Arizona Allspice

by Lewin, Renee

  She drives out of Merjoy, and with a sharp left turn we’re racing up the main road. “No, it’s just that some of it is depressing and most of it’s not very good,” she says.

  She’s got to be kidding me! Not good? Before I can protest and be discarded on the side of the road because I’m not supposed to have read her journal to know her stories are good, the dash display of the truck makes a dinging sound.

  “My favorite little tune!” Elaine proclaims sarcastically. “You overgrown gas guzzler!” She smacks a fist onto the truck’s steering wheel. Her action triggers a flashback that keeps me quiet. She pulls over to Mr. Jeremy’s store to get some gas in the tank. She reaches a hand down the front left side of her vest and pulls out a small wad of cash from which she peels a twenty. The rest of the money she slips back into her black vest. She adjusts the red shirt she is wearing underneath it. “Be right back.” She leaves and I think to myself that her hidden vest pocket is more than a little racy. It makes my mind wander to…interesting places. I sit in the truck and watch her march into the convenience store with determined boot steps. She doesn’t even try to be fascinating. She just is. She doesn’t even know she is. I glance longingly at her journal still tucked between the seats. I never finished reading that last story she had and she’s probably written something else since then.

  Out the corner of my eye I see someone come out of the bar next door. It’s Denise’s father. He’s actually a nice dude when he’s not drinking, but he’s an angry insensitive drunk and through his beer goggles his daughter Denise looks just like her mother who ran off on him. By insensitive, I mean racial slurs fall out of his mouth. They say alcohol lowers your inhibitions and reveals your true colors, but honestly the man is cool when he’s sober. He and I have a weird relationship where I have to beat him up sometimes and then he thanks me for it afterwards. He saunters from the bar towards the store, probably going to buy some cigarettes, and does a double take when he sees me in the F-150. He pauses, waves, I wave back, and he enters the store.

  I can’t step in and save Mr. Hyde from Dr. Jekyll anymore. It’s not just because of my current handicapped condition. The accident has put a few things into new perspectives. I have always been willing to offer a hand to anyone who asks, I especially have a soft spot for girls and women in need, and they just have to allow me permission to do what I think should be done and I’ll do it. Now that I’m not able to jump up and solve every issue, I realize that some of my overextended family should want to help themselves. I can’t protect Denise from him now or maybe not ever again.

  The state of my future is up in the air right now and I have some hopes about where I want it to fall into place. My landing won’t be right if I have all this extra weight on my back dragging me off course. Helping these girls makes me feel needed and useful, strong, smart, and worthy, so in a sense when I tell myself I’m caring for them, I’m using them. Unintentionally, they use me as well. There’s a cycle we’re stuck in. As far as I know, I started the cycle and it’s my responsibility to end it by redefining the limits of my relationships with them.

  Elaine strides out of the convenience store and to the side of the truck and starts pumping the gas. Then I see Denise’s dad walk out of the store with Mr. Jeremy trailing right behind him. Mr. Rubio walks quickly back towards the bar where he will most likely spend the rest of his day. Mr. Jeremy, on the other hand, stands outside the entrance of his store and yells some greetings to me at the top of his voice. It’s as if the old man believes the accident caused me hearing loss or that Elaine’s truck is soundproof. I give him a tight smile and a nod in answer to his questions. His smile is making me nervous. Mr. Jeremy has always been nosy. I convey that our little conversation is over by no longer meeting his gaze. I look out my window at the stretch of desert beside the store. Some people think the desert is a curse, but I see how the wildflowers and the cactus flowers bloom; how beauty springs up miraculously out of dust.

  I sit in the truck in the same white shirt I wore a year ago to the place Miss Marna was buried. A grass stain remains on my cuff from that day. Distraught, I had pounded my fist into the fresh grass at her grave, angry that I let her leave this world with those bad memories between us. I hear some murmured voices outside. A crowd of people has formed in front of the truck and it’s growing. The blinking, expectant eyes of all the townspeople twists a knot of anxiety within me. I didn’t want them to see me like this yet. A few people smile, wave, or nod. Most just stare at me, intrigued, and whisper to the friend or family member standing next to them. My heart races. I’m not used to this anxiousness that has revisited me since I woke up in the hospital. Anxiety was never such a loud emotion before the accident. Elaine’s voice draws all the expectant eyes, including mine, in her direction and I lose my train of thought.

  “Come get your tickets, people! Step right up!” She walks away from the gas pump and towards the crowd with her hands on her hips. “I said, step up and get your tickets, dammit!” Speechless, no one moves. Her hands come down from her hips and form angry fists at her sides. “I might as well start charging some folks so he can make some money for being your damn entertainment! ¡No es un animal enjaulado! ¿No tienen ninguna vergüenza? ¿Ninguno respeto?...”

  She breaks off into high speed Spanish and I don’t catch much, other than the phrase “not an animal.” I should have paid more attention in Spanish class. Whatever else she is yelling, she is saying it very passionately and I can’t take my eyes off of her. I’ve never seen her get this worked up. I, on the other hand, can’t keep my mouth shut or my hands to myself to save my own life. This scene is so out of character. Elaine is the one yelling and I’m the one composed. Elaine is screaming at these people and it’s on my behalf. I’m a bad influence already. After Elaine switched her rant to the language that most of them where scolded in by their mothers, their inner guilty child is reprimanded and they sulk off back into the store and the bar, mumbling to themselves and others, not daring to start a confrontation with Elaine.

  My eyes follow her as she walks to the side of the truck, finishes filling the tank, and opens the door to climb back into the driver’s seat. I want to grab her around the waist, pull her to me and taste that bold bilingual mouth of hers, but I’m too embarrassed about being the town curiosity to speak or move. She rubs at her moist eyes with her thumb and pointer finger and mumbles something about the gas fumes irritating them. She exhales and starts the truck and we’re breaking the speed limit up the Main Road. Her demeanor is calm. Her driving says otherwise. Out on the highway her driving becomes intimidating, looming too close behind average sized cars and switching lanes quickly and often.

  “Elaine?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Do you have to drive quite so fast?”

  She veers around a Mustang and into the next lane, right in front of a barreling semi truck. I look over my shoulder at the approaching sixteen-wheeler.

  “We’re already half an hour late to your appointment, Joey. Every minute of that therapy is going to be an opportunity for you to improve,” she says gently and then accelerates from 70 to 75 miles per hour. She honestly has me scared stiff in the passenger seat, just waiting for our truck to finally make impact with something.

  “Elaine,” I laugh nervously, “I can’t go to physical therapy if I’m dead.” I am pitched forward against my seatbelt as she abruptly slows down. The driver of the semi behind us gives her a horn blast and she submissively changes lanes to allow him passage.

  “You shouldn’t joke like that. There was a time when everyone thought you might not make it.” She gives me a quick glance with gentle brown eyes. I don’t want to mull that fact over. I turn on the radio. After a few minutes of settling on a rock station and then switching to another once they play a sorry excuse for a rock song, I find an 80’s music station and start singing along to “Take on Me” by A-Ha. Of course, Elaine looks at me as if I’m insane, but she’s smiling a little, so no problem.


  “Don’t look at me like that. You know you want to sing…You’re aaall the things I’ve got to rememberrr!”

  “I don’t sing. Mom was the singer in the family.”

  “You’re shyyying away, I’ll be coming for you anyway! Taaake onnnnn meeee!”

  “Please no.”

  “Taaaake meeee onnnnn!”

  “Hush!”

  “I’lllll beee therrrrrrre. In a day or…TWOoOoOoO!”

  “Awoooooooo!” Elaine howls like a wounded dog, mimicking my cracking, high pitched voice. I laugh with her. “You are so stupid,” she grins.

  “You could say that.”

  “I did.” She gives me a big smile as we drive into the entrance of the Canyon Outpatient Physical Rehabilitation Center. I marvel at her bright expression, everything perfect except for a minuscule mark on her bottom lip. The tiny scar for some reason unnerves me and causes my thoughts to race and finish nowhere. My approaching date with physical rehab in no way calms me.

  ******

  He was so nervous to go to therapy. He even gave me sad-eyes when the therapist came for him here in the waiting area, as if I was sending him to be drawn and quartered. Made me feel guilty, the wimp. I’m sure he thought he was hiding his emotions really well, but I’ve always been able to read him, even back in high school. It annoyed me at the time. Still does. It frustrated me that when he walked into a room I would automatically hone in on his energy. I didn’t want to be one of those girls that seemed so helpless and enamored when it came to him. Funny, I never picked up on the crush he had on me. I guess I twisted that signal into something less innocent.

  I brought my journal along so I would have something to help the two hours pass by. Before I know it, Joey has finished his appointment and I have accomplished a doodle of him with his curly hair grown back in, one sentence for my short story revised at least eight times, and a grumbling stomach. Joey’s wheeled out with a big smile on his face by a nurse. Did they give him some medication or something? He points the nurse over to where I am sitting.

  “Hey,” he smiles once he is wheeled in front me.

  “So, it went well.” I give him and the nurse a small smile as I close my journal. The nurse nods politely and walks away to another patient.

  Joey nods enthusiastically. “My therapist is awesome and he says I will definitely be walking normally again real soon. He said I came out of the accident stronger than a lot of other people. Says it’s because good soccer players like he and I have ultra physical endurance.”

  “He plays too?” I help him up from the wheelchair and we begin walking to the exit in the now familiar position of his arm across my shoulders and my arm about his waist. He’s already walking steadier.

  “He used to play for the Colorado Rapids!” he says excitedly. “He was part of the original team and played from ‘96 to ‘99 when he retired after an injury, but he still plays locally and he got into sports therapy and physical therapy. The Rapids were always a solid team. They’ve ranked third or fourth in the Western Conference since they formed.”

  “Wow. What are the odds a young soccer geek would get paired up with a retired major league soccer player?” I glance up at his smiling sunlit face as we amble outside.

  “I’m lucky, I guess,” he looks at me with a boyish grin. I look away just as my heart jumps and my stomach announces its yearning for food.

  “I’m starving. Want to go somewhere for lunch?”

  “Uh, sure, I’d like that. Unfortunately, I don’t have any money on me,” he explains as he carefully gets into the truck.

  “Just pay me back later. No big deal.” I close the door for him and then get in and start the engine. “I know a great place not far from here. They serve breakfast all day, too.”

  “I never ate breakfast this morning.”

  “And they have your favorite: blueberry pancakes.”

  “Man, I haven’t had blueberry pancakes in a long, long time. My mom used to cook ‘em when I was little to cheer me up. But then I got really focused with building muscle and being fit for soccer.”

  “Now that you’re taking a break from soccer, you can have all the blueberry pancakes you desire.”

  “You make it sound as if I’m choosing to take a break from soccer,” he sighs.

  I get us back on the highway towards the restaurant I have in mind. The one all my family went to for years, when everyone was together, when everyone was here. Why am I going to that memory-evoking restaurant again? Maybe because it’s like a time machine and my heart wants to go back. Back to when my heart was something lighter than the rest of my body and put a youthful bounce in my step, instead of something heavy, a load I’ve become used to these days. I don’t know. I’m hungry and they have good food, that’s all.

  Joey cradles his neck against the headrest. We drive in silence for a time.

  “How’d you know blueberry pancakes are my favorite?”

  I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. I shrug and say, “Lucky guess.”

  ******

  “I talked to the deputy yesterday night. He came by after you left.”

  She nods and quietly says “Thank you” without looking up from the menu.

  “Is Manny doing okay?”

  She looks uncomfortable. She flips a page of the menu. “Uncle Frank says Manny is humble yet hopeful.”

  “You haven’t talked to him yourself lately?”

  She briefly looks up at me. “Let’s just say I was unable to.” The menu holds her attention again. She said she’s eaten here dozens of times. She knows that menu like the back of her hand and most likely knew exactly what she wanted to eat before we came into the restaurant, yet she is looking at it very intently. She’s hiding her eyes from me. “I’m sure I’ll get a chance to talk to him in person really soon,” she adds.

  “I’m nervous about Thursday.”

  No response.

  “Are you nervous about it too?”

  She picks up the beverage menu. “If I have a few Long Island iced teas the morning of Manny’s sentencing, I won’t feel anything at all,” she smiles to herself.

  Basically, she wants me to shut up. No problem. I have no idea how to respond to that anyway. Somewhere along the drive here she reverted back to Cynical Elaine who doesn’t get her hopes up and makes little jokes to push people away and end conversations. Manny once told me you sometimes have to get flat out rude with Elaine to snap her out of her stubbornness. He said I should not be reluctant to really get into an exchange of words and that if she succeeds in quieting you then she has won. Purposely insulting Elaine is too uncomfortable a thought for me. That might work for Manny since they’re siblings. She would definitely pummel me if I was that disrespectful. Plus, I have to get angry to argue and I don’t want to scare her or myself. I’ll just wait until her mood passes. After five years I’ve become an expert at waiting.

  She sighs loudly and tosses her folded menu back onto the table. “So, what are you having?”

  “Um,” I glance back down at my menu. The words are moving around on the page. I have to focus to make sense of them. “Blueberry pancakes with sausage and hash browns. You?”

  “A triple bacon double cheeseburger, curly fries and a root beer float.”

  My eyebrows rise involuntarily.

  “And I might have some cherry cobbler, although their strawberry torte is good, too.”

  “Couldn’t you eat something a little healthier?” I ask, deeply regretting it half way through the sentence. Her eyes became very beautiful brown switchblades.

  “Should I order a big stack of pancakes smothered in maple syrup and butter, with links of fatty meat and heavily salted deep fried potatoes like you’re having? Yeah, I’ll order that instead.”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid thing to say. In my head the suggestion hadn’t sounded as hypocritical since I haven’t eaten food like this in years, but Elaine doesn’t know that. I’ll shut up now, before I dig myself deeper into this hole. Elaine looks taken
aback by my silence. She shakes her head and looks about the restaurant with a frown. The waitress arrives. I order two poached eggs, two slices of whole grain toast, turkey bacon, a few pieces of cantaloupe, and a glass of cranberry juice. Elaine sighs and then flips reluctantly through her menu again. Honestly, I didn’t change my order to guilt trip her into changing hers, too. I just don’t feel like indulging. There’s no cause for celebration.

  “Then I guess I’ll order, um,” Elaine glances from the waitress, to me, and back to the waitress, “the triple bacon double cheeseburger with a heaping pile of curly fries and a root beer float, don’t skimp on the whipped topping. Thanks!” Elaine grins and hands her menu back to the woman. Then she sticks out her tongue at me like a first grader. The left corner of my mouth goes up into a smile. She got me. I look out the window so that I won’t be creepy and stare at her too much while waiting for the food to arrive. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that she’s studying my face. She’s staring at me and on impulse I bring my hand up to the side of my face. I scratch at my cheek. I need to shave first thing when I wake up tomorrow. I scratch a pretend itch at my temple. Hiding behind my hand every time she looks at me is weak, so I lower the hand to rest on the table and force myself to meet her gaze.