The Last Grand Adventure

by Rebecca Behrens

  “What is it?” Pidge shifted uncomfortably. Her low heels must have hurt her feet. I was wearing new Keds sneakers, which had been white at the start of our trip but definitely weren’t now that we were tromping through the desert dirt. I wasn’t wearing socks, and I regretted that. Blisters were budding on both of my heels.

  “I’m going to take a picture,” I said. “May I have my bag?”

  “Good job using those Earhart eyes to see.” Pidge handed me my knapsack and sat balanced on the suitcase next to me. I rummaged around for my Brownie. I held it up to the sky, searching the viewfinder for the perfect image. I settled on taking a picture of the road unspooling in front of us. Then I took another of the spotted hills in the distance. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  It took Pidge a minute to force herself up. “I suppose it’s not a good sign that I don’t want to stand again.” I nodded my head, which was starting to throb.

  We walked in silence for a while, mesmerized by striking scenery. I felt so tiny and insignificant below the big sky. It was one of those things you can’t think about too long or seriously—the vast space above us that goes on and on, seemingly forever. That’s unsettling. I wondered how Amelia could have loved being up in those endless clouds, alone in an airplane. She must’ve loved it, if she made being in the sky the most important thing in her life.

  As soon as we left the ground, I knew I myself had to fly.

  I’d die if I didn’t.

  I wondered if that’s how my mother felt about her travels and her writing.

  Pidge interrupted the silence. “You come from a long line of walkers.”

  “You mean fliers?”

  “That’s a shorter line, of just Meelie. I was talking about your great-grandmother Amy. She was a pioneer in her own right. Do you know what record she set?”

  I shook my head no.

  “She was, oh, about twenty-one when she became the first woman to trek her way up Pike’s Peak. Mother was always active—rode circus horses around and such. She raised Meelie and me in that spirit. She didn’t want us sitting at home, pining for boys and sewing. She wanted us in bloomers, building a homemade roller coaster in the front yard.” I remembered that detail from the letters.

  “That’s really neat,” I said, wiping the sweat off my brow with the skin near my elbow. I’d have to note that in my journal. It was the sort of thing my mom would love to hear about. It was funny, thinking about all the women trailblazers in my family—except me and, now that I thought about it, Pidge. It’s not that she’d spent her whole life sitting at home and listening to the radio, but she hadn’t tried to fly around the world or climb a mountain. “Did you ever want to be the first at something?”

  Pidge stopped in the road, shifting the valise from one hip to the other. “Well, no. Or maybe not no, exactly . . . It’s just that Meelie was the one who did things like that. Not me. I was the second-born daughter. The ordinary one.” I nodded in understanding. Oftentimes I felt ordinary too. Pidge pursed her lips, thinking. “Although, you know, Meelie never finished her college education. She may have gotten loads of honors over the years, and even taught at Purdue—but I was the one who earned a degree the old-fashioned way, sticking it out in a classroom for years.”

  “Hey, that’s something.” Pidge’s accomplishment was more feasible—one you could do by reading lots of books and having a good attendance record—but less glamorous. Nobody plans a ticker-tape parade for someone who gets a college degree. But it’s still something to be proud of.

  What would it be like to live the kind of life that leaves people in awe, like Meelie’s? I thought about telling people—Barbara or Ruth, or maybe even Sally—about the life I was living at that moment. Trekking through the desert on the way to find Amelia. I think they’d be pretty impressed.

  “Ow!” I stopped short, dropping one of the suitcases. The soda bottle that was balanced in the crook of my arm slipped out and, in what felt like slow motion, I watched it fall. I winced as it hit the packed dirt on the side of the road and shattered, sending a bloom of soda into the air and onto the ground. I let go of the other suitcase. The second the handle left my palm, it burned with fatigue. The skin was red and tense from gripping it for so long. In a fit of frustration, I kicked at the dirt—only to remember that what had made me stop was something hard and sharp in my shoe.

  I bent to check out my Keds. Pidge, next to me, sighed and gently stretched her neck. I yanked off my sneaker and shook it to find a pointy stone lodged in the sole. I plucked it out and threw it angrily next to the broken soda bottle. Instead of making a puddle, the spilled soda had seeped into the parched ground, leaving almost no trace. Now that it was gone, I felt terribly thirsty. I sank down into the dirt and fought against the tears of frustration welling in my eyes. Don’t cry—you don’t have any fluids to spare.

  When my throat stopped feeling so clenched, I asked, “How far do you think we’ve walked?” The sun was getting lower in the sky, casting its light on the puffy clouds. It looked like we were walking into heaven.

  “Perhaps a mile, maybe two.” Pidge now pried off the cap on her soda and drank two sips. Then she passed it to me, bottle still two-thirds full, and said, “Drink up. All of it.”

  My first swig took half the remaining liquid. It was hard to stop from sucking down the rest immediately after my relieved ahh, but I wanted the soda to last. Didn’t explorers and pioneers always ration? That was hard to do when the sun was so punishingly hot. Pidge panted next to me. “We’re not going to get there before dark, are we?” I asked, feeling a turn in my stomach. This landscape was nothing like the suburban California I knew. There were no houses, no shopping centers, no churches or car washes dotting the road. Not even a streetlight. Just desert plants and dirt under a big open sky—one that could leave you feeling free or vulnerable, depending on the circumstances. In ours, I felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. I thought of Sally stomping on the bugs on our sidewalk and shuddered. I grabbed Neta’s red scarf out of my knapsack and arranged it across my shoulders to protect them.

  “Not on foot.” Then, like an answer to Pidge’s statement, I heard a rumble behind me. I turned, shading my eyes to peer down the road. Off in the distance, a car was heading our way. It was the first we’d seen since leaving the Lamy station.

  I pointed to the car and said, “Maybe we won’t be on foot anymore.”

  “Pure luck and divine providence,” Pidge said. Another oddly familiar phrase.

  We were saved—if that car had somebody good in it. My stomach flipped again, like I was whirling around on the teacups back at Disneyland. Our choice was: stay out in the desert to desiccate, or flag down whoever was in that car. I wished, as I watched it slowly drive toward us, that I’d called home when we were in the train station—even if that was not the adventurous thing to do. I could imagine Julie’s peppy voice answering the phone, gasping upon hearing our predicament. Then she’d tell me to stay right where I was while my dad figured out how to come fetch me. She’d tell me not to worry and maybe I’d believe her. But it was too late for that, and all I could do was watch the dust kicking up and wait for the car to reach us—and hope for the best.

  NINE

  Margo and the Rolling Stone

  As it drew nearer, I could see that it wasn’t just any old car—not a beat-up hatchback or a shiny truck—but a woody wagon. They’re pretty common where I live, because surfers love them for taking their boards to and from the beach. But despite being around sand—of the desert variety—the sight of one emerging from the horizon was weird. Especially because this wagon’s wood sides were covered by a rainbow of paint colors. As it got really close, I could see that there were actual rainbows painted on it and sunbeams, too.

  Next to me, Pidge waved her arm out into the road when the wagon was about a hundred feet away. Her pants billowed in the breeze like sails. She stuck up her thumb, turning back to instruct me, “Now, don’t forget to smile and look like the kind of passenger someon
e wouldn’t mind picking up.” I suppose I did have an anxious look on my face, and my arms were crossed tightly over my chest, like I was giving myself a reassuring hug. I’m sure the smile I forced looked more like a grimace. I felt a twinge of shame, for being such a square. Come on, where’s my inner Earhart? I uncrossed my arms and waved.

  The wagon slowed to a stop next to us. The person inside leaned over to the passenger window and rolled it down. It was a young woman, with tangled, dark wavy hair and big round sunglasses covering her eyes, which made her look kind of like an insect. “You gals need a ride?”

  “That we do!” Pidge said, smiling. “We are trying to get to Santa Fe, over to the bus station. Would that be on your way?”

  “It sure can be. I’m just tooling around.” I heard the crank-jerk as the girl put the car into park, then she swung open the driver’s side door and stepped out. She was wearing a long, colorful patchwork dress that reached to her ankles. Silver bracelets up and down her arms tinkled. She floated over to us and swooped the valise out of Pidge’s hands. “Here, let me take that.” She popped the trunk, then started pushing around the junk inside to make room for our bags. I carted over one suitcase and then the next, cradling them like babies in my arms because my palms were too raw to grasp the handles any longer. The girl was moving blankets, paint bottles, a tent pole, and some unidentifiable piece of macramé out of the way. Once our stuff was inside she slammed the trunk, which was painted with psychedelic splotches and abstract flowers. “Hop on in.”

  I squeezed my way into the backseat, which was also littered with scraps of paper and brushes and swatches of fabric, pushing aside the stuff so I’d have a clean spot to sit, although my dress was so stained and sweat-soaked by that point that a dab or two of paint smearing on it seemed silly to worry about. Pidge sat down in front, and then the girl plopped into the driver’s seat. She turned to Pidge. “I’m Margo. And this,” she patted the dashboard lovingly, “is the Rolling Stone. I like to wander, so we don’t gather no moss.”

  Pidge stuck out her hand for a shake. “Muriel,” she said. “Back there is my granddaughter, Beatrice.”

  “You can call me Bea,” I piped up. Just because Pidge called me by my full name didn’t mean I wanted everyone else to. Pidge raised an eyebrow at me for correcting her but nodded with approval.

  “Let’s hit the road, Bea.” Margo started the engine and the radio came on immediately, blasting a rock song. She fiddled with the dial to turn it down slightly. I stared out the window and inhaled the scents of patchouli and paint, which didn’t smell all that bad together. I licked my lips, wishing that Margo had a bottle of soda or a canteen of water that I could drink. But she was already giving us a ride, so I didn’t want to trouble her for more.

  “Can I ask why you two were traipsing down the desert highway with a whole lot of luggage? You seemed pretty jazzed to see me coming.”

  Pidge glanced back at me, as though she wanted to see if I was okay with her telling our story. “We had some trouble with our tickets on the Super Chief, and I’m afraid Lamy became our last stop. Quite unexpectedly.”

  Margo laughed. “I’ve heard that story before, but never from two nice ladies like you. Usually it’s from a couple of freighthoppers.”

  “To be fair, we were kind of freighthopping,” I said. Pidge turned her head sharply, but she didn’t look mad that I’d confessed. Just surprised. I appreciated that—it’s not how my dad and Julie would have reacted. If they wanted me to talk, they’d nudge me and say, “Bea, why don’t you tell So-and-so about” whatever was being discussed. Otherwise, it was understood that I’d be seen and not heard. Sometimes, if Julie was relating something incorrectly, I’d try to jump into the conversation and correct her. But that did not go over very well. “Beatrice,” she’d cluck, with the skin between her eyebrows pinching up in frustration, “it’s not polite to interrupt.” But Pidge, she treated me like an almost-equal.

  “Are you kidding me?” Now Margo was really laughing. Her thick waves of hair shook back and forth. “You actually made it through the night? Where’d you sleep?”

  “A roomette—it was empty, anyway.”

  “That’s a gas. I’m surprised they didn’t set you two up in the lounge car until your destination. Seems kinda harsh, stranding you in the desert like that.”

  “I certainly agree,” Pidge said.

  The radio changed to one of the new Beatles songs: “With a Little Help from My Friends.” Barbara bought the record as soon as it came out, and all June we listened to it over and over again in my bedroom. I hummed along, thinking about how lucky Pidge and I were to have gotten Margo’s help. If she hadn’t been coming down that lonely road, who knows what we would’ve done. “Why are you driving out here?” I asked. Pidge, up front, nodded. I guess she also was curious.

  “I’m a painter,” Margo said with pride. “I’ve painted all over the place—forests in the east, cornfields in the Midwest. Mountains north of here. A friend of mine moved to a pad outside Santa Fe and asked if I wanted to come paint the deepest blues and reddest reds and grooviest sunsets I’d ever see. How could I say no?”

  “I was wondering why your car is full of paint.”

  “I like to be ready whenever the inspiration strikes, so I take my supplies wherever I go. It’s a tricky thing—if you wait too long, it’ll disappear on you. Then you’re left with a canvas and a brush and nothing to do with them.”

  “Are you going to stay out here in the desert?” I asked. “Like, permanently?”

  Margo let her arm trail out the open window. “Not much longer. I’m supposed to start college in the fall. But I’m not sure I’m done wandering yet. I hear it’s pretty choice in San Francisco this summer.”

  “My mother was there!” I exclaimed. “For the Be-In, and she went back this summer to report for a magazine.”

  “Yeah?” Margo glanced at me in the rearview mirror, nodding. “Sounds like your mom is pretty boss.” I smiled. So many people thought it was strange that my mother had her career and spent so much time away. Sometimes I, too, wondered if there was something wrong with her—or me—because she wanted to follow stories so badly it took her away from our home. But maybe it was something to be proud of.

  “I agree,” Pidge said. Suddenly feeling bashful, I had to turn my head to look out the window to hide the magnitude of my grin.

  The Rolling Stone cruised along the desert landscape. The sun was getting low in the sky. Margo’s friend had been right: The sunset was really groovy. I riffled around in my knapsack for my Brownie.

  “Margo, could you stop the car for a minute?”

  “Why’s that?” she asked, but while already pulling to a stop. I liked that she didn’t need to know everything before she did something, but kinda went with the flow.

  “The clouds. I want to take a picture of them.”

  “I like the way you think. That sky is far out.”

  I stepped out of the car and squinted into the sun. I turned the camera horizontally, then vertically, looking for inspiration. Then a beam of sunlight made the glass of my camera sparkle, like there was magic at the edge of the frame. I snapped a picture.

  Margo rummaged around in the trunk while Pidge waited inside. Pidge’s eyes were closed, like she was trying to sneak a few minutes of shut-eye. How much rest had she been able to get the night before? It couldn’t have been more than a few hours. A twinge of worry shot through me. I felt exhausted, and I was five and a half decades younger than Pidge. And she’d been without her medicine for almost a day now.

  “Water?” Margo walked up next to me. I shoved my Brownie back into its case and practically tackled her for the jug she was holding out. I unscrewed the cap and took a long, delicious gulp. “Sorry I didn’t ask sooner!” Margo said. “Considering where I found you two.” She pulled another bottle out of the backseat and handed it up to Pidge, who drank greedily. Then Margo propped a piece of canvas onto the back of the wagon and grabbed a brush. She dipped it
into a paint can that had been on the floor of the backseat and started swishing the brush around, covering the canvas in swirls of azure.

  “I should put you in this picture.” She squinted at me, smiling. With a dab on another brush, she drew a figure standing below the clouds, staring up at the sky. “Bea’s sky,” she said, admiringly. The painting didn’t look realistic, but staring at it still felt like looking at something real. “They’re both pretty choice.” I blushed.

  We waited a few minutes for the paint to dry, and Margo did some kind of stretching thing where she raised her arms up to salute the sun. I took deep breaths, savoring the scent of juniper and sunbaked pine, and watched the clouds. When we got back into the car, Pidge looked refreshed and the glass bottle was empty.

  “So I’m taking you to the bus station?” Margo asked.

  “That’s right,” said Pidge. “Trailways, I believe.”

  “Do you have enough for wherever you’re going? Where are you going?”

  I hadn’t even thought about the money for bus fare. “Do we, Pidge?”

  Margo added, “If you need me to spot you some cash—I like to help a fellow wanderer. It’s good karma.”