for minutes that felt like hours, until finally she gave in.
“Ow! Claire,” Patrick whined.
“Ow, Claire,” her dad whined next.
“See this? This is exactly why I wanted a bathroom in here,” Claire snapped, opening the side door and slamming it behind her.
CHAPTER 17
“I keep telling you, Dad. Sorry people don’t smile.”
His grin got even wider, and he hid it behind his hand. “Better?”
Claire sighed and walked away from him, but she could still feel him smiling, all the way back to their van.
