Dancing on the Edge of the Roof

by Sheila Williams

  “Baby pools for Wal-Mart—I wouldn't call that a necessity, Juanita. No one will die if I don't get the wading pools delivered on schedule. And there's no creativity in it,” she said, disgustedly. “Not like what you're doing. That takes smarts. You gotta know what all of those words mean and how to put 'em together. I could barely write a decent sentence in high school,” she added, sadly.

  I laughed.

  “You're giving me entirely too much credit,” I told her. “A year ago, it took me three days to read three pages of a book 'cause I didn't know what half the words meant. I barely made it through high school myself. Before I started reading, I used to spend my days watching soaps and talk shows. I'm not literary, or whatever you call it. I'm not intellectual, or whatever that word is. I'm just an ordinary woman. I'm really a nobody.”

  Peaches inhaled deeply on the cigarette she just lit.

  “No, you're Juanita Louis, whole person, who is writing about her life. And it's no less a life than anyone else's. There's laughter, tears, long words and short words, hopes and dreams …”

  “Just one little dream … Besides, I haven't written much. Only twenty pages or so,” I said aloud but to myself.

  “Well, it doesn't matter, I'm still impressed. What do you have so far? Anything you can read to me? Or is it too personal?”

  I told her that it was not, and sifted through the pages of my now coffee-stained notebook until I found the paragraphs about Mrs. Berman and my kids, about the funeral of the little Amish child. I read them to her slowly because the movement of the truck sometimes made it hard to see the words. Then I stopped and waited to see what she would say.

  “You're good,” Peaches said, softly. “And you're wasting your time with this running away stuff. You ought to be sitting at a desk somewhere hitting the typewriter keys.”

  I chuckled.

  “But that's just it! I've never done anything or been anywhere in my whole life. If I don't make this journey, even if it doesn't end in a great adventure, I won't have anything to write about.” I paused, thinking about the barely breathing existence I had led before. “Besides, I can't type.”

  “Well, you're still pretty good.”

  “Thanks,” I said. And I really meant it. She had made me feel good. This was the first time I had ever let anyone hear what I had written.

  Peaches shrugged, said “That's OK,” and puffed on her next cigarette. I looked out the window and stared at a deer that was staring back at me. Saw real mountains in the distance. Began to daydream.

  In my mind, I was beginning to see my “past life” in black and white, like TV when I was little. And now, even when I could only see open fields for miles in every direction, I saw brilliant colors for the first time. The wheat was gold, tan, rust, marigold, and taupe. The cornstalks were emerald, lime, evergreen, and teal. The sky was no longer just blue. It was azure or powder blue or sapphire, and the sun's rays were a million shades of yellow or orange. Everything seemed more colorful now. Everything I saw, everything I touched or ate had more depth to it, more life. It had to be because I had more of a life now.

  No, there was no way I would ever write about the dreary, no-hope existence I had lived before, and I told Peaches that.

  She chuckled.

  “Well, maybe so,” she commented. “But from what I heard, you found a way to bring poetry to some hard times. And the part about the Amish, that was good. See, that's what writers do.” She exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “Don't forget to write about me in your little notebook. See if you can make my life into poetry.”

  I told her that I would try.

  Nothing else much happened for a few thousand miles.

  And then, I had to pee.

  “Not another rest stop for another thirty miles or more,” Peaches said when I told her. “Don't suppose you could hold it?” She grinned at me, her cheeks dimpling, her eyes twinkling mischievously, at least they appeared to be as her face disappeared into a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “Not on your life,” I said painfully as the truck bounced through a trio of potholes in the highway. I squirmed on the once comfortable seat trying to get situated. I could feel liquid coming out of my pores. I swore to myself that, after this, I would give up drinking Cokes.

  “Where is the next spot in the road?” I asked, wondering if there were any towns out here.

  Peaches's grin greeted me again.

  “Sixty miles or so …” her voice trailed off into husky chuckles. She began to move through the gears and I heard the roaring engines whine down. “Keep your drawers on, lady. I'll stop. Take me just a minute though.”

  I crossed my legs and closed my eyes. I'd keep my drawers on all right. I just didn't want them to be wet.

  Peaches pulled off the road alongside a beautiful wooded area just past a stretch of plains grass that seemed to go on forever. I nearly broke my neck and both legs jumping down from the cab, but I couldn't think about that. I caught the roll of toilet paper that Peaches tossed out to me and hobbled quickly into the trees.

  As I squatted among the bushes and the wild mushrooms and the berry bush (were those poison?) my momma's voice came back to me. And I remembered a time once, long ago, when I had to go and Momma took me back into the bushes. I couldn't have been more than three or four years old.

  “Now squat down low, Juanita, real low, baby.” Momma's voice was soft and soothing, the gentle tones of her Georgia country home took all the fear away. “That's a good girl. …”

  I had been drinking Coke like it was going out of style, so I was taking a good long time. But I was just about finished peeing and enjoying my daydream when I heard a sound like somebody blowing out a puff of breath. A really big somebody blowing out a really big puff of breath.

  I froze mid-pee.

  Amazing how that happens.

  I was afraid to breathe. Afraid to move my head. Afraid. Period. I looked around me as best I could without moving my head. I waited. Then I heard it again, followed by a snort. This time, I could tell where the sound was coming from. And I turned my head.

  This time, it was my turn to exhale.

  The largest, hairiest, ugliest horse I've ever seen in my life stood only twenty feet or so away. He stamped the ground once with a large foot, then snorted again. Then he looked at me with huge, black, curious eyes.

  Then he bellowed. Or howled. Or something. I don't know what the name of that sound was and I didn't stick around to find out. I ran back to the highway and practically flew into the truck cab. I was breathing so hard that I thought I was having a heart attack. I don't even remember pulling up my jeans.

  “What the …” Peaches exclaimed, startled. “What's the matter with you? You see a ghost or something?”

  I tried to explain, but she didn't give me any sympathy.

  “A damn elk, Juanita,” she said, giggling. “They're all over the place!”

  “Biggest horse I ever saw,” I gasped, locking the door and looking out the window to see if that giant was following me.

  “He wasn't going to charge at you,” Peaches said matter-of-factly. “He probably was just warning you away from his territory.”

  I patted my chest where my heart had pushed through the front of my T-shirt.

  “Could have fooled me. He looked real pissed off.”

  Peaches gave me a sideways glance as she began to work through the many gears.

  “By the way … where's my toilet paper?”

  I started laughing and couldn't stop. Almost peed my pants. Again.

  That damn elk could have that toilet paper.

  We passed the rest of the trip to Paper Moon in long periods of silence, interrupted by comments from one or the other of us. I was trying to quit smoking, but with Peaches's Viceroy chain-smoking thing going on, I was helpless and the tobacco smelled so good. I gave up—only for the trip to Paper Moon I promised myself—and pulled out a pac
k of Kools I had stashed in my tote bag in case I got weak. We smoked, drank Coke, and looked at the road and at Montana. And for many miles, that was enough.

  Again, I thought about space.

  There was a woman on a ”Sally Jessy Raphael” show I saw once. She couldn't go out of her house because she was scared of open places, of space. She hadn't even been to the grocery store in fifteen years: Her children went for her, little kids going to the store alone. Maybe I'm getting like her. Like that woman on “Sally.”

  Afraid of space. Afraid of the world.

  Afraid of life.

  Well, I'm almost here now. Almost in Paper Moon, Montana.

  I guess I'll have to get over it.

  Chapter Seven

  “Paper Moon, Montana, ma'am, straight ahead.”

  I woke with a start. Had forgotten where I was, then looked around me. The cab of the truck seemed fuzzy and strange, then I yawned and stretched, blinking my eyes and shaking my head to get the cobwebs out.

  “Already?”

  Peaches chuckled and elbowed me, hard.

  “Already. You've been asleep for over an hour. You've got to remember, there is next to no traffic out here. At night, there's even less. I made good time.”

  I poured myself some tired coffee and squinted as I looked into the morning sunshine and down the road at a sign: Paper Moon, 10; St. Regis, 55.

  “Oh, it's only a paper moon …”

  Peaches let me off in the parking lot of the Paper Moon Diner with a firm handshake, a bear hug, and a thousand instructions and warnings.

  “Remember, Millie Tilson runs a little rooming house/bed and breakfast of sorts over on Main Street. Shouldn't be too hard to find, Paper Moon only has five streets! And don't forget, this is a truck stop. Some of the guys who pass through here are real assholes—and dangerous. Don't take up with any of 'em. If you want a man, just call me, I know who the decent ones are. The ones that won't beat you, or who aren't married or something.” She handed me a grubby business card: “P. Bradshaw Trucking, Inc., P.O. Box 4917, Cheyenne, Wyoming (406) 555-5381.”

  “Leave a message on the answering machine. Tracie or I will call you right back. You can call collect if you want. I'll tell Tracie, so she'll accept the calls. If you want me to pick you up next time I'm through here, holler. I'd be happy to. I could probably take you to Seattle next month, or down to Dallas if you like that sort of thing. Now, remember, Fagin's Market's over on Vine in Mason, somebody around here will be happy to give you a lift. The folks in town are a little quiet but nice. Tell Millie I said to treat you right, and not charge you too much. Now are you sure you don't want me to drop you off there? You could leave your suitcases, and then go eat. Or Inez will fix you something. She works for Millie.”

  My stomach growled.

  “Nope. I'm starving. I'll just go on in here and grab a bite first. Then maybe I'll look around a bit.” I noticed the mountains though. They were beautiful. And frightening. I really didn't think I'd be looking around much, but it sounded like the right thing to say.

  Peaches frowned. She looked worried.

  “Are you sure? It's just a hop from here.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I said, taking the tote bag from her. “Stop fussing!”

  Peaches blushed and grinned.

  “Well, I want you to be OK. So you can finish that book you're working on. I want to read the parts about me.” She struck a dramatic pose. “The seductive and mysterious lady trucker, whose smoking eighteen-wheel chariot delivers wading pools to Seattle cherubs.” She blinked her eyelashes ridiculously.

  I laughed.

  “Peaches, you need to quit.”

  “Call me and let me know how you're doing. OK?”

  “OK, quit worrying, will you? And thanks, Peaches. I'd never have gotten here if it wasn't for you.”

  Peaches blushed again.

  “That's what friends are for, Miz Louis. See ya in a few weeks.”

  She disappeared in a cloud of dust, diesel smoke, and gravel. I had a coughing fit. And after she was gone, I felt a void.

  I was alone in the world again.

  Like Swee' Pea, about to face the monsters.

  I felt as if I'd gone back in time. From the old screen door with the latch hook tapping against the weathered wood, to the 1950s steel-and-vinyl chairs, this place had the feel of another age. Outside, it looked run-down and ancient. A relic from the old West. The “Help Wanted” sign was so old that the edges were curling up. It was off the main highway, on Arcadia Lake Road, sitting at the top of a gentle ravine, which led down to a forest and then to the lake itself.

  From the porch, the view was incredible, but a little scary. Huge, towering pine trees of a green color that I'd never seen in Ohio. In the morning sunshine, the lake water sparkled, and I heard birds calling: not little sparrows or robins either. But huge pterodactyl-like things, the kind with wingspans that made strange noises as they flew. There were fishermen on the bank, but I couldn't look down too long. I was beginning to find that heights bothered me, too. All of these phobias. I shook off the dizziness and opened the creaky-looking screen door.

  Inside, it was a little better. There were actually plastic red-and-white-checked tablecloths, old-fashioned jukeboxes at some of the booths, animal heads here and there, and photographs of cowboys and Indians. The walls were rough, like the inside of a log cabin (or what I had imagined a log cabin would be like), and the floor, just to be different I guess, was an old burgundy linoleum, ready to be put out of its misery. It was a funny little place but I liked the feel of it. I felt good here. No one seemed to notice much when I walked in. Behind the huge, empty counter area was the cook, baseball cap and white apron on, tending the grill. An old-fashioned cash register sat on the glass counter near the door. Each table had a bud vase containing one tired little carnation straining to suck up a thimbleful of water. On the opposite side of the restaurant sat the only other customers in the place: four elderly men, bent and leathered, drinking their morning coffee and joking with the waitress, who waited to take their orders. They didn't notice me when I came in. It was seven o'clock in the morning. I yawned and opened the menu.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” I scooted over into the booth and reached for the cream.

  Now, I don't read French. I don't read Italian either. Still don't. (At the time, I thought it was Italian.) Can't even spell Italian, really. I get confused as to where the “i” and the “a” go. In fact, I had just learned to read English good not quite a year ago. I looked up and glanced wildly around me. Had this menu been given to me by mistake? Was this a joke? I caught the waitress's eye and she quickly came over, carrying the coffeepot and smiling. She was about my daughter Bertie's age, wearing a “Save the Earth” T-shirt with jeans under her “Paper Moon Diner” apron. Her blue-black hair hung to her waist in one long, thick braid, and she wore silver hoops in her ears. She had a pretty face and friendly light brown eyes.

  “Yes, ma'am. Are you ready to order?”

  “Uh … well, I can't read this menu,” I stammered. My face was warm. I felt so dumb. “Did … uh … is this the breakfast menu?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” came the polite reply.

  “Oh … uh … do you have any menus printed in English?”

  The waitress sighed.

  “Afraid not. I can translate for you, though.”

  OK, I thought. Well, this is the West. Maybe it wasn't in French, maybe it was Spanish. A lot of people probably speak Spanish out here. Of course, I couldn't read Spanish either.

  “Oh. OK. Uh … what's …” I located something that looked as if it might be eggs and bacon. I really had a taste for eggs and bacon this morning. “What's this?” I pointed at some familiar letters.

  “Croque monsieur with capers and smoked salmon.” Noting my expression (since I didn't have a clue as to what “Croque monsieur” was and the only smoked thi
ngs I knew about were hams and bacon), she explained that it was, basically, a grilled ham and cheese sandwich.

  “Oh. And this?” I pointed out another item. Hopefully, I'd get to bacon and eggs sooner or later. It had to be here somewhere.

  “Eggs Benedict.”

  “What's that?” I asked, frowning.

  “Canadian bacon and poached egg on top of an English muffin, covered with hollandaise sauce.”

  Now, in my mind, there's nothing more pitiful-looking than a poached egg. They don't taste too good either. I looked at the next item. My stomach growled.

  “I see.” I could tell that she was getting irritated with me, but I was confused. I thought this was a diner. I thought they served plain old food here. In English. What was it Peaches had said about this place?

  “Good food. Kinda different, but good.”

  I stared at the strange words. Obviously, this was what she meant by “kinda different.”

  “Uh … could I … uh … substitute bacon and eggs, maybe for the muffin and, uh, that Holland sauce?” I asked, hopefully.

  The waitress rolled her eyes, and pointed to the bold print at the bottom of the page: “No Substitutions or Additions.”

  I took a deep breath. I was hungry. I had had only four hours of sleep. My behind was sore from riding in Peaches's cab. I didn't read French or Spanish or whatever it was. And I was starting to get an attitude. Now, I'm generally mild-mannered and easygoing. I don't mess with people, I don't cause trouble or get loud. Unless I'm hungry or tired. Or both.

  “Do you have eggs and bacon anywhere on this menu?” I asked tightly.

  “No, ma'am.”

  I took a deep breath. Decided to take a different approach.

  “Do you have any eggs and bacon in this diner?”

  The little waitress looked as if she was about to smile.

  I was not amused.

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “But it's not on the menu.” I again stated the obvious.

  “No, ma'am.”

  Well, I was going to get me some eggs and bacon, or be thrown out of Montana.