Connie read the last name again. Once, she had almost reached Wichita Falls. Now she knew where she had been going all day.
By the time the Cream tape started “Crossroads” again, Connie had snuggled close to Tod. The headlights cut into the darkness ahead. They had stopped for gas and restrooms and returned to the road.
“I overdid the grass,” said Deb. “I got to switch to Dex.” She ejected the eight-track tape.
Mungo Jerry came on the radio with “In the Summertime.”
“I like this song,” said Connie. “What do you like?”
“I like it, too. And Peter, Paul and Mary. Folk, acid rock.”
“Me too. And Dylan. Ooh, I haven’t been this ripped since I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey on campus. It’s cooler being high.”
“So’s Alice in Wonderland.” Tod gave her bony shoulder a squeeze. The car felt like a self-contained world, moving through a vacuum with only stars and space around them.
“So are you into Zen or anything? That’s real big now.”
Tod laughed. “No.” He felt light-headed but not totally ripped. “I learned in a class that Zen started in China. Existentialists have a lot in common with Zen.”
“I read Sartre and Camus last year. No Exit, The Stranger, stuff like that.” She paused. “What do you mean?”
“They both emphasize the moment—living in the present. But also, Buddhists believe in karma—what you do, good or bad, brings the same kind of vibes back to you someday.”
“I heard once, everything you’ve ever done led to where you are at that exact moment.” Her blue eyes were big with wonder.
“So it’s cause and effect, but we don’t control it.”
“That’s the existential part.” She nodded solemn recognition.
The Grass Roots had come onto the Million Dollar Weekend with their clear, stinging guitar in minor key, followed breathlessly by their insistent refrain to live for today.
“Oh, wow, do you believe this? Listen.”
“Doo, doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo.” Tod sang a different, wordless melody.
“No, really, listen. This is so . . . Zen.” She gazed at him.
As Tod looked at her mouth, she eyed his, expectantly.
His mind whirled: Was this cause and effect? Did a coincidence between their talk and a song on the radio turn her on? Was their discussion turning on “The Great Mandela” as the deejay spun a platter, so no coincidence could possibly exist?
More likely, it was just the grass.
Maybe this was her way of feeling less white.
Maybe she didn’t like him, the individual. Maybe she saw him only as a guy of his race. Maybe he should see that as an insult.
Hell with that; he could feel insulted later. Into the moment, Tod kissed her. She drew him down on top of her; he felt a slender hand brush through his shoulder-length hair.
They lay awkwardly across the seat. She slid one of his hands under her peasant blouse.
Creedence’s current hit of psychedelic absurdities, “Lookin’ Out My Back Door,” came on. It was a perfect backdrop to kissing Connie while almost falling off the backseat.
Connie raised a knee and pulled his hand up her denim skirt.
They were On the Road, had met at the Crossroads. He hoped Deb would find No Exit anytime soon, and he laughed way too hard.
Then Connie tugged at the big metal buckle on his wide belt.
Live for Today.
Mystified by his own actions, Tod leaned forward in the backseat of the cab, pretending he was not a rat in a maze.
“That’s I-44 comin’ up,” drawled the driver, a young, skinny guy who truly sounded like a cowboy in an old Western movie.
Tod looked in both directions. His heart pounded. He recognized nothing, but he pointed anyway, to his right. “That way.”
“Are ya sure ya know where you’re goin’, sir?”
“I know.” Tod squinted blindly into the sunlight ahead.
Connie raced down the highway, amazed at herself. She was a good mother who really enjoyed her family and her job. Yet she was miles from home, driving, as trees threw long shadows angling over her like the latticework shapes on her breakfast counter.
She hadn’t been so spontaneous in years. All day, she had driven in an excited rush of freedom and solitude, playfully ignoring what she was doing. Now, for the first time, she snapped off the radio and drove in silence except for the rush of air outside the car and the quiet, lonely hum of the engine.
The car rumbled on through the night. Deb and Sarah had rolled up the windows. “Hitchin’ a Ride,” the light, bouncy song from earlier that summer, came from another Million Dollar Weekend out of another city. Sleepy yet wide awake, Tod knew that a lot of time had passed. He and Connie huddled together.
“You want to come to Berkeley with me?” Tod asked quietly.
“I’d like that. But I have to get back to Lawrence.”
“It won’t be for long. I’ll go back to Ann Arbor soon.”
She squeezed him. “Thanks for asking. But I want to go home.”
“You don’t mind hitching alone again?”
“You could come to Lawrence.”
“I guess.” He was pleased, but it felt wrong.
“Living the moment,” she said. “We should go our separate ways.”
In that moment, he wanted the night, and the ride, to go on forever like some hell-bound train. “I’ll never see you again.”
“We could run into each other again,” she said. “Somehow.”
He grinned. “We could agree to meet after the Revolution.”
“You really think there’s going to be a revolution?”
“No.” He laughed.
She laughed, too. “Me neither. Okay, after the Revolution. But when? And where?”
“No planning. It should just happen.”
“Right, right. It should be, you know, in the moment.” She nodded, intense and somber again. “When the moment’s right for both of us. Wherever it has to be.”
“And karma, too.” He meant to say it lightly, but it came out serious. It was all a big joke, and yet he felt it, deep inside: the moment, the karma.
She held one of his hands. “You have long fingers. I bet you can paint. Would you paint something for me?”
“You’d never see it, anyway. No point.”
“Paint something for me. If you say yes, I’ll know.”
“I can’t paint. I don’t want to face that again.”
“And not just any painting. Something that’s really you.”
“I don’t paint,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”
“What were you going to paint? Tell me about one of them.”
“Oh . . . like a Chinese dragon in the Sierra Nevada. I read about Chinese immigrants building the railroad there.”
“Ooh, cool. Do that one for me.” Her tone turned playful. “When we meet after the Revolution, you can bring it to me.”
He smiled weakly and shrugged.
“Promise me,” she whispered solemnly.
He stared into her deep blue eyes, amazed. The moment grew inside him. Her intense gaze seemed to lift him, to make him more than he had been just moments ago. “All right,” he whispered, and in that moment, he meant it.
She squeezed him, as though trying to cling to that moment.
They cuddled silently. The sky was growing light. Ahead, the lights of a town lay scattered in the fading darkness like stars from a space odyssey lying across the Texas plains.
Deb bounced energetically behind the wheel.
“What’s that town ahead?” Tod asked.
“Wichita Falls, Texas,” Deb called over her shoulder.
“Texas?” Connie sat up in surprise.
“Whoa! We were going to get out in Tulsa.”
“Sorry! I forgot!” Deb giggled. “Took you long enough! Tulsa was three hours back, before Okie City. What do you want to do?”
“I have to go northwest,” said Tod. “
Connie has to go back to Oklahoma City. Then she can take I-35 north to Lawrence.” He grinned at her. “I guess we were, uh, busy through Oklahoma.”
Hiding a shy little smile, Connie snuggled close again.
“A highway’s coming up for Amarillo,” said Deb. “I’ll pull up at that diner.” She nodded toward the nearest exit.
Tod saw a small diner just off the exit. An Open sign stood in one window. Some pickup trucks were already parked outside.
In the parking lot, he got out and adjusted his clothes. Connie climbed out with her backpack. Sarah followed Deb into the restaurant.
“I have to use the restroom, too,” said Connie. “Time to split, huh?”
“Uh, yeah. Be careful, okay?” His farewell sounded shallow, but he did not know how to express his fondness for her. She had given him a gift, one that swelled inside him but had no name.
“Sure. Take care.” Connie kissed him lightly and gave him a sad, wistful smile, peering into his eyes again. “Don’t forget.”
As she walked away in the pale dawn light, Tod watched her little blue skirt twitch, and her long, blond hair sway.
In the parking lot, as the taxi drove away, Tod stared at the diner, a very vague memory made real. From here, through Amarillo, he had reached I-70 at Denver. He had seen Boulder for the first time during a random side trip on his way to Berkeley.
He found the place empty of customers. A waitress in a timeless white uniform refilled the sugar canisters on each table. He sat down at the counter and ordered iced tea.
Tod gazed straight ahead. He could hide here and never paint those tiny leaves or familiar peaks again. No one in his life knew where he was. Today he had nothing left to lose.
A petite blonde entered the diner. She hesitated, looking at him. Then she sat at the far end of the counter, adjusting her skirt.
“Coffee?” The waitress reached for the coffeepot.
“Yes, please.”
The woman glanced at Tod again.
Behind the counter, Tod saw the red lights of a digital clock showing today’s date and time. It was a calendar with no grid.
“I had a funny day.” The blonde sat in a bright shaft of angled afternoon sunlight from a big window, with no shadows crossing her. “This morning I skipped out on my job. Like I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t. I just left Springfield and drove.” She paused. “Sorry for the chatter; I guess I’m wired.”
Tod nodded politely. He saw that she was pretty, her pale complexion finely lined and her blond hair blended with gray. Then he looked away and sipped his iced tea.
“I didn’t even call my husband—not that he’d care. We’re separated.” She stopped. “Would you rather I left you alone?” She stirred her coffee in a nervous, clackety rhythm.
“I don’t mind. I had a weird day, myself.”
“Do you live in Wichita Falls?” She watched her coffee spin.
“No. I live near Boulder.”
“Boulder, Colorado? It’s an artistic community, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you an artist?” Her blue eyes searched his face.
He wondered if he should speak in past tense. “I paint.”
Her eyes widened. “I’ve always admired creative people.”
He didn’t want to talk about his art. “What do you do?”
“I work in the women’s rights division of a civil rights commission.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“I wanted to change the world. But I’m not that special.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“No, I just push paper in management now. Got my degree in sociology.” She sipped her coffee and looked into it as she spoke. “I admit I was surprised to see an Asian American in a Wichita Falls highway stop like this. Have you been here before?”
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes.
“What?” He looked at her, uncomprehending.
“For categorizing you that way. Occupational hazard. Everyone’s in a category at a civil rights commission. Race, gender, disabled, all the others. I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Amused, he gave her a little smile.
She smiled back. “I listened to oldies radio stations all day. They made me feel old, but I knew the songs. I forgot my iPod today—but I have one. My daughter gave it to me.”
He knew she wanted to change the subject. “I listened to folk songs today. They remind me of protests, the draft, hippies. . . .”
“Free love.” She smiled slightly, down at her cup.
“Yeah.” Ted grinned at the phrase from his youth.
“You know, my job didn’t even exist back then. If I look at it that way, I suppose I make a contribution.”
Tod nodded. The frantic wheel of his career had stopped spinning, leaving him floating free. He just wanted to listen to her talk, here in this place at the crossroads.
“Sometimes I work with young people who say that period made no difference—there was no revolution, that nothing really changed. But women have many more options than we used to.”
“I know what you mean. Asian Americans developed their own movement from that time.”
“When I was young, I didn’t think I could be an activist. I met a guy once who expressed something different about race and the war. I always remembered that. There was a revolution.”
“Damn right there was. Life’s very different now.”
“A lifetime later.” She smiled to herself. “I found my niche through . . . an indirect cause and effect. Like art, I suppose.”
“Not what I’ve been doing. It’s nothing.”
“I think art must be a very personal expression.”
“It should be,” he said softly. “I just followed the market.”
“What would you have done that was different?”
“Oh . . . once I thought I might paint Chinese mythic motifs in American settings.” He glanced at her. “But I never did.”
Curious blue eyes studied him silently.
Tod’s heart pounded crazily and he looked away from her gaze. “I told a girl once I didn’t think I was good enough to paint. She encouraged me. She’s the reason I applied to art school.”
“Really? What happened to your plans for ethnic work?”
“I was afraid nobody would want it. I was just afraid.”
“I haven’t taken risks for a long time. I’ve wasted years in a bad marriage. I kept fooling myself. Today, on the road alone, I felt like myself again. Now I know it’s over.”
Tod’s pulse raced and he spoke before he could change his mind. “Would you like to visit Boulder with me?”
“I’d like that,” she said quietly. “And I can hardly believe I just said that. But it’s just the moment, isn’t it?”
“Sorry. I guess that was just a stupid thing to say.”
“It was a sweet thing to say.” She cocked her head, making her blond hair sway. “Tell me about a painting you never did.”
Only one vision sprang from his memory. “I imagined a Chinese dragon in the mountains along the Central Pacific Railroad. Funny. I haven’t thought about that in years.” He looked into her eyes, searching but not believing.
She watched him for a long moment without speaking.
Lost in her blue eyes, Tod wanted the moment never to end.
At last she slid off her stool and came forward. “Would you do it for me?” She searched his face as though trying to see inside him. “Something that’s really you?”
Tod ached to ask her questions that were so far-fetched, so ridiculous, that he just couldn’t say them. Was it cause and effect or karma? This moment at the crossroads froze.
He remembered: “When the moment’s right for both of us. Wherever it has to be.”
“Promise me,” she whispered.
Again, he stared deeply into her blue eyes. “I’ll do it this time,” he said. He felt a warmth, a confidence
, a gift growing inside him, and the ache in his fingers became an ache to paint.
She kissed him on the cheek. Then she walked to the door, where she gave him a wistful smile. She turned and slipped out.
Through the window, Tod watched her walk to her car, the skirt of her blue suit twitching and her blond hair blowin’ in the wind.
Two mature people, alone and lost in late middle-age, find their way when they find each other again. Are they brought together by karma, chance, or a promise made lightly, little more than a joke¿ No matter.
This is not about entwining lives, but living in the moment, as they travel on the road . . . through the Twilight Zone.
Spencer Dowd, druggist by trade, devoted husband, loving grandfather, and model citizen, had no idea where it would lead when he became involved in the hobby of bonsai. He had never committed a violent act in his life, but when an employee transgressed on his hobby, Spencer was to commit an act so vengeful that it was shocking and bizarre even in . . . the Twilight Zone.
S
pencer Dowd had everything he needed to make him happy: a patient wife, adoring grandchildren, good health, a reliable business, and a comfortable bank account. Yet, as he stood at the window overlooking the deck around his swimming pool, he was plotting a diabolical act.
For a long time he had suspected that Rusty, the pool cleaner, had been disturbing his bonsai plants. In removing leaves and other debris from the water, Rusty used a net or skimmer with a handle long enough to reach the deeper parts of the pool. Just a slight brush against one of the delicate trees was enough to sever a leaf, snap a small branch, or knock the whole pot over, spilling the contents and leaving the plant to suffer in the sun. Spencer had spoken to the man, warned him to be careful, but he was an oaf, and Spencer could tell that he had no idea that these trees were unique works of art, a disciplined combination of horticulture and sculpture, with strict requirements, worthy of respect and even awe.
Now, as he looked down at the deck, he had just seen Rusty swing his skimmer briskly out of the pool. As he did so, he hit and broke a major branch of Spencer’s most treasured plant—a wisteria tree.
Twilight Zone Anthology Page 6
