Rusty Summer

by Mary McKinley

  I go to get Beau up. I knock, he groans, I knock again and warble, “good morning,” he groans more. I leave and he gets up and heads to the shower. Less than ten minutes later and he is out, then me.

  Eventually, after a half hour of groaning and zombie-staggering around the house, Leo showers. Left to her own devices, she will take several hours in the bathroom even though all we will be doing is riding in a van for the rest of foreseeable time.

  “You hurry up! We need to leave before rush hour starts,” I tell her.

  Which we’re already too late to miss. It starts about five thirty in the morning. When I go out to the van with the last of the stuff I want to pack I do a double-take and stop in my tracks.

  Those knuckleheaded friends of ours have shaving-creamed the van! It’s covered with slogos like “Alaska or Bust!”; “The Last Frontier”; “North to the Fatherland!”; “Honk if You Have Seen My Dad!”; “Dad in Trunk”; “Dad on Board”; “Meet Me in Codyak” (misspelled, of course); “All the Way 2 AK!”; “C-U-L8R”; and conflicting opinions about which graduation year most “RULES!!!!!” (Several friends are juniors.)

  I start laughing and Beau hears me as he comes out the front door into the misty morning.

  “Dude! What a bunch of idiots!” He’s all mad. He sounds like Napoleon Dynamite. He gets in the van all huffy.

  But I can’t stop crowing. I squall like a maniac.

  “Nah . . . aahh! It’s cool, Napoleon! Ouch, too funny. We’ll go to a car wash.” I bump the car door and accidently smear “Alaska is where it’s AK!”

  Ian and Arlo and Mandeprah and Riley and Co.! I just know it!

  “Whoops! Wait—I’m going to post this.” I take a pic on my phone and send it to my computer. I’ll post it when we stop for the day.

  I still have the same old phone I’ve had for about three hundred years. I call it my Soviet-era cell phone. I still don’t have a smartphone since I’ve added app paranoia to my other list of stuff. And now my comedian pals around me are having so much fun bagging on my lil’ antiquity that I don’t know how I could ever deny them. When I brought it out recently I was asked if I can only get calls from rotary phones. They are hilarious and delightful.

  We get everything packed and the house locked. Gina is going to water our plants.

  Leo calls The Bomb and she jumps in. Seat belts on.

  I start the van and we back out. I honk “shave and a haircut, six bits” as we pull away, because that is what my dad used to do when he drove off when we were watching, even when he was just leaving for the day.

  Honking the little ditty seems like it will help us find him.

  It’s funny how easy it is to get back in the swing of certain things . . . like us, on a road trip. It seems like we should always be on one.

  We assume the positions of a road tour—me driving, Beau shotgun, and Leo and The Bomb in the short seat behind us. We drive into the gray dawn.

  The traffic sucks. The terrain is straight-up ugly for a while, nonstop strip malls on clear-cut former forests, till we turn off I-5 to the smaller highways that will eventually lead to the Al-Can, the Alaska-Canadian Highway.

  When it gets less populated and more primal, we settle into the vista that we will more or less be seeing the whole way up: farmland and then deep woods. It clears out now and then and we can see scrubland and miles of evergreens. But no ocean—this time we’re heading inland. At least for now.

  When we get to Kodiak Island the ocean will be everywhere. Yippee!

  We breeze along and play music. I have discovered antiwar protest music from the ’60s. I still dominate the playlist because I’m obnoxious.

  After a while the other traffic thins out after rush hour and we cruise, under control. An hour passes. The sky is cloudy and gray. The hours and landscape flow by.

  We decide to take an alternative route after seeing a sign that says ROAD WORK—EXPECT DELAYS. We turn into a small country road, which looks to be as straightforward as I-5 on the map.

  After a couple of miles we stop. We are way in the north-center of the state. We don’t see any people or farm animals around so we get out and walk The Bomb.

  It’s weird in the country. Everything smells like cow pies in the beginning but then after a while you can’t smell it anymore.

  Bommy looks around like, “where are we?” and I explain that we have to go find her doggie grandpa and see what his problem is. She’s cool with that. We walk around and get back in.

  Farmland is peaceful. We start to drive again, slowly.

  “Omg! I just saw a coyote!” Beau points out the window. “It’s back in that pasture!”

  “OH, NO!! It’s going to try to eat the baby cows!!” screeches Leo.

  All of a sudden we see a huge black-and-white dog tear across the field after the coyote. It’s followed by a smaller black one and they’re running full out. We slow the van to a stop; there are no other cars in sight, and we get out to watch. The dogs are baying and snarl-barking as hard as they can while running.

  “I hope they catch that coyote! Go! GO! Get ’em!” chants Leo in spiteful encouragement.

  Beau looks over at her, surprised.

  “Coyote issues, honey?”

  “Yes! They are evil and bullies and I don’t care if those dogs eat them all! And all the coyotes’ children! They ate a dog I knew once!” Leo replies viciously, as more dogs charge out of the barn.

  The Bomb has been whining and then she starts to howl. She just cuts loose and yodels about how much she doesn’t like coyotes either. The dogs are making so much noise they can’t even hear her. There are about five mutts now, all sizes, and they disappear behind the coyote and the first two dogs into the trees at the far end of the broad field, their barks and yapping growing fainter.

  We stand there for a while. It seems really quiet now. A car comes along and we move off the road. It slows and the old couple inside look at us curiously. They roll their window down.

  “You kids okay?” the driver asks in a friendly way.

  “Yeah. We just saw a bunch of dogs go after a coyote. That way.” Leo points.

  The old lady squawks into life.

  “Those damn coyotes! They took my laying hen!” She looks to see which way they went.

  “And my dog!” adds Leonie.

  “Oh, honey,” says the old lady. Leo and she wince in commiseration. We all nod.

  “Well, good luck with your hens,” Leo tells them after we’ve all nodded long enough.

  “Thank you, dear. That’s a real pretty dog you have now. You sweet little thing!”

  Bommy wags thanks.

  “You take care! Bye now!” They start on their way again, waving. We wave too. And wag.

  “Bye!”

  “They were nice,” Leonie says with satisfaction. We get back in the van.

  “Why did you tell them you had a dog, Leo?” Beau asks.

  “Well, it was sort of mine. It belonged to my foster sister at this one house I stayed in, in Redmond. It was small. It was a girl dog. Her name was Snow White. She was a black toy poodle.” Leonie looks out the window. “And it was gross to find her after she got ate. My foster sister screamed and cried for a week.”

  She glances at me in the rearview from behind my seat. “I just didn’t feel like saying all that to that nice old lady. Why make her sad?” She shrugs a world-weary shoulder.

  We settle in to drive. Without too much difficulty we get back on I-5 and are once again heading up to the border. Up to go through customs.

  Customs is a small deal at this place, I’ve read. I remember when we went to Canada when I was little, that was the Blaine crossing, a giant border where everyone crosses, with the Peace Arch and what all. I remember my dad joking with the border guard as they just waved us through.

  Then 9/11 happened and we didn’t go to Canada anymore. Too much hassle. Then he left.

  This customs is littler.

  Nonetheless, I am a pile of nerves as we approach.
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br />   I haven’t gotten any less intimidated by cops since last we met. Especially after all the pepper spraying during the Occupy stuff. They seem way too angry. I read that one reason for it is that a lot of them are rollin’ on “roid rage” (as in steroids). So, yeah, not reassuring.

  I look over at Beau, who looks as skittish as I feel.

  “Aren’t you glad now you don’t have a record?” I try to joke.

  “I was glad before. I’m super glad now.” He smiles. But his cheek twitches nervously.

  Personally, I think it’s pathetic to be as afraid of cops as we are. I liked cops when I was a little kid: to protect and serve us. But I think it’s terrible the way people are being treated. I shouldn’t have to worry about being pepper-sprayed or tased or shot during a peaceful protest.

  I’m thinking all this stuff as we approach, each car at the customs kiosk stopping in turn, asking them this and that: how long you’re going to stay, how come you’re coming in the country anyway, if you’re carrying anything contraband, etc. Then they wave them through or over to the other building, which means they are going to hassle them further.

  I figure being our age and having a dog that we are going to be hassled for all we are worth.

  I sigh and settle in for heavy weather.

  When it’s our turn my heart is hammering so hard that I feel the beginning of that icy chill I get when I’m really scared. Everything . . . gets . . . slooooowed . . . down . . .

  I pull up to the kiosk window. The dude looks at us.

  “Reason for entering Canada?”

  “We need to use the Al-Can,” I say. Which admittedly sounds weird, but it just came out.

  Dude looks up.

  “Are you carrying any contraband?”

  “No.”

  “Any drugs or guns?”

  “No.” From behind me Leonie snorts like, “as if.”

  Great.

  He looks back at her.

  “Do you think guns are funny, young lady?”

  “No.” But apparently she doesn’t sound sorry enough.

  “Pull over to Building Three, please,” he snaps. He looks at The Bomb.

  “You’ll need papers for the dog.”

  For a sec I thought he meant those pads for her to pee on. So did Leonie.

  “Actually, she’s housebroken, so it’s fine.”

  He looks at Leo again to see if she’s bagging on him, but when she just looks back at him with nothing but vague hostility, he just snarkily waves us to the other building.

  “Way To Go, Leonie!” I say. “You are like a genius only smarter!” I glare into the rearview. I’m so pissed. This will take days. We may as well unpack.

  “What a complete drag,” I mutter to myself as two border cops wave us out of the lane and then out of the van. We get out and stand, freezing, as they scan our IDs and go through the van and the seats and everything. They pop all kind of unknown hiding places out of the molding and doors and then sort of put it all back, only lumpy.

  They give us back our IDs and Bommy’s papers, ask us our destination and are generally neutral. They don’t have the ominous attitude; it was just the kiosk-stop cop.

  I figured the border would be a pain. And I was right.

  We drive for about ten minutes and then find a place to pull over. As we push the molding into place, I look over at Beau.

  “Whatever.” I’m still so pissed. It’s about all I can say.

  He shakes his head. Leonie is still putting her ID back into her purse-wallet. Then she checks her face in her wallet mirror.

  “Actually,” Beau says, “I’m surprised it wasn’t worse.”

  I snort bitterly. “Yeah.”

  “Seriously. Try to look at it from their view. The cops were only doing their job.”

  “Whatever! Maybe they need a different job description.”

  “Yeah. Well, anyway, let’s get something to eat.”

  Leo swoops forward, even though Beau didn’t raise his voice.

  “What? Are we gonna eat?! What are we gonna eat?!”

  “What do you feel like?”

  Leo closes her eyes and wishes out loud. “Mmmm, chocolate cake and cinnamon toast, like your mom makes it, and turkey sandwiches, and hot cocoa and a steak and some beer . . . and Doritos and peanut butter and sesame crackers and chocolate everything. Oh! And orange Crush—with real sugar.”

  She opens her eyes to find us just staring at her.

  “I don’t mean I want us to get all that . . . I’s just sayin’.”

  Beau looks at me.

  “So, anyway . . .”

  I laugh. “Actually, it all sounded pretty good. Just not in one bowl.”

  We find a Canadian supermarket, where I promptly discover I forgot to repack the can opener, after I took it out to use it one last time at home for dog food.

  So I get Bommy a bag of dry food, which she kind of looks at like, “you’re kidding, right?”

  We get bologna and cheese and bread to make sandwiches. Leo hams on a slice of bologna without bread. I feed Bommy some bologna. She’s so funny. I hold it and say, “Speak!” and she says, “Woo-woo-woo.” It’s more like singing than speaking. When I’m done I study up on where we’re going and off we sail.

  Because we are in Canada the road signs have changed to kilometers. I try to remember how to convert them to miles. The road we are on isn’t busy so it’s okay while I work it out.

  Approximately, it’s “half + front number.”

  So: 90 km an hour means 90 divided in half plus nine.

  So: 45 plus 9 is 54 miles an hour, so really 55 miles an hour, just like home.

  I remember this from my friend Shazzie, from Scotland. She said that’s how they kept from going way too slow when she and her family came to visit America once, before we were friends on Facebook. Her family wanted to see Mount Rushmore, which I never have—or even considered.

  It’s intriguing what people come to America for.

  We get on the road, going the right speed, and settle in once more.

  Like I said, farmland, rolling for miles—er, that would be kilometers—as far as the eye can see. We roll into tiny towns and out again, mostly just an intersection and a store.

  The van has run pretty well since our trip to San Francisco. Mom helped me get a really good tune-up recently so it’ll purr on the drive, in spite of the mileage.

  We all get in long-distance mode, looking out the window, doing our various thing, when Leonie pipes up.

  “So what would have happened at the border if you did have a record?”

  “They won’t let you come into Canada.”

  “Even if it’s like a parking ticket?”

  “No, but just about everything else,” I say, “because the punishment doesn’t fit the crime.”

  “So then it’s good Beau didn’t get caught in the arrests at that protest with what’s-his-face.”

  “Yeah. Plus, he would have gotten beat up. But it’s also good Beau protested,” I say. “I just thought Kurtis was a little too okay with Beau going to jail. It’s like he wanted him to get in trouble.”

  Leonie is quiet, which usually means she’s thinking and will soon come up with something that will make me do a spit take.

  “Rust, I don’t think you like Kurtis,” she informs me.

  “Nope.” I vigorously agree.

  “Well, that doesn’t make sense.... I mean, why not? Isn’t he gay?”

  I look at her in the rearview mirror. I resist the urge to roll my eyes dramatically while driving.

  “Leo . . . Leo, Leo, Leo. You never fail! I think you plan to make me mental eventually! Ahhh! Listen, whether he is or not, I don’t like people just because they’re gay! Where do you get this? That is as crazy as not liking them just because they’re gay! People are defined by their words and actions! Like right now I’m defining you as a complete lunatic, because of your words and actions!”

  She makes a face at me in the mirror.

  “
I just thought you liked gay guys.”

  “I do! Especially the ones who are nice to me! But if they’re gay and treat me bad, then guess what? I’m not friends with them. Just like with anyone else. It’s about what’s inside people . . . be nice or go home.”

  Leo nods judiciously. “Yeah . . . I feel you.” She returns to watching the terrain.

  After a few hours, at dusk, we pull into the motel that I googled. I thought it looked cheap and okay. They have cable and a coffeepot and a microwave. There are two queen-size beds.

  We get the idea to push them together so it’s like a giant sectional. If we lie sideways there is room for all of us, including Bommy. We throw our sleeping bags over the blankets and rearrange the pillows. It rocks. We get comfy and settle in to watch TV. Beau e-mails on his smart phone. I eyeball him but he just grins at me and moves his phone so I can’t see who he’s e-mailing.

  I really hope NOT snotty Kurtis!

  I start to eat my sandwich. Beau starts to eat his. Leo scarfs on a dry head of lettuce.

  Beau and I glance at each other, but we don’t bust on her. We’re a little worried about her.

  We stay up watching basic cable. Eventually we crash, leaving the TV on quietly in the background.

  In the morning I wake up early. Bommy does too. We go out for a walk. I take her leash, as a precaution, but she is so reasonable she never takes off.

  It’s the rainbow leash the uncles got us for Christmas before last. She still wears her collar that says The Bomb in gold thread with a glittery fuse at the end of her name. It’s in good shape.

  I think about the uncles as I walk with her on the empty country lane. The Bomb investigates everything. I stand with her when she stops.

  I wonder if the uncles would have a theory about my dad, or lack of. I wish they were here. They helped us to be brave and effective when we came back from San Francisco. We friended them on Facebook and they sent us different links to pages about anti-bullying, and how to legally respond to intimidation, and all kinds of useful, important stuff.