by Stephen Bly
“Where is the auction?”
He waved his arm toward the west. “Oh, it’s in the middle of nowhere, but if you’re interested, I’ll get you a brochure. I’ve got a spare.”
“I’m not …”
“No problem, ma’am, let me grab it for you.” He swaggered back to the truck while she folded her map.
OK, you are in the west, Dev Worrell, where cowboys visit with ladies … even if the cowboys are older. I wonder how much older?
He shoved back his hat as he approached to reveal a tan line across his forehead. “Here you go, ma’am. They have a cantina for lunch and ever’thin’. It’s kind of fun to watch, just in case you wanted to stop by. You don’t have to buy one, of course.”
“Are the horses broke to ride?”
“That all depends on the rider, I reckon. Do you ride?” he asked.
“Yes, but it’s been …”
“Yeah, I could tell by lookin’ that you rode. Lot of ladies from the midwest are fine horsewomen.”
What does he look at to tell that? She shaded her eyes. “Thank you for the invitation, but I probably won’t be able to make it to the auction.”
He looked straight into her eyes. “That’s too bad, ma’am. That disarmin’ smile of yours would have perked up the entire auction. I reckon you could light up the arena. It surely cheered up this ol’ cowboy. Say, you might like to buy yourself a hat to block that sun. There’s a store about a block back down here that has good Bailey straw hats. You’d look good in a cowboy hat, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. If I was you, I’d buy one of those ready-made distressed hats so you don’t look like some tourist out here on vacation. Now, you have yourself a great day.” He pointed to her folded map. “And I hope you find the place you’re looking for.” He pulled himself into the cab of the truck and started the noisy diesel motor.
Develyn climbed into the Cherokee and pulled her sunglasses down off her head. I hope I find the place I’m looking for too. She took a sip of ice water from a tall red plastic cup. I wonder what it would be like to perk up a whole wild horse auction? I don’t think I’ve perked up a whole anything in my entire life.
I do believe he was flirting with me. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I didn’t flirt back. Well, perhaps, just a little. I wonder how old he is? It’s been so long. So very long.
* * *
Develyn pushed the new but distressed-looking straw cowboy hat to the back of her head. With the window rolled down, she chewed on a piece of spent spearmint gum as she pulled off Highway 20/26. The battered sign said Natrona.
There was no population listed.
Develyn counted eight houses.
Or, perhaps seven houses and a barn.
She couldn’t tell which houses were occupied and which were abandoned. Cars and trucks randomly parked in grassless yards where dusty sheets hung on sagging clotheslines. There was no name on the front of the only commercial-looking building, but a hand-painted sign read “Welcome, we’re open. Keep the screen door closed.” The only other signs on the peeling white paint of the clapboard walls were a little blond-headed boy selling small hourglass shaped bottles of Coca-Cola … and a tattered poster of a girl with an umbrella losing salt as she walked along in a rainstorm.
Develyn eased open the door and stepped into the shadows of the store. The building was only twelve feet wide and about thirty feet long. There was one left aisle and one right aisle, with most of the supplies stacked against the walls. At the back counter Develyn could hear someone talking. She strolled slowly, forcing down her boot heels on the worn wooden floor.
As she approached the counter, she spied a large woman with beautiful wavy blonde hair and a smooth complexion.
“Honey, I have a customer. Call me later. Hugs and kisses.” The woman blushed, then whispered, “Later.”
“I didn’t mean to hurry you,” Develyn apologized.
The woman’s soft, easy smile revealed two dimples. “It’s OK. He’s a sweetie. He’ll call back.”
“Your husband?”
“Not yet. Shoot, I haven’t even met him yet.”
“You haven’t met?”
“Not in real time. We were both in the Horses-with-Troubled-Hooves chat room and started to visit. One thing led to another, and now he calls most every day.”
“Where does he live?”
“Buffalo, Texas. Can I help you find anything?”
Develyn glanced over her shoulder. The shelves smelled like dirt and vanilla. “All I need is some gum, ice water, and point me to the ladies’ room.”
“I’ve got the gum. Bottled water, but no ice. The john’s back there.” She pointed to the screen door behind her. “It’s the one on the right. There’s a hammer hanging on a rope outside the door. Bang on the side of the wall with the hammer; if you can’t hear any rattle noise, go on in.”
Develyn’s eyes widened. “What?”
“It’s snake season, honey. And you know how they like the shade of an outhouse.”
“Outhouse?” Develyn gasped.
The lady chuckled. “You had me fooled. I thought you were from around here. Where are you from?”
“Indiana. The tan is from a tanning booth; the hat I just bought in Casper. The jeans and T-shirt come from ‘western dress-up day’ at Riverbend Elementary, and the boots? Well, the boots are honest. I bought them in Houston five years ago and love them.”
“Pay no mind to what I said about the snakes. There hasn’t been a snake out there in over a week.”
“I suddenly lost the urge to go.”
“I know what you mean. I feel the same way in the winter when it’s ten below. I reckon urgency is a state of mind. Do you still want the water?”
“Perhaps I should wait.”
“That’s what I figured.” She reached to the counter behind her and retrieved a pack of gum. “That’s forty-nine cents.”
“How did you know I wanted sugarless spearmint?”
“Any lady as petite as you wants sugarless, and besides, that’s the only kind I have besides watermelon bubblegum.”
“Good deduction.” Develyn dug down into her jeans pocket for change.
“Are you goin’ to or from?” the lady asked.
Develyn shoved the exact change across the worn wooden counter. “Excuse me?”
“Indiana. Are you headed home or leaving it?”
“I’m out here on vacation. Just started it.”
“By yourself?”
Develyn hesitated.
“I know, I’m getting personal. I reckon you’re headed to Yellowstone, the Tetons and all.”
“Actually, perhaps you can help me.” Develyn unwrapped the pack of gum. “I’m looking for a little Wyoming town. I just can’t remember the name. I wasn’t driving at the time and can’t recall how to find it. I know we left Casper and were headed up to Cody and…”
“Then you had to come right along this road,” the woman interrupted.
“That’s what I thought.” Develyn held the fresh gum between her fingers as she spat the old gum into the wrapper.
“You don’t remember any names?”
“I remember a store. It was called the Sweetwater Grocery and it was in Mrs. Tagley’s living room. Does that sound familiar to you?” She slipped the new gum in her mouth and milked the mint flavor with her tongue.
“I’ve never heard of it. How long has it been since you came through?”
“Thirty-five years ago.”
“Hah! That was the year I was born. But that was in Cantrell, Montana.”
“How long have you been here?” Develyn asked.
“Eighteen months, twenty-one days and …” the woman glanced at the antelope horn clock on the wall “… and ten minutes.”
Develyn studied the woman’s pretty round face. “Sounds like a prison term.”
“Don’t it? Say, do you want to buy a store?”
“You are selling this store?”
“I wouldn’t turn down a reasonable o
ffer.”
Develyn laughed. “Sorry, I’m not interested in a store.”
“Yeah, neither was I.”
“How did you decide to buy it?”
“My truck broke down. I was hauling two horses to a show in Torrington, and threw a rod right through the engine.
Ol’ Man Alanville offered to trade me this store for the truck, trailer, two horses, and tack. So, I traded him.”
“You got a whole store for that?”
“Yeah, what a deal, huh? I’ll trade you the store for that Cherokee of yours and a hundred dollars cash.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, you interested?” The woman painted her lips with a golden orange lip balm.
“Not really.”
“Forget the cash. Just a straight trade.”
Develyn rocked back on her heels and felt the floor sag. “Thank you, but I don’t want to buy a store. But I would like to find the town with the Sweetwater Grocery.”
“You need to talk to Ol’ Man Alanville. His kin rolled in here with Jim Bridger and that bunch. He’s been here so long he knows all the lizards by first name, except some of the younger set.”
Develyn caught herself staring. “Eh … where does Mr. Alanville live?”
“Head back down the dirt road to the blacktop, but turn right at the mailboxes. That’s Garden Gulch Road. It will meander along the wash for a couple of miles, then as soon as you come up out of the dry creek bed, take a right turn. That’s Cedar Creek Road, but there are no cedars.” She grabbed a halfway clean paper towel and a felt marker. “Here, I’ll draw you a map. Ol’ Man Alanville has that newer doublewide surrounded by the chicken wire fence. Just honk twice and wait. If he’s home, he’ll come out and see you.”
She handed Develyn the small scrap of paper towel. “Here, just follow this.”
“Well, thank you.”
“You sure you don’t want a store?”
“I’m sure.”
“Yeah … it figures,” the woman mumbled.
Develyn spun rock as she pulled back on to the gravel road that led south toward the highway. She pulled over at the cluster of mailboxes.
There’s no way I’m going to wander around out here.
One lone cattle truck rolled east toward Casper. There were distant treeless mountains ahead of her. The rolling prairie had sparsly scattered bunches of pale green short grass. The few buildings were behind her. She could see no houses ahead of her.
She counted the mailboxes.
Twenty-seven? Where do they live? They must drive five miles to get their mail.
“I’m not going down that road,” she mumbled out loud. “I’m getting back on the highway and driving to…”
Where am I going today?
If this trip followed logic, I wouldn’t have begun it in the first place.
Why not go ask Ol’ Man Alanville if he ever heard of the Sweet-water Store? I have to ask someone. But why wander off the road? This could be dangerous. I’ll stick to the highway. This is only my first day to look. Or is it my second? It’s all rather blurry.
She sipped on the remnants of the ice water, then turned down the dirt road to the west. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Scattered gray sage and pale green bunch grass dotted the brown Wyoming hills. The dirt road followed the lowest contour.
“Well, Ms. Worrell, you are now the only vehicle on scenic Garden Gulch Road. Do you have any idea what you are doing? Are you trying to self-destruct?”
The ruts, holes, and rocks on the roadway forced her to slow down. She was barely ahead of a self-generated dust cloud. While Creedence Clearwater Revival sang “Proud Mary,” Develyn rolled across the dirt road, under a wide blue sky she considered the color of Paul Newman’s eyes.
She peeked at herself in the rearview mirror.
Then laughed out loud.
“Ms. Worrell, you are a sight. Dirt on your face. Cowboy hat. Bouncing along some trail to who knows where. No one would believe this. Mother would be shocked. No, maybe not. She doesn’t have much hope that I’ll ever again make a right decision.”
She tapped her foot to the next tune on the CD, then sang, “Just about a year ago, I set out on the road …” She hit the power button and rolled down all four windows. She stuck her head out the window and shouted at the top of her voice, “Oh, Lord, stuck in Lodi again!”
Develyn took a deep breath of dusty air. “I feel good, world!” she shouted. “I feel real good, and I have absolutely no explanation for it.”
She rolled up the windows and sped up until the Jeep bounced off the roadway and out into the dry creekbed. She left the accelerator jammed down and rebounded back up into the dirt roadway.
I wonder if there is a speed limit out here? I don’t know if this is a road.
She slowed down at the top of the dry riverbank. The cloud of dust swirled over her like a frustrated dirt devil, then disappeared.
“OK … Develyn Worrell, you are to turn right on something called ‘Cedar Creek Road.’” She gazed toward the north, then studied the wiggly lines of the hand-drawn map. “That must be the road, because there aren’t any cedars.” Develyn giggled. “Of course, there are no cedars for a hundred miles.”
As Creedence Clearwater Revival blasted out “Willie and the Poor Boys,” Develyn jammed on the brakes, turned up the stereo as far as it would go, and hopped out of the rig, leaving the door open.
With John Fogarty singing lead, Develyn danced around the dust-covered Jeep Cherokee. No matter which direction she looked, there were no houses, no fences, no people, no cars, no trucks, no cows … nothing. When she circled the rig once, she reversed her direction and danced back around the Jeep. When the tune began to fade she reached in and hit the repeat button. This time she shuffled as if she formed part of an invisible line of dancers.
As the song ended, she balanced herself atop a wheelbarrow-size granite boulder and shouted, “I’ve wanted to do that since I was ten! Did you see that, Mother? What are you going to do with this girl?”
Mother would have scowled, but Father would have gotten out and danced with me. Why, oh why did I wait until I was forty-five to dance around the car? Leaving the door open, she flopped back on the seat. “Dev Worrell, you just might survive after all!”
She watched the odometer. Four miles up Cedar Creek Road, she spotted a structure against a distant foothill.
That must be a house. But how do I know if it belongs to Ol’ Man Alanville? I can’t even tell if it’s a house or a barn from here. I suppose there is only one way to find out.
She spied a lid off a fifty-five-gallon drum, mounted on a T-post alongside the road, that read “No government agents beyond this point.”
Is that a joke? Government agents? Back here?
Sagebrush lined the way to the doublewide perched on concrete blocks and jammed against a lone, stubby cottonwood tree. A four-foot-high chicken wire fence surrounded a bare dirt yard. She could not see anyone.
Develyn honked her horn twice.
Then waited.
And waited.
I didn’t want to come back here in the first place. This is ridiculous.
She locked the doors of the Cherokee.
Maybe he’s not here. Perhaps I should honk twice again. He might not want to see me. Maybe he’s pulling on a shirt. Or trying to find his shotgun.
Develyn scouted the drive for the best place to turn around when a paper-thin old man wearing a long-sleeve white shirt buttoned at the collar and tattered jeans appeared at the door.
“Don’t just stay out there! Come up on the porch and sit a spell!” he hollered.
Develyn turned off the engine and opened the door. “Did the lady at the store phone you?”
He hiked out to the chicken wire gate and swung it open for her. “What store?”
“In Natrona.”
“I don’t own it any more.”
“I know …” Develyn parked her gum under her tongue. “The lady the
re said you might help me.”
“Well, come on up to the porch,” he motioned. “Would you like some cold tea?”
“Actually, that sounds nice.” What I would really like is a rest room, but I’m not sure I want to ask him. Does he have an outhouse too?
“Of course, I don’t have any ice, but it sat out on the back porch last night. My name’s Hugh Alanville. I’m the last of the Alanvilles.”
She shook his bony, cold hand. “You acted as though you were expecting me. How did you know I was coming?”
He pointed to the skies. “They told me.”
“Who?”
“The aliens. Why do you think I have the chicken wire around the place?”
Develyn eased her way back toward the gate. “Eh, to keep out the aliens?”
“That fence don’t even keep out chickens, let alone two-ton aliens. That fence is really a sophisticated antenna that draws in communications from all over the Darlobe.”
“The Darlobe?”
“We call it a universe, but they”—he pointed at the sky—“call it the Darlobe.”
Develyn took a deep breath, then bit her lip. “Mr. Alanville, have you ever heard of the Sweetwater Grocery store? I’m trying to find it.”
“It burnt down.”
“It did?”
“Yep, in 1929.”
She found herself staring at the old man’s narrow eyes. “But I was there in…”
“And they rebuilt it in 1933.”
“Oh, well, I was wondering…”
“A tornado wiped it out in ’42,” he added. “We haven’t had a tornado since then.”
“What town was…”
“They gave up on the store.”
“They did?” Develyn pressed.
“Yep.” Alanville rubbed his unshaven chin. “Old lady Tagley kept it open in her living room, but it weren’t much of a store.”
“Yes, that’s the one. Where is it, Mr. Alanville?”
“It’s twenty-four miles west of here. In the old days there was a stage stop ever’ eight miles, so all the towns and stops are in multiples of eight,” he explained.
“What’s the name of the town where the store is?”
“It’s, ah … ah … dadgum it … it starts with an A.” He stared up at the clear blue sky. “I can’t remember much since that night.”
