by Chris Fabry
Johnson stared at the sun through the rear window. Pollen from the pine trees and dirt from a morning rain streaked it yellow and brown in a haphazard design. Three Mexicans climbed out of a Ford. Tools piled in the back of the truck and compost and some black tarp. One slapped another on the back and dust flew up. Another knocked the guy’s hat off and they laughed.
The sun was at the trees on the top of the nearby mountain, then in them, and going down fast. An orange glow settled in and Johnson’s stomach growled. He glanced across the parking lot at the neon liquor store sign next to the Checker Auto Parts, and his throat parched.
A newer RV, a Monaco Camelot, had parked at the end of the lot, and the owner pulled a shade at the front windshield for privacy. He wondered what driving one of those would be like. How much mileage it would get per gallon. The smooth ride on the road. Almost looked like a rolling hotel.
He sat up and looked out the front of the RV. The way they were parked gave him a good view of the store’s entrance. An old guy with an oxygen tank pushed two carts inside. The man smiled and greeted a mom and her children.
Johnson hit the down arrow on his laptop. One green light on the wireless network from the coffee shop. He wished he had parked closer to the end of the lot, but he hadn’t planned on getting stuck here.
A loud knock at the door, like he’d just run over someone’s dog and it was under the back tire yelping. Johnson moved slowly, but he was agile in his bare feet. He caught a glimpse of the guy in the right mirror. Blue vest. Portly. Maybe thirty but not much older. Probably got the job through someone he knew. Johnson opened the door and nodded at the man.
“Just wondering how long you’re thinking of staying,” the man said. There was an edge to his voice, like he was nervous about something.
Johnson stepped down onto the asphalt that was still warm from the sun but not unbearable. “Like I said, I’m waiting on a part. If I could get out of here, believe me, I’d be long gone.”
The man looked at the ground. “Well, you’ll have to move on. It’s been—”
“Three weeks.”
“—three weeks and it could be three more before whatever part you’re looking for comes, so I think it’s best you move on.”
“And how do you want me to move it? Push it to the interstate?”
“I can call a tow truck.”
Johnson looked away. Boy Scouts at the Entrance sign were selling lightbulbs. Pink and orange clouds had turned blue, like something was roiling on the other side of the mountain. A black-and-white police car pulled into the parking lot and passed them. The man in the vest waved and the officer returned it.
“I’ll give you one more night,” the manager said. “If you’re not out of here by morning, I’m calling the towing company.”
Johnson wanted to say something more, but he just pursed his lips and nodded and watched the man waddle, pigeon-toed, back to the store.
The girl came out and passed the manager, smiling and swinging a blue bag. She had a new spiral notebook inside. She’d filled more of those things than he could count, and it didn’t look like she was slowing down.
“Did you get your work done?” she said as she bounded in and tossed the bag on her bed.
Johnson opened the fridge and took out a warm can of Dr Pepper. “Enough.”
“What did the manager guy want?”
“He said we’d won a shopping spree.”
“He did not.”
Johnson took a long pull from the can and belched. “He was just wondering how long we’d be here.”
“I met a friend,” the girl said, her face shining. “She’s really nice. And pretty. And I don’t think she’s married. And she has the most beautiful eyes.”
“June Bug, the last thing we need is somebody with her eyes on this treasure.” He spread his arms out in the RV. “What woman could resist this castle?”
“She’s not after your treasure. She just cares about us. She said the manager guy was getting upset that we’ve been here so long. Is that what he told you?”
“Nah, this is a big parking lot. We’re gonna be fine. Did you get something to eat?”
June Bug shook her head and climbed up to her bed. “Almost finished with my last journal. I want to start a new one tonight.”
“What do you put in those things? What kind of stuff do you write down?”
“I don’t know. Just things that seem important. Places we’ve been. It’s sort of like talking to a friend who won’t tell your secrets.”
“What kind of secrets?”
She slipped off her plastic shoes and let them fall to the floor, then opened the bag and took out a dark green notebook. “When you tell me what you’re writing about on that computer, I’ll tell you what’s in my notebooks.”
Johnson smiled and took another drink from the can, then tossed it in the trash.
At the storefront, the police car had stopped and the manager leaned over the open window.
2
On an impulse she could not explain, nor would she have wanted to, nor would she have had anyone to explain it to, Sheila Lempis bought an entire fried chicken dinner, complete with potato wedges and coleslaw, and headed out the door, keys jangling.
“Have a good night, Ed.”
“You too, Sheila,” the man wheezed.
She stowed her purse in her car, locked it, and took a deep breath. The RV was toward the middle of the lot, nearest the grocery entrance. She supposed she had seen vehicles in worse shape parked there overnight, but she couldn’t remember when. Rust, a cracked windshield, balding tires. The vehicle was square, less aerodynamic than newer models, and with the price of gasoline she wondered how anyone could afford to drive such a thing. Inside had to be blistering in the summer heat and frigid during the winter. She imagined them chasing the sun in the winter and driving to cooler climates in the summer. The license plate had rusted off the front, but the back showed a faded outline of the state of West Virginia, and the words Wild, Wonderful were still visible.
Dark inside the RV and nothing moving. She clutched the blue bag and wondered who she could give the chicken to if they weren’t there. Maybe Mr. Taylor, who lived behind her, alone after the death of his wife. All he had were those horses to keep him busy.
Sheila turned and walked toward her car but stopped when a fox trotted through the edge of the lot. The things were plentiful here all year round, but this one looked like it had just crawled out of a den after a long winter. Bony shoulders poked through its fur, matted and splotchy. It stopped and stared at her, sniffing at the wind, then disappeared as it loped around the building’s corner.
The young girl’s face passed through her mind as if in a dream, and Sheila couldn’t walk away without trying. Those eyes, bright and intelligent, sparkling with life. Eyes that seemed to know too much and too little at the same time. Sheila had watched her wander through the store, pausing in jewelry, passing time leafing through books, in search of something. A locket. Something to read. Maybe a home.
Her father did not normally accompany her inside the store, and Sheila guessed from the food she bought that they had no working stove or refrigerator. Sheila had talked with no one about the two. When the manager noticed the “hunk of junk” in the parking lot, Sheila knew there would be trouble.
The father was not hard to look at. He was tall, with a square jaw and penetrating eyes. He had the stubble of a man stranded, though she had seen him carry a small black kit into the bathroom and exit clean shaven. His hair was a bit too long, even shaggy, but it was full and dark and just touched his eyes. He always paid with a dwindling wad of cash and didn’t make small talk with the cashiers. He carried a certain strength about him that wasn’t measured in muscles, though he surely had enough of those.
Sheila had spoken to him only once while he was waiting in the salon for his daughter’s haircut. He had a current Newsweek in his lap, flipping through the pages.
“She’s a real cutie,” Sheila had said.
&nbs
p; He looked up as if someone had caught him with a hand in the cash drawer. Surprised. Off guard. He glanced behind, catching sight of the girl in the mirror, and tipped his head back. “Oh yeah. She’s something else.”
“Are you finding everything okay?” she said, cringing at the words. “I’ve seen your RV in the lot for a few days.”
He nodded. “Waiting on a part. The thing just gave out on us.”
Sheila smiled, an uncomfortable silence creeping in. “We have a lot of people come through here on their way to California or the Northwest.” She chuckled, though there was no reason to laugh, and her face burned. “Well, if you need anything, that’s why we’re here.”
She retreated to customer service, her heart skipping a beat. It had been a long time since her heart had felt anything like skipping.
Sheila pushed a couple of errant carts into the stall to make a bit of noise and gritted her teeth. Now or never. Just walk up to the door and knock. What’s the worst that can happen?
She knocked. Silence inside. A fat crow landed on the flickering light overhead and cawed. Maybe they didn’t hear. It was a timid knock.
As she lifted her hand to rap again, she saw the RV dip to one side and squeak.
“It’s her,” the girl said inside. The side window was open. “It’s the lady I told you about.”
Sheila couldn’t help but catch a faint reflection of herself in the dirty window. A pale likeness of the girl she used to be with more pounds and less hope. The curls had long ago straightened. The dream of finding someone she could share life with who wouldn’t drink his way into the gutter had dissipated like morning fog. Her husband had lost his job and then his license. After a few treatment programs failed, she hung on long enough to pay the mortgage and their increasing bills while he watched the Broncos and the History Channel. He complained when she canceled the cable, but she had to do it. They lived exactly seven miles from the nearest liquor store at the time. When he wasn’t watching TV, he was working on an old bicycle in the garage. When he’d finally gotten the thing fixed, he’d set off for his promised land.
But here she was at a stranger’s door, trying again. Just showed the ache was still there.
The man appeared at the door in a white T-shirt and dirty jeans. Sheila looked down, trying to hide her embarrassment, catching sight of the plastic tarp on the ground underneath the engine where he had been working.
“I told the manager we’d be out of here as soon as possible,” he said, his voice firm and a bit irritated.
She held up the bag. “I’m not here to kick you out. I brought you and your daughter some dinner.”
He studied her for a moment, then opened the door and stepped down. “I appreciate it, but we’re fine.”
Sheila half whispered, “I know. I’m sure you can take care of yourself. I talked to her today and she . . . she’s just so cute. I bought this on a lark. Thinking you might enjoy the hot meal.”
He bit his lip and stared at her, his face pained, like he was trying to find the cure for cancer. Finally he reached out and took the bag, looking past the lock of hair that swept over his eyes. “You want to join us?”
“I really couldn’t. I have to be going.”
He gave a wry smile. “Now if we can accept this hospitality, the least you could do is eat with us—don’t you think?”
Sheila heard something like clapping inside and a few thumps, like the girl was hopping. “All right. If you insist.”
“Wait right here,” he said. He closed the door. Inside the RV a flurry of activity. Someone cleaning furiously. Curtains pulled. Then he was back. “It’s not the cleanest place in the world.”
“It’ll be fine. I even brought some paper plates and plastic forks.”
* * *
My dad had already had a nut roll, but he grabbed a piece of chicken and some potatoes and coleslaw and dug in. When I saw that, I knew it was going to be a good night. It had been forever since we’d had anybody inside the RV. Last time was probably down in Florida at one of the campgrounds where I made a friend, and her mom and her came over and helped us clean the place. It wasn’t long after that that we packed up in the night and took off for South Carolina.
I think Daddy ate the chicken because he didn’t want to talk. Sheila picked at a little wing and grinned at me, saying if I didn’t eat I would probably dry up and blow away. I suppose that happens to some people, but I have a pretty healthy appetite.
“How long have you worked here?” I said.
“This store’s been open about four years. I started as a cashier and worked my way up. Before that I was working at a store out in Falcon, east of here.”
“You ever been married?”
“June Bug, that’s enough questions.” Daddy wiped his hands on a napkin and poked at the grease in the corners of his mouth.
Sheila smiled. “I don’t mind. Is June Bug your real name or just a nickname?”
I usually would have answered right away, but I took a quick bite from a leg and stared at my dad.
He shook his head. “It’s both. June’s her name, and I put the Bug on the end of it.”
Sheila looked a lot more nervous in here than inside the store, and I can understand that because I feel a lot more comfortable in the RV than inside Walmart where people look at you like you don’t belong.
“I was married to a sweet man who had a problem with the bottle,” she said. “It finally got the best of him.”
“What happened?” I said.
Daddy gave me the look.
“He’d been without a drink for a whole month when he fixed up a bike and took a ride to the liquor store. That night I was coming home and saw the police cars by the road. It looked like somebody in an SUV had hit a deer. When I got home and saw he wasn’t there, I knew what had happened.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It was going to happen one way or another,” Sheila said. “I’m just glad he didn’t take anybody out while driving drunk. He didn’t treat me mean or anything. He didn’t want to face life, I guess.”
Daddy grabbed the salt from the counter and put some on his potato wedges. Then he squeezed the ketchup packets out like he always does, making a ketchup lake on his plate.
“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?” I said.
I guess Daddy had resigned himself to my questions now because he just closed his eyes and chewed.
“I’ve thought about it,” Sheila said. “But I don’t want to make the same mistake. My father says I should come live with him and my mom on their ranch in Wyoming.”
“They live on a real ranch?” I said. “With horses and cows and stuff?”
Sheila nodded. “Lots of horses and cows and more stuff than you can believe. Fifty years’ worth of stuff in that house. I don’t think I could breathe in there it’s so packed.”
“I’d love to live on a farm and have my own horse and a dog.”
“You should drive up there when your part comes in,” she said to Daddy. “They’ve got a lake where you can fish and mountains all around. Pretty much perfect if you don’t get too close to the house. I know they wouldn’t mind.”
“If it’s so perfect, why don’t you go back?” Daddy said.
Sheila smiled. “Probably the same reason you like to travel in one of these. Just need space. And a life of my own. Feels a little like giving up to go back.”
The dim fluorescent light from the parking lot was all we had to eat by since we didn’t have electricity. The generator had gone out long before we arrived. I went to get my flashlight about halfway through the meal, but Dad told me to wait. He has this thing about carrying a little flashlight in his pocket everywhere he goes, and I keep mine under my pillow. He pulled out a half-used Yankee Candle and lit it. Daddy said I could never use a candle because once I lit one and put it on my bed and then went to sleep. He got pretty mad over that. The flickering candle made our faces glow around the table, and all of a sudden I got this warm feeling lik
e we were living like regular people.
“What about you two?” Sheila said. “What brings you all the way to Colorado?”
“We’ve been on the road since I can remember,” I said. “I think Daddy likes to spend as little time as possible in one place.”
“That’s not true,” he scolded. “I wouldn’t mind settling down someday to a ranch. Maybe have a couple cows.”
“What do you do?” Sheila said.
“I’m a writer. I sell articles to magazines or whoever will buy them.”
“He writes scripts too,” I said.
“Yeah, but I don’t sell many of those. I do some blogs for companies and such. And odd jobs here and there. Pays the bills most of the time.”
Sheila’s eyes twinkled. “That’s exciting. You’re probably famous.”
Daddy shook his head.
“How do you get paid?” she said. “I mean, if you’re traveling all the time, how do they send you the money?”
He hesitated. “I got a post office box or two.”
“I’d love to see something you’ve written. You should send me a copy of an article.” She wrote her e-mail address on a napkin.
“He doesn’t use his real name on the articles. He uses a sumo-name.”
“Pseudonym,” he corrected.
“It’s a fake name,” I said.
Sheila laughed. “What I wouldn’t give to be out on the road. Nothing to tie you down. Just pick up and go when you want. Beats working at Walmart.”
“There are some drawbacks,” Daddy said. “If you get sick, there’s no family doctor. And no health care plan.”
“But you don’t have a mortgage or a car payment. I assume this is yours.”
“Yeah, bought and paid for a long time ago.”
“What’s a mortgage?” I said.
“House payment,” Daddy said.
We finished and there were a couple pieces of chicken left over. Sheila insisted we keep them, but my dad opened the refrigerator and showed her it was dark in there, so she picked up the plastic container.
I thanked her for dinner and told her she could come back anytime. Daddy opened the door for her and walked into the parking lot. I blew out the candle and listened from the front window screen.
