“It’s okay, Uncle Loyal,” I say. Then I tell a lie. “I knew a hundred and fifty miles ago, even before we crossed the state line into Montana that Glenn wasn’t alive. You dropped enough hints. It’s okay. Really. I would’ve come anyway. I did come. Proves it, right?”
He doesn’t say a thing but looks at me and gives me a slight nod. I know then things will be okay, and I also know he is embarrassed. I also know that these few minutes at that country cemetery in the middle of nowhere mean a lot to him. I stop the car. He gets out, slump-shouldered, and walks toward a marker on the far corner of the cemetery, near two tall cottonwood trees. I think it best to just watch him for a few minutes from afar.
I slide out of the car. I hear him say, “Hello, Glenn. It’s been such a long time. I haven’t been very good to you these last few years. My apologies, old friend. Have you heard I’m on my way to Utah?”
Then he turns toward me and beckons me to follow.
“Glenn, I want you to meet someone. He is important. He is special. Without him, I would not be here.”
I take a few slow steps toward the grave, and when I get there, I look at Loyal, then look at the marker and say, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Glenn. You have a good friend here in Loyal Wing.”
And the funny thing is that I meant it.
Chapter Fifteen
From the Depths of the Valley We Travel toward the Tops of Peaks
I made a serious mistake. I did not take my great-nephew into my total confidence. I was not honest with him. I did not treat him as I should have. I did not tell him that Glenn, the closest friend I had, other than my Daisy, passed away seven years ago when a large stack of hay bales toppled over and crushed him. Yes, I tried, I made an attempt, but I stopped short of the mark.
My fear was this: Levi, young and in a hurry and obviously sent to North Dakota to pick me up and drive me to Utah for a sum of money, would not understand my deep friendship with Glenn Leuthold, would not understand how much it meant to me to visit his grave site in the cemetery for what may well be the last time in my life.
When will I be able to come back to this stark Montana Hi-Line country? The answer, I knew, was likely never.
So I engaged in this subterfuge. I never really told Levi that Glenn was dead, but I also never really told him he was alive. I chose my words carefully. I put it out of my mind how I would deal with Levi once the truth was known. Certainly, I would apologize. After visiting the cemetery, we could travel with haste toward Utah, we could drive straight through. It would not matter. I would owe at least that much to Levi for taking me so far out of his way.
But something happened on our way to Montana. Levi changed. He was a different young man than the one who picked me up less than two days ago. No longer in quite the hurry, no longer with mere dollar signs in his eyes and viewing me as a commodity, an object to be transported, but rather, as a human being deserving of attention and respect. This journey we are sharing, we are both growing from it, the result that most journeys inevitably cause.
He said to me, “I knew before we got to Montana that Glenn wasn’t alive.”
I asked how he knew.
He said, “You said something. You said, ‘That’s where we’ll find him,’ when I asked you where he lived. You didn’t say, ‘That’s where he lives. His house is green and he lives on a farm and I hope we don’t catch him when he’s calling in the cows or feeding the chickens or cutting alfalfa.’ You just said that’s where we’ll find him. You like to describe things. You notice colors and sounds and how things work. And then you said zero, zip, nada about Glenn’s life, other than what happened a long time ago. That’s a big clue, Uncle Loyal. You’re not good at making up things or hiding things.”
I didn’t give him credit enough for intuition. But I still don’t know if he really knew.
After we got out of the car, I called him over to the grave site. I know what he said. But . . . I watched carefully for clues. Was he angry with me? Was he impatient? Did he feel deceived? Did he feel used? I saw none of those signs. He quietly walked to the headstone. After a few minutes, I tell him more about Glenn.
I say to him, “Glenn was a true friend. That is a rare and precious thing. Even in the Church, we have many acquaintances for whom we feel love, but few friends we actually do love.”
I say, “Glenn was a man of wisdom and experience.”
I say, “Glenn was constant, like the Northern Star.”
I say, “You would have liked Glenn.”
Levi says, “I’m sure I would have.”
We spend about a half hour there. I pull a few nearby weeds. Levi takes them from me, walks to the little custodian’s building at the cemetery, really nothing more than a utility shed, and drops them into a plastic trash can. After that, he walks back to the car and stands quietly, allowing me to gather my thoughts and say a few quiet words to Glenn before heading back to the car. I know when it is time. I come back to the car and get in. Levi quietly drives away from the cemetery, and we head west again on Highway 2.
Finally, I say, “To Utah. As quickly as you choose to travel.”
He says, “Yes, to Utah.”
I am disappointed. For all that I had put him through, I harbored the faint hope and an opaque vision of hiking toward a snow-capped mountain, fishing pole in hand, laughing with one another in the brittle, piney mountain air.
Levi grips the steering wheel tighter and presses on the accelerator. We drive several miles in disquieting silence, past the tawny fields, the jade of cottonwood and box elder trees.
Then he says, “Do you think she’s over me?”
Startled, I ask, “Who?”
The corners of his mouth pinch upward. “How soon you forget, Uncle Loyal. I am disappointed and disillusioned. I expected more from you. You know. Her.”
“Her?”
“Yes, her.”
The light dawns. “Ah. The motel clerk, the lovely one, Evelyn. She of the amazing hair.”
“Of course. Yes. She. Her. It. My princess today, my future queen of tomorrow.”
“Levi, I doubt she will ever forget you. You are one of a kind. You are unique.”
He reaches over and playfully slaps the side of my knee and says, “That’s what I wanted to hear. I miss Mr. Rogers telling me that there is no one else just like me.” He sits back in the driver’s seat and says, “Let’s get out that map. We need to find us a mountain to climb.”
“I believe I have located some to the south of here. It will mean turning away from Highway 2 and driving through the central part of the state. We likely will not get to the mountains until tomorrow.”
“Just tell me where to turn. I’ll do the rest. To the mountains.”
“Yes, to the mountains.”
If luck should smile upon me and if my traveling companion remained true, I might just yet end up with foggy blue breath and snow on my shoes before this trip was over.
Chapter Sixteen
In Our Roaming, We Cause Aunt Barbara Wonder and Surprise
Uncle Loyal is getting into the navigator’s role big time. He unfolds the map about every half hour and studies it. He tells me he’s looking for roads that will lead us to mountains. He tells me that he thinks the best roads are those that get squiggly and bunched because that must mean there are a lot of switchbacks and changes in elevation. He tells me he’s looking for little dots of light blue, signifying lakes, and thin ribbons of slightly darker blue, which show where the streams and rivers are. And he also looked on the map for the little triangles with the name of a mountain and the number beside it signifying its elevation. He tells me with a laugh and more than a little excitement that there must be a thousand mountains in Montana higher than ten thousand feet.
He tells me to turn left when we reach the junction of Highway 191. He tells me that there are some mountains about twenty miles away, and while they don’t appear to be tall or impressive, we might want to take a look at them. Scout them out, he says. Reconnoiter. Choose our path.
I make the turn, and we drive through hill country. A blue, hazy patch of pine green rises to the west. Mountains, for sure, but they aren’t the kind we’re after. We drive closer, and Uncle Loyal says, “The map says there’s a little town at the foot of the mountains. It’s going to be dark soon, and I don’t see any other towns nearby. Maybe we can drive by and see if there’s a place to eat, a place to sleep. We’ve put in a long day.”
I agree with him. It has been a long day, and I am thinking that a soft bed somewhere sounds unbeatable. And maybe I’ll meet another . . . another . . . let’s see, my true love’s name . . . Evelyn, yes, that’s it, Evelyn, in the wilds of Montana, and I could get over my broken heart completely. Sew that aorta right up. Yes, sir, sounds good to me.
We make our way up a twisty two-lane road. The pavement turns a dark bluish-gray, and the sky fades from gold to orange to the same color as the road. I love this part of the day. It’s sleepy, it’s peaceful, it’s quiet, and it’s hard to tell the difference between colors. Everything blends. I always want to sing “Kumbaya” right about now. The world becomes muted. I don’t think of money or what jobs my roommates landed this summer. I don’t think of the grocery store. I don’t think of getting ahead. I don’t think of all the miles I have left to go.
Uncle Loyal stares out the window. We pass through a small canyon with a trickle of a stream coming down. We start to see old, little homes, more like cabins, on both sides of the road. Most of them are dark. We make a great, wide, sweeping curve in the road, and then ahead of us is the small town, not much more than a dozen buildings.
“Old mining town, played out. My suspicion,” says Uncle Loyal. “We may not find a place to eat, and I am unsure of the quality of the food should we locate a restaurant.” He pauses. “There. Over there. I see a sign that says café, and it looks as though it is open for business.”
A sign flickers in the dim light. It reads, “Hardpan Café,” and below it, in smaller letters, it reads, “and Hotel.”
It was gray and dusky by then, and even though it is August, there is a chill in the air. We must have been five thousand feet up in the mountains. Uncle Loyal and I park headfirst outside the café and hotel and peer inside. There are no customers. In fact, there is only one man inside, a fellow with wild, gray, frizzy hair, dressed in overalls and leaning over a table reading a newspaper. I think, This comes right out of an old, bad western movie. Bet anything his name is Snuffy or Grumpy or Dutch.
“We need to ask ourselves a couple questions: How hungry are we? How tired are we? Do we take a chance on this place?” I mumble.
Uncle Loyal looks into the darkening sky. Stars are popping out. A little puff of wind floats down the canyon. I hear music from a radio drifting across the empty main street. Uncle Loyal strokes his chin thoughtfully. “We can try it. It may be quite the experience. It almost certainly will become a good story to tell. We are off the beaten path. Let’s try it.”
With more courage than I feel, I say, “Okay, let’s head on in and give this place a shot, but I reserve the right to run out of the restaurant like a raving crazy rat, jump in the car, and drive away at a high rate of speed. And if you can’t keep up with me, tough, Uncle Loyal.”
“I agree to your conditions. However, I must insist on a head start.”
We push through the door, which has a little bell attached to it. The tinkling of the bell causes the man at the table to raise his head and take a long look at us.
“You got a couple of customers, Libby. Live ’uns. First since last March, just after the blizzard, I reckon. Better come in a hurry, ’fore they git scared and run out a here.”
“Quaint Montana humor,” I whisper to Uncle Loyal. “Local color.”
A small woman comes from the kitchen, short, hunched over, wrinkled, but with a smile that made the place almost seem normal. She does not, however, have very good hair.
“All I can feed you is eggs, hotcakes, or a cheeseburger,” she says. “All’s we got left. It’s fresh, though. Mostly. Eggs keep a long time.”
Uncle Loyal says he’ll take the eggs and hotcakes, and I order the cheeseburger.
The short story is that the meal is fine, the old timer comes our way and talks to us as we eat, and Libby, the chief cook, waitress, and owner, eventually comes over, puts her elbows on the table, and joins in the conversation. We sit there, plastic table cloth, plastic flowers in a plastic yellow vase, and talk as if we are all old friends. We get the history of the place—an old mining town, the tailings polluted by arsenic, the water dangerous to drink, and the air filled with unhealthy dust. Other than that, it is a fine place, Libby and Dutch—or Bill or Sourdough or whatever his name was—reassure us.
“Not a bad place for kids, other than the arsenic in the water,” Dutch astutely points out. “Makes the kids’ faces stick in one place. Stunts their growth too. We got nothin’ but little biddy kids here.”
Uncle Loyal whispers, “More quaint mountain humor, I assume.”
“The feds are pouring a lot of money into this old wreck of a town,” Libby says. “But I don’t know. Just don’t know. I think we’re done for. What few kids we have don’t stick around, and you can’t get nowhere without your young.” She drums her knuckles on our table, distracted by the thought and glancing around the little restaurant, which is where, she probably figured, she was going to die. I feel sorry for her. She is a nice woman.
Eventually, Uncle Loyal gets around to asking if any rooms upstairs are for rent. Libby says yes, all singles, shared bathroom, clean, and how does twenty dollars cash sound for the night?
Uncle Loyal says, “It sounds just about right.”
Libby says, “Well, it’s about time to clean up the place. If you want, breakfast will be served starting about six, maybe seven,” if she woke up tired. We understood that was our signal to get our suitcases and bags and head upstairs.
“Take whichever room you want, none of them are locked, and you don’t need to lock them here. You won’t be bothered,” Libby said. The old man in overalls reached over to Libby, gave her a little kiss on her ear, and said, “Good night, babe. See you in the morning.”
Libby looks both pleased and annoyed and tugs at his hand and squeezes it. Uncle Loyal and I walk to the car, get our belongings, and march upstairs. He takes room six; I tromp into room five. They are plain and old and don’t smell quite okay, but the bed in my room seems fine, and the sheets and blankets are, as Libby promised, clean and crisp.
I clean up for the night in the common bathroom. Then I get back to my room, climb into the slightly creaky bed, stare at the ceiling, and begin to take inventory, something that usually doesn’t make sleep come any faster.
Where did this day go?
Why was it so important for Uncle Loyal to visit Glenn’s grave site?
Will the room light up the next time I see Rachel?
What did I see today? The plains, the hills, a few mountains, old people, young people, people with brown skin in the Mexican restaurant, the food they cooked so well. A town that was dying. A good cheeseburger in a place where you shouldn’t drink the water. Blue mountains, blue sky, green forest, all fading to a gray in the twilight. And now here, this room, this place, by myself, Uncle Loyal probably snoozing next door. A promise to climb a mountain, teach an old man how to fish for trout. A sunset that went from brilliant yellow to lush red to drowsy purple.
A fast red car that I slowed down. A woman with big hair, big hair that she loved. The fleeting flash and pop of Rachel’s face before me when I told Uncle Loyal about her. The fuzzy, finicky, flustered feeling I had when I thought about her. An old man in overalls, who called an old woman “babe.” That old woman who could really cook.
It had been quite a day. My thoughts were diffused, gauzy, pleasant. Uncle Loyal, who thought I’d be upset about the detour to Glenn’s grave. Uncle Loyal, so wise, so pleasant . . .
My cell phone chimes, a foreign sound in this place, a noise that seems lou
d and raucous. I reach over for it in my bag. I look at the display. It’s Aunt Barbara calling. I flip it open and put it up to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Levi. Barbara Bates here.”
I didn’t like that beginning. Of course I know it’s Barbara. Of course I know it’s Barbara Bates. What about Aunt Barbara? Or your friend Barbara? She gets to the point quickly.
“How are you? Where are you? Did you pick up my father okay? Is he okay? You know, is he going to be okay?”
“Your dad’s fine. We’re doing fine. We’re somewhere in a little town in the mountains of northern Montana. At least, I think we’re in Montana. I don’t know for sure. No. Wait. Yeah, must be Montana. You kind of lose track of time up here.”
“Where? Northern Montana? That’s so out of the way. Remember, I’m in the travel and hospitality business. I thought you’d be much closer to Bountiful. I hoped you would be.”
“Yeah, it is out of the way, but not too much, and your dad wanted to see an old friend, and I had the time to take him, so I thought, why not?”
“Which old friend?”
“Oh, I can’t remember his name. Nice old fellow though. Maybe his name was Gary or Mitch or something like that. Didn’t have much to say. Quiet, for sure. Not a real ball of fire, but he and your dad got along super, and it was worth the extra time to take the detour. Not what I’d call a great personality—couldn’t get him to say a thing—but they were happy to see each other. Hardly even knew he was there. But Uncle Loyal was excited to be around him again. Really excited. It meant a lot to him. I met him too; we had a quick chat.”
I’m babbling. I wish I had a babbling filter. But I’m covering for Uncle Loyal.
Silence. She’s thinking. Then, slowly, the judgment. “I guess that’s all right.”
“And I made some promises to Uncle Loyal. He’s never fished for trout in a mountain stream. Not ever. Just pond stuff in North Dakota. So I start thinking. Here we are in Montana, the Big Sky, and streams about every five miles where the trout almost jump out of the creek and into your lap, so I told him, ‘Loyal, we’ll do some fishing while we’re here.’”
Road to Bountiful Page 9
