by Lisa Wingate
Jocelyn returned to the failure corral as the students took their happy horses to a lush, green pasture that looked like heaven compared to the dry, dusty paddocks.
“What about Sleepy?” I asked. “Should I open the gate so he can go with the others?”
Jocelyn’s forehead straightened into a bewildered line. “Oh, no. Of course not. Horses are allowed to move to the pasture only after they and their therapy partners have completed step one. Sleepy will have to stay in here.” Seeing the shocked look on my face, she added, “Don’t worry. There’s plenty of food and water in here for him. Of course, he’d rather be in the pasture, but we’ve got to stick with the rules.”
“Oh …” I muttered, glancing reluctantly at poor Sleepy, now standing in the corner of the corral sorrowfully watching his friends stride off into the knee-deep grass.
Jocelyn motioned toward my car. “You know what? You might run on into town to the Big Lizard. It’s lunchtime, and Melvin Blue will be there. He’s the one I told you about, who’s made a project of photographing the fossil sites and petroglyphs around here. I think it would be worth your time to talk to him, but after the lunch hour he’s harder to catch. Anyway, just go by the diner and ask anyone for Melvin Blue, and they’ll introduce you.”
“All right,” I said, checking the time. Noon. Not much time to waste, if I was going to catch this Blue fellow. “See you later, then.” Giving Sleepy one last guilty look, I headed for my car, trailing an invisible cloud of horse psychology failure behind me.
ELEVEN
ILEFT FOR TOWN WITH SOME BOTTLED WATER AND A TUPPERWARE dish from the cabin, supposing that I could tie Mr. Grits in the shade with water to drink and buy him some dog food at the general store. As we cruised along the Jubilee driveway, he seemed happy to be riding shotgun on another adventure. Sticking his head out the window, he let out a giant “Baa-roo!” as the breeze lifted his ears and fanned his jowls into a huge smiley face.
A giggle tickled my stomach, breaking through my lingering horse psychology worries, until they fell away in tiny pieces, and I just laughed and laughed and laughed. I hadn’t felt that light in months, maybe years. As we topped the hill, I stretched my hand out the window, touching the breeze, sensing that if I let go, I could soar away from all the debris of my life, and land in a completely new place.
The surreal feeling followed me out the gateway of Jubilee Ranch and all the way to town. The tiny village of Loveland seemed to take on an otherworldly glow in the golden midday light. Crossing the river, I watched the sun glitter like diamond dust on the water. I pictured the young bride floating away into adventure and love, like something from a movie or a storybook, the kind of thing that didn’t happen in real life. Women with jobs and bills and custody problems didn’t just drift off on the whims of a river. Did they?
Lost in thought, I almost missed the turnoff to the Over the Moon General Store and the Big Lizard Diner. The brakes squealed a complaint as I whipped into the parking lot, which was crowded with cars, pickup trucks, and livestock trailers. Apparently most of the local population gathered at the Big Lizard at noon. Which made me wonder if Zach did. I caught myself looking around for the Jubilee Ranch truck as I pulled up near the general store. Disappointment pinpricked inside me when his truck wasn’t there. Shaking off the thought, I hopped out and trotted up the stairs onto the wide front porch. The old wooden door with its oval-shaped glass was unlocked, so I turned the handle and went inside, even though the place seemed to be empty.
The Over the Moon looked like a combination general store, rock shop, tourist trap, and museum; the wall shelves lined with various rocks and fossils, intermixed with boxes of bolts, nuts, lightbulbs, food, camping items, shotgun shells, fishing bait, and plumbing supplies. The high rock wall behind the counter was covered with framed pictures of fossils and petroglyphs. On the counter was a display of postcards and photo albums with a handwritten sign that read, Disappearing treasures of Texas. Original petroglyph and fossil photography by Melvin Blue.
“Hello?” I said, crossing the room. The old-fashioned Coke machine rattled and belched in answer, but other than that, the place was silent. Taped to the cash register was a note saying that Melvin was at the diner having lunch, and if I needed something, I should come over there and find him. If it was an emergency, I could take what I needed now and pay for it later. Signed, Melvin. Have a good day, y’all.
“Imagine that,” I muttered, surveying the store, considering a world where doors were left unlocked and people paid for things on the honor system. A little utopia, an island of blind trust in a suspicious world.
Melvin’s pictures told another story. Flipping through the dusty photo album, I gaped at his collection of before and after pictures—sites that once contained petroglyphs and fossils, plundered and destroyed by vandals and thieves. Huge pieces of rock had been removed, sometimes with surgical precision, sometimes through the clumsy work of a hammer and chisel, but always leaving behind a jagged white scar like the one at Jubilee Ranch. Occasionally the items had not been removed, but merely defaced with cans of spray paint, destroyed in one careless, thoughtless instant, after having survived the wind and the weather for hundreds of years.
Each set of photographs had been carefully labeled as to the location, the time the photographs were taken, and whether the stolen items had been recovered. Notations in the recovery column were few. The final set of photographs, also bearing an empty recovery/prosecution column, were from Jubilee Ranch.
Letting out a long sigh, I closed Melvin’s book, his proof of dozens of horrible offenses. Less than a foot away hung his hastily scrawled greeting, extending blind trust to all who passed through the Over the Moon. How did he find the strength to do that in a world where people were not always trustworthy?
Sometimes you have to trust anyway… . The voice in my head surprised me. I didn’t recognize it. It was unusually serene and confident, comforting in a way I couldn’t describe. A sort of Zen Lindsey. She seemed wise, and very together. She was like my laughter as I topped the hill at Jubilee Ranch and felt like I could fly. She was like the bridal veil floating lighter than air, destination unknown.
She was something completely new.
I thought about her as I left the store, hopped into the Jeep, and idled across the parking lot to the café. I liked the way Zen Lindsey felt. No fear, only a blind faith that things would turn out as they were supposed to, a trust like that in Melvin’s note, a willingness to embrace life’s possibilities and the existence of a larger plan directed by a higher authority.
I tried to hold on to the feeling as I parked under a mesquite tree close to the Big Lizard, and tied Mr. Grits to the bumper with his water bowl nearby. “Now you stay right here,” I said. The voice sounded like Zen Lindsey’s, and Mr. Grits cocked an ear, his head turning to one side, so that both he and Barbie regarded me from a bemused angle. “It’s OK,” I said, scratching his ears. “I’m having a moment of …” What exactly? “Something.”
Walking toward the diner, I looked up at the railroad car windows, trying to decide where to go in. There was only one visible entrance—a storm door hanging partway askew on the silver Airstream trailer between the cars, but from the sound of things, that was the kitchen. I could hear the clink-clink of dishes rattling and the sizzle of someone flipping meat on a grill. The windows on the dining cars were open, the weathered screens catching the sun at an angle that made them practically opaque, so that I couldn’t see anything inside. I stood squinting upward, taking in the lay of the place, listening to conversations drifting through the screens.
“Door’s on the end,” someone said from up above. “Either car. South car’s got a domino game goin’ on.”
“Thanks,” I replied, feeling like I should have said, Much obliged, or something more down-home. Opting for the north car, the one closest to the general store, I walked around to the wooden steps on the end.
The door opened before I got there, and a tall man ste
pped onto the platform, tipping the brim of his cowboy hat. “Welcome to the Big Lizard, young lady. I’m Dandy Roads. I’m the part-time cook, game ranger, head fly swatter, pastor at the weddin’ chapel, and occasional constable around here. You need a mess a’ barbecue, got a skunk under your house, legal problems, or want to get married, I’m your man. You must be Lindsey Attwood.” When I didn’t answer right away, he added, “Jocelyn called and said you were comin’. Melvin’s down at the last table on the right, waitin’ on ya.”
“Oh … good,” I replied, a little surprised that he knew why I was there, since Jocelyn had said to keep the Jubilee investigation a secret.
Poking his head in the door, Dandy Roads called out, “Hey, Melvin, here’s your gal from Denver.” Patting me on the shoulder, he explained, “We get a lot of writers around here. What with them dinosaur tracks that got stolen out at Jubilee Ranch, and the Lover’s Oak, and then all them couples that got hitched here last month. Set a record. Got our bid in for the Guinness Book to certify it. Most simultaneous nuptials on an inland waterway. The ABC station come all the way out of Austin and got it on videotape.” Lowering his brows, he turned momentarily serious, wagging a finger at me. “Wasn’t no publicity stunt, neither. We did ’em once under the Lover’s Oak, then again on the river, just to be safe. No one knew if it would be good enough just to be near the oak, or if you’d have to be under it.”
“Good enough for what?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Skewing one eye, he peered at me as if it were a silly question. “Why, for the marriages to stick, of course. A couple gets together under the Lover’s Oak, it sticks. Guaranteed.”
“Oh,” I muttered, thinking cynical divorce thoughts I knew I’d better not share. Dandy Roads clearly took this oak-tree thing seriously. If only keeping a marriage together were really that simple.
“Well, guess I’d better get goin’. Got a weddin’ to perform, let’s see … in about two hours.” Checking his pocket watch, the constable, game warden, and barbecue cook excused himself.
“Nice meeting you.”
“You too, ma’am.” Stepping back, he held the door open wider so that I could go in. Remembering the bride and groom in the canoe the day before, I contemplated hanging around town for a while after lunch, so I could see today’s wedding for myself. “Do they all go canoeing down the river after they get married?”
“Well, most of ’em.” Dandy’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he gazed toward the water. “Ya see, it’s a good way to start off, a good reminder to these young folks … well, they ain’t all young. Last week I performed nuptials for a man eighty-two and a woman seventy-nine—but anyway, setting out together in a marriage is a lot like setting out on the river. Some parts will be rough; some will be smooth. You can’t see from the start where it’s gonna travel and where it’s gonna end up. Sometimes it’ll turn a sharp corner; sometimes it’ll drift along awhile. Thing is, no matter what the river does, both parties gotta paddle equally, see? Piloting a canoe down the river is all about working together to keep things afloat. One party doesn’t paddle, the canoe gets all whompy and turns over in the water. Paddle against each other, the canoe doesn’t go anywhere, and eventually the current runs the boat into the rocks, see?”
He nodded expectantly, and I commented that I could see how it would be similar. Not that I was any authority on the subject of marriage and relationships.
“Dandy!” Melvin Blue called from inside the diner. “Quit talkin’ her ear off and send her in. We ain’t got all day. I gotta get the nuptial canoe ready before the weddin’.”
“All right, all right.” Dandy ushered me through the door, then leaned through after me and called out in a booming voice, “Weddin’ at two o’clock, everybody.”
Murmurs of interest went up from various customers in the booths, and a gray-haired woman about halfway down the car asked, “How many?”
“Just one,” Dandy answered. “That ain’t bad for a Tuesday. So far we got two nuptials on Thursday, a double-double with two sets of twins on Friday night, and then, don’t nobody forget, this Saturday’s the big Hawthorne shebang. Dinner on the grounds by the river, then the nuptials under the Lover’s Oak. Only thing better than a weddin’ is a reweddin’.”
Everyone else murmured in agreement, and as I passed down the aisle, I could see that matrimony was popular entertainment in this town. People were checking their watches and hurrying to finish eating. The lady in the middle booth called out, “Could you hurry up my chicken-fried steak, Vanita? I have some tea cakes I made last night, waiting in the Frigidaire. I just knew there would be a wedding today. I’ll use these up this week, and bake fresh ones on Saturday for the Hawthorne renewing.”
The waitress, a woman in her sixties with graying hair pulled into a leather ponytail holder, rolled her eyes and leaned close to me as she passed by. “Belvanne’s been bringing those darned tea cakes to the weddings for fifty years. They’re as dry as paste and the icing tastes like lard, but she’s sure they’re good luck. Maybe after eating those, the new husband appreciates his wife’s cooking. I bet poor old Jasper Hawthorne still remembers Belvanne’s tea cakes from his first wedding, all those years ago. Heck, he probably still has some. They last forever. Like rocks.” Shuffling the tray onto one arm, she shook my hand. “I’m Vanita Blue. Jocelyn called to say you’d be coming by.”
Vanita escorted me to the last booth on the left, the one right by the doorway to the Airstream trailer, which was, indeed, the kitchen, a strange conglomeration of blackened fry grills, three old refrigerators ranging from harvest orange to olive green, and a pink stove that looked like it was from the fifties. Overhead, the ceiling tiles were caked thick with grease. The floor was a combination of peeling Formica, plywood, and press-and-stick faux brick that seemed not to have been applied in any particular pattern.
Looking at the kitchen made me wonder if I should eat there or not. If anyone else in the room was bothered, they didn’t show it. Throughout the dining car, people were happily shoveling down gravy-covered meals, and in the dining car across the kitchen, customers were eating while playing dominoes.
The cook stepped into the Airstream from the outside door, carrying a huge bag of potatoes, and I could see why no one was complaining. He was at least six-foot-four, with broad shoulders, strong arms, an ample stomach, and legs that bowed slightly under the load. He was wearing an undersized Chiquita bananas T-shirt that made him look like Baby Huey. Smiling, he lifted a greasy spatula, greeting me in a friendly manner that belied his crusty appearance. I waved back as I slid into the booth across from Melvin Blue. Vanita introduced us, then hurried off to fill someone’s coffee cup.
His gaze darting around suspiciously, Melvin leaned across the table, as if we were secret operatives having a clandestine rendezvous. He looked like Santa Claus on a Western vacation, with wavy white hair, partially covered by a straw cowboy hat, a thick beard that curled around his turquoise and silver bolo neck tie, and twinkling eyes that matched the stones in his necklace. His skin was leathery from hours in the sun, and thick wrinkles fanned from his eyes. The sleeves of his plaid shirt were rolled up, showing a tattoo that said, IWAKUNI USMC 62. A marine. My father would have loved him. His gaze swept one side of the room, then the other, as if he were checking for bugs or hidden cameras.
I waited, not at all sure what to say, and wondering if Melvin Blue might be a little touched in the head—an aging soldier who’d spent too many years in the wilds of Texas, cataloging rocks.
The elderly ladies at the table across the aisle appeared to be wondering, too. Pausing in the middle of sharing a slice of pie, they eyed us with wary curiosity.
“So you’re the one,” Melvin said, loud enough that they could hear.
The ladies leaned closer, their forks dangling in midair.
“The one?” I repeated.
“Sure. The one.” Wheeling a hand in the air, Melvin leaned over the table, whispering, “Just play along for a minute,
all right? This’ll give the old Blum sisters something to talk about all day.”
“Ohhh-kay.” I nodded slowly, though I had no idea what kind of game we were playing. “I’m the one.”
Across the aisle, the vinyl seat made a flatulent sound as one of the Blum sisters scooted closer. Melvin glanced over, and she batted her lashes, delicately scooping her napkin off the floor.
Melvin winked at me and said, “Everything go as expected?”
“Huh?” I felt like an actor who’d forgotten to read the script. “Oh … sure. Definitely.”
“Any surprises?”
For some reason, I thought about my splash fight with Zach Truitt, and a little smile tugged my lips. “A few. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
The Blum sisters were about to tumble out of their seats. The taller one pretended to scratch her ear, but instead held her hand cupped around it.
Melvin grinned. “Looks like they were good surprises.”
I sighed thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t know. It was definitely … something … unexpected.” I realized I was blushing, reliving the Zach Truitt fantasy I’d entertained atop the mountain that morning. I wondered again what it might be like to kiss him.
Melvin leaned close, and my daydream popped like a soap bubble. “I’ve got the goods over at the store.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Goods? What goods? Across the aisle, the Blum sisters widened their eyes beneath tall hairdos, and whispered to each other.
Melvin grinned like the Cheshire cat. Seeming satisfied that we’d stirred the ladies up enough, he gave a little shrug toward the door. “C’mon,” he said, sliding to the edge of the booth and sticking his head into the kitchen. “Hey, Cookie, send her order over to the store, will ya?”
