Guy had often said, while standing behind the pulpit of the Bowie Baptist Church, that there was a place within each of us designed for love. That nothing else, not money, or fame or power would fill that void. Most of the bad that was in the world, he said, came about from the futile attempt to fill that place with something besides love.
Cassie suspected that hating her father wouldn’t fill it either, but could there be more? She shook her head as the last blue flowers disappeared into the darkness of the grave. She didn’t know, and she didn't want to know. For now, hate would have to be enough. As her life in Bowie, Arizona ended, she felt in her pocket for the folded copy of the marriage certificate, her first step, her only clue to finding her father.
As for what she would do when she found him, she would, as Kathy Belanger had been fond of saying, burn that bridge when she came to it.
*
Those who had words to say said them and the graveside memorial ended.
Guy saw Cassie standing near the edge of the canopy, next to his old station wagon, nodding absently as the line of well-wishers slowly passed, murmuring their condolences.
She looked, to him, like one of those dogs with the bobbing heads that you put in the back window of your car. Just nodding and nodding, eyes glassy and vacant, the lights are on, the power’s running, but the folks have gone to Florida, thank you and please leave a message.
Guy ran an unsteady hand through his hair; it had been a long week, and he was feeling his years increasingly as each hour passed.
It’s not, he thought, as if we haven’t lost friends before.
He knew that this was different; the Belanger’s were family, Kathy had become the sister he’d never had, and Cassie was almost a daughter. Hadn’t he watched her take her first steps across the faded linoleum of his kitchen? Hadn’t he been the one sitting where her father should have sat for a hundred soccer games and dance recitals? He sighed, feeling a cold churning in his belly at the thought of Kathy’s absence, the bone-weary sadness at the pain his wife was facing, losing her oldest and dearest friend.
Grace was being brave, of course, keeping strong for Cassie, but a husband, a good husband anyway, was the one on whose shoulder you cried after the lights were turned off and no one else could see.
Cassie.
Guy watched her accepting hugs, condolences, and murmured kindnesses that she would never remember. He watched her eyes, and saw her mind awhirl behind them, as though all of this were already a memory.
He knew she was planning something, but what? She was too smart to not be subtle, but he had watched this young woman grow up from an infant, almost as much in his own home as her mother’s. As a father himself, Guy recognized a whitewash when he saw one. Cassie had given up on her hitchhiking plans much too quickly for his liking. He knew the girl, and her sudden and unquestioning submission was out of character. The Cassie he knew would have fought, setting her jaw and refusing to budge. She could be a pit bull when it came to getting her own way, and when she suddenly became a poodle, something was wrong.
Cassie looked up and caught his eye, and Guy produced a weary smile as he came up to her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
"You hanging in there, Cass?" he asked, and Cassie nodded, smiling as best she could.
"You, um…" Guy continued, looking over the tops if his wire rimmed glasses and into her eyes, "You take care of yourself, Kiddo. Call us as soon as you get to Portland. I…I hope you find what you're looking for."
He looked in her eyes as his mind raced.
What are you thinking Cassie Belanger? Guy wondered to himself, what are you up to?
And more importantly, what can I do about it?
Guy smiled again and bent to kiss her forehead, then turned and walked away.
Grace Williams came and took her hand.
“How are you doing, Honey?” she asked.
“I’ll be okay,” Cassie answered, taking a deep breath.
“Are you sure you have to go so soon? Maybe you could just take a week or two, let things settle and then--”
“No," Cassie interrupted, "the bus tickets are nonrefundable. Besides, I want to get there early and have a look around the campus on my own.”
Grace sighed. “Oh Cassie," she said, "all the way to Oregon? You must be able to find a school closer to home? There has to be onecollege in Arizona with a writing department!”
Cassie smiled. “Portland State University is one of the best writing colleges in the country, and besides, they’ve already accepted my transcripts.”
“It’s just--”
“I know," Cassie said, "I know, it’s so far, you keep telling me. I just feel like I have to get away. I need a new place, somewhere unexpected where I don’t recognize every rock and tree. I can’t write here, it’s too familiar, especially now…”
Cassie paused, and took another deep breath, fighting the tears that threatened to well and overflow. How could she tell Grace how she felt? How could she explain the way that her soul turned cold whenever she passed the street where her mother had died, hearing the screech of rubber and the crush of metal? How she pictured her lying there in the darkness, crying for help? How many times now had she woken up, trembling and gasping for air, with this vision seared into her nightmares?
“I know,” Grace whispered, “I know. Maybe you’re right, sometimes change is the only way to heal.”
Cassie squeezed her hand gratefully, unable to look in her eyes.
“Now,” Grace continued, “tell me the truth. You’ve given up this silly notion of hitchhiking and bought a bus ticket, right?”
Cassie hesitated, “Yes…” It was the truth, technically, she had, at one point given up on the idea, and she hadbought a ticket…
Grace squared her shoulders and stepped back, all business. “Let me see it…”
As she dug through her pockets, Cassie grimaced.
“Thanks for the trust,” she muttered, “it's a real vote of confidence.”
Pastor William’s wife smiled at that.
“Oh, I trust you dear, but I was young once myself, and I remember how hard it can be to let go of a good idea.”
Cassie found the blue and red striped Greyhound envelope and handed it to Grace, who opened it and quickly scanned the ticket inside.
“Gracious,” she exclaimed, “Two hundred and fifty-eight dollars! You should be able to fly there for that!”
“Not both ways.”
“Cassie!” Grace cried, “This bus leaves at three, that’s less than an hour away!”
“Don’t worry,” Cassie replied, “Frank is going to pick me up in the taxi, and he should be here any minute.”
As though on queue, a horn honked from the street as a faded yellow cab pulled up to the curb. Cassie reached into the backseat of the Williams' station wagon and grabbed her faded duffel bag and jacket.
“Well," Grace said, taking a deep breath, "if you’re determined to go, then give me a hug and walk away before I cry.”
Cassie felt tears well once more in her own eyes.
“Thank you so much,” she said, “for everything. Thank Guy too, for helping with the funeral, and with Mom’s stuff.”
Grace Williams dismissed this with a quick wave of her hand, “Oh, it’s just a few boxes. The Williams clan has lived on that farm for eighty years, I can’t imagine the attic will be going anywhere in the next two or three.”
Then she stepped forward and pulled the girl close, hugging her fiercely, as Cassie whispered into her ear.
“Please keep flowers on her grave, she likes--”
“Blue carnations, of course,” Grace answered, tears now flowing down her cheeks, “I love her almost as much as you do, remember? Now go on, your taxi is waiting…”
Cassie drew a deep, shuddering breath as she backed away toward the waiting cab. “I love you, Grace…” she said.
“I know,” her pastor’s wife replied, “make sure you call me as soon as you reach Portland…and go str
aight to the college…and stay on campus.”
The young woman laughed through her tears, “I will, I will…I’ll be fine.”
Then Cassie climbed into the passenger seat of the taxi and quickly closed the door. She kept her eyes forward as the car pulled away, heading towards the bus station, and bit her lip fiercely as the tears ran down her cheeks, clutching desperately at the folded scrap of paper in her pocket, her talisman.
She watched through the dusty windshield as they started though town.
As much as she yearned for escape from the constant, painful reminders of her mother's death, for the excitement of college, and most of all for the possibility of confronting her father, Bowie was still the only home she had ever known. She etched the images before her into her memory as though it were the last time she would see them.
Passing the library, which sat like a squat brick pyramid, Frank turned onto Main Street. From there, Cassie could see the Yucca Lodge Motel, where she had worked the last three summers as a room attendant. Mrs. Miller, her supervisor, was eighty-six now and pretty much just loaded the supply cart each morning and spent the rest of the day sitting in one of the empty rooms watching her soap operas and smoking long, thin cigarettes.
Past the motel, Cassie could see the conical roof of another Bowie landmark, the teepee tavern. She rolled her eyes.
Shaped to resemble an Indian teepee, the tavern’s great beige cone rose above the landscape like a beacon for the thirsty folk of Bowie. Both signs, in four foot blazing neon, were currently fired up and blinking the word Beeron either side of the building.
A lone blue mailbox sat beside the Post Office, available for those who couldn’t stop by between the convenient hours of ten and two. Cassie pictured Mr. Tolstrom, Bowie’s postman, sitting in the sorting room, his establishment’s doors securely locked, casually reading the townsfolk’s magazines (and the occasional personal letter) before slipping them into the outgoing bins.
The cab wheezed to a rattling stop as a flashing bar came down across Main Street and the iron clang of bells rang painfully in their ears. Frank snorted in disgust and rolled up the windows to block out as much of the noise as possible. The small cab grew warm quickly as they waited for the Union Pacific to make its slow pass through town.
Once the bar lifted and the cab was underway again, they passed Welker-Scott Memorial Park, its swing-sets and chain-link backstop lonely and forlorn amid the swath of dry, russet grass, as dead in winter as it would be in July.
Cassie smiled, and in her minds-eye she saw herself and her various school chums through the years, swinging gleefully on the rusty swings, braids flying, their scab-covered knees bared to the world. Years would pass and find them clustered together along the fence, whispering and giggling, pointing proprietary fingers at the boys who played baseball, spit in the dirt, and strove mightily to pretend that they were blissfully unaware of their female admirers.
A few years further and they would sit on the brief spring grasses in small groups of twos and fours, holding hands with those same boys, heads bent in impassioned whispers. She smiled again; wondering how many times this cycle had repeated itself, while the park remained unchanged.
Cassie wiped fresh tears from her burning cheeks as her only world slipped slowly past her and was gone.
Chapter Two
Twenty minutes later, just outside Bowie, Cassie stepped off the highway and onto a narrow dirt track that meandered its way across the desert. It skirted the equally small town of Luzena, and headed toward Willcox, which couldn't even be considered a small town.
Luzena was too close to Bowie and Cassie wasn't about to risk being seen walking down the highway with her thumb out when she should be on the three o'clock bus to Tucson. The chances of being spotted by someone she knew, or worse, someone Grace knew, were just too high.
Again, she felt a stab of guilt for the lies she had told to the family that had shown her so much kindness.
Cassie squared her shoulders and tugged the strap of her duffel bag tighter.
It was done, and she couldn't change it.
She had let Frank the cabbie take her as far as the bus station, and then waived off his offer to wait with her.
"My bus is leaving in ten minutes," she had told him, running for the door, "Go get yourself a fare back to town!"
"Yeah, right," Frank had laughed as he pulled away.
Once inside the station, Cassie had watched through the window until the taxi was out of sight, then pulled out her bus ticket and walked up to the cashier's desk. The attendant was a graying matron with blue-shadowed eyes and impossibly long lashes.
"One moment," she had said, as Cassie had opened her mouth to speak, "I'll be right with you."
The woman made a show of counting through a thick stack of tickets, then recounting, and finally, with a smirk playing at the corners of her lips, counting them a third and final time. With a sigh, she set the stack down and turned to Cassie, whose own eyes had begun to flash dangerously.
"May I help you?"
"Yes, please," Cassie said, "I need to cash in my bus ticket."
The woman stared at Cassie with frank disapproval, studying the girl over the top of her black-framed reading glasses, before taking the ticket from her with two fingers as though she suspected that it might be soiled.
"Reason?" she asked.
"No reason," Cassie replied, her eyes suddenly glazing over and her smile becoming vapid.
"I just need to cash it in, and it's refundable, that’s what this word here is,” Cassie pointed to the ticket’s large, red lettering, her voice dripping with sincerity, “right?"
The impossible lashes blinked once, then twice; the woman’s scowl deepening the crevasses of her face.
Katherine Belanger had been known to say that her daughter had a gift for finding the one thing that could drive a person absolutely crazy.
"It's like she can see this big invisible button, and Lord help you if you give her reason to push it." Kathy would laugh, "That girl can make you yank your hair out, and her smiling that sweet smile the whole time!"
The ticket attendant at the Bowie Greyhound station was no exception, and her eyes narrowed dangerously as she glanced back and forth from the ticket in her hand to Cassie.
"Well," she replied, "It isrefundable, yes, but--"
"Great!” Cassie cried, clapping her hands, "That’s what I want to do, exactly!"
The woman's face was a thundercloud as she jammed a small key into the desk drawer in front of her and began savagely counting out fifty-dollar bills. Cassie waited until she had almost reached two hundred and fifty dollars.
"Oh wait! I'm sorry," she said, with an insipid giggle, "I needed that in tens and twenties…."
The woman didn't even look up at she stuffed the fifties back into the drawer and counted out the money, pushing the stack across the counter and under the window toward the girl.
"Thanks so much," Cassie gushed, "and have a great day!"
Turning to go, she heard the attendant's Window Closed sign come slamming down on the counter as the older woman stormed away. Picking up her duffel bag, Cassie started across town towards the highway, whistling as she went.
She was still chuckling as she hiked out past the bluff and turned south, away from Interstate 10 and towards Buckeye Mill.
Two miles further, the trail ended at an intersection with a seldom-used dirt road. It was a single lane of deep ruts, torn up by the fat tires of four-wheel drive trucks, winding around scruffy junipers and islands of sage. To the west, the road led far across the desert, disappearing over the next arid rise. Cassie followed it, sipping sparingly from the first of her two water bottles. As she hiked, she recorded her thoughts on a small dictation machine that her mother had bought her for Christmas.
"Well Kiddo," Kathy had said, as Cassie squealed with delight at the gift, "A writer has to be able to put their thoughts down, whenever and wherever they are."
In the bag on her back, Ca
ssie had a case of twenty miniature cassettes that fit the recorder, as well as two spare sets of batteries. Five of the thirty-minute tapes were already filled with ramblings about school and leaving home. She knew she would have to put down her thoughts and feelings about her mother's death, but it was still too soon for that. She hoped to get some good material on her trip west; who knew what might come of it?
Several hours later, the rutted track ended at the steep shouldered edge of Interstate 10. Cassie scooted down the dusty embankment and squinted at the sign fifty yards up the highway.
Bowie, 20 Miles.
She had come out four miles short of Willcox, still a little too close to home for her taste. Nothing to do about it now but keep walking and try to make herself scarce when traffic came along. Cassie had looked at her Arizona map and decided that once she neared Benson, fifty miles to the west, she should be safe from the chance of any accidental sighting by a nosy neighbor. Sixty miles was the far-off big city for most of the residents of her little town. The traffic on the Interstate was light, in fact, it was nearly nonexistent, and Cassie smirked into her recorder,
"That's right folks," she said, "Be sure to watch out for the rush-hour traffic to the thriving metropolis of Bowie!"
Occasionally a lone pickup would come barreling across the flats, headed for Willcox or Tucson, but they were no great threat. The thin air and flat terrain made for wonderful acoustics, and Cassie had plenty of warning to scramble off the shoulder of the highway and duck behind the nearest cluster of juniper trees. The heat of the day began to fade as the sun turned orange on the western horizon, and Cassie tugged a worn denim jacket from her bag and slipped it on. She was suddenly overwhelmed with memories. She had begged for this jacket as it hung in her mother's closet.
The copper buttons were tarnished and the hems and cuffs were beginning to fray. The scent of her mother's perfume still lingered and the memories broke loose within her. Cassie climbed, sobbing, to the top of the embankment and sat, legs dangling over the precipice. There she buried her face in her folded arms and breathed in the faint smell of roses that had been a small part of the mother she had lost.
Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One Page 2
