*
The funeral had been held at the Sunset Chapel, across the street from Bowie's high school. Built in the early 1930's, the chapel had seen better days. The pitted rose-colored stucco walls were beginning to crumble at the corners. Equally worn, but meticulously clean, the interior’s faded beige carpets were permeated with the scents of flowers and wood polish. Cassie had been escorted to the family room, alongside the chapel itself, and from there, she could see the casket that held her mother's body. Covered in fine blue fabric and edged in gleaming dark cherry, it rested on the draped bier, and beside it stood a small oak table topped with a dozen blue carnations and a framed picture of Katherine Belanger. Soon the casket would lie in the shadow of the small marker that would identify to all that Katherine Belanger had been Cassie's beloved mother. Guy and Grace had insisted on paying for the marker and having it in place as soon as possible following the service, knowing that Cassie couldn't afford to. She had thanked them tearfully, insisting amid their protests that she would pay them back. Grace Williams had sat beside her in the small curtained area, squeezing her hand as Guy had stepped up to the podium and opened his Bible.
"Katherine Belanger," he began, "if she were here, would thank each of you for your presence today to celebrate her graduation into glorious everlasting life. I've known Kathy for many years, and as I prayed about what I would share today, the word that kept coming to my mind, was love." Guy slipped his reading glasses on and bent slightly to read from the Bible.
"So, I thought we'd start today by defining love. In his letter to the Corinthians, Paul tells us that love is patient…"
Guy had continued to speak, giving each definition of love, followed by an example from Katherine Belanger's life, but Cassie heard little of it, and barely felt Grace's rhythmic squeezing of her hand. In her mind, she was ten years old again, and she and her mother were sitting in the shade of the willows, along the edge of the river. Kathy was reading to her daughter from that same letter to the headstrong people of Corinth.
"This is the Bible in a nutshell, Baby,"her mother had said. "Love is something we are, not just something we do. Love Jesus, remember what love is, and try to be that everyday; everything else will work itself out."
Cassie couldn’t say how long she sat there, looking down on Interstate 10. She was still rocking gently as the sun disappeared and long, purple fingers of night began to stretch across the desert, her face hidden from the world and her mind enveloped in memories. Her mother's smell, the touch of her hand on Cassie's face as she brushed her hair, the strength of her arms as she held her daughter.
When Cassie's tear-stained face did finally rise, her cheeks damp and puffy with crying, she was able to take a deep breath of the cool desert air, the scent of hot asphalt and bitter junipers mingling in her nostrils. Her heart ached, and she longed to wake up and have the last week be nothing more than a terrible nightmare. Wiping her eyes, Cassie shouldered her duffel bag and resumed her hike in the fading amber glow of sunset.
*
The temperature in the desert drops quickly with the setting sun. Luckily, for Cassie, there was a great, glowing, full moon rising, so she could leave her flashlight in her bag, following the highway in the strange, shadowed monochrome that washed across the plain as far as she could see. Soon she was shivering as she buttoned the jacket to the collar and stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans. Just as she was debating pulling more clothes from her bag, Cassie topped a small rise and saw a broken-down pole barn, slowly collapsing into ruin a dozen yards north of the highway. Growing up on the outskirts of civilization, she knew better than to sneak silently up to the building. Cassie whistled and scuffed her feet as she approached the sagging door, kicking up a few rocks that bounced noisily off the side of the nearest wall. This would alert anything on more than two legs to her presence and, if it hadn't already caught her scent and done so, it would turn tail at the sound of her approach.
Either the barn was vacant or whatever had been living there fled unseen, as the interior was stark and empty in the beam of Cassie's flashlight. The floor was the same hard packed dirt as the desert outside; drifts of dust had blown up one wall from the nightly east wind, partially burying the tumbled remains of a couple of stalls.
Beneath the rotting wood rails, Cassie found several long forgotten bales of hay. These she eyed suspiciously, poking and prodding with a stick until she was satisfied there were no mice or rats hiding inside.
Taking a small Leatherman multitool from her pocket, Cassie clipped the brittle twine of the first bale and began to spread the hay around for a bed to lay her sleeping bag on.
Gathering another handful of dusty straw and kicking one of the weathered boards to pieces, she used an old Zippo lighter that had been her mother's (and, she suspected, her father's before that) to start a small fire in the center of the dirt floor, well away from the walls and her bedding. Stars twinkled brightly through the cracks in the roof, the weather-beaten timbers having warped and shrunk with time.
Exhausted, Cassie pulled her sleeping bag from the depths of the duffel and rolled out her bed, lying just within the circle of warmth, and munched on her meager supply of granola and venison jerky.
The jerky was a gift from a co-worker of her mother's, whose husband went deer hunting in Texas each fall. The salty meat was firm and tough, but tasty and her mother's friend had sworn that it would keep for a year or more in an airtight bag.
The meat was filling, but it made her thirsty. As much as she wanted to cool her throat with the remains of her second water bottle, she knew that it would doom her to a dry, miserable morning before she reached Vail, twenty miles short of Tucson.
So, after taking two small sips, she screwed the cap on and stowed the bottle back in her bag. She sat, looking into the tiny fire for a while.
"You take care of yourself, Kiddo. I hope you find what you're looking for."
Guy's words drifted through her mind. Had he known what she was planning? If anyone in the world could have second-guessed her, it would have been Guy Williams, but no, surely he would have stopped her if he had.
Cassie slipped the small recorder from her pocket and pressed the record button, watching the tiny red light pop on as the tape began to roll.
February 11th
"I'm spending my first night on the road in an old barn off Highway 10. Guy and Grace think I caught the bus and I’m on my way to Portland by now. I feel so bad, lying to them. I'll have to call them in a couple of days to let them know I'm okay. I don't know if I have a chance of finding my father, but I have to try. I have plenty of time before fall term starts. I don't have much money, but I can dip into my college account if I have to. I want to look him in the eye; I want him to know what he lost when he walked away from us. Guy says that healing only comes when we forgive. That’s probably true, but I don’t feel any forgiveness for William Beckman. Maybe it’d be better if I don't find him. I miss Mom. I'm tired of crying; it feels like I cry all the time. Anyway, I'm sleepy and my fire is dying, I'd better call it a night."
Before putting the little recorder away, Cassie slipped the half-used tape from the machine and replaced it with a tape from her shirt pocket. Penned on the label in red ink was a small heart; Cassie closed her eyes as her mother’s voice murmured through the tiny speaker.
“Trust in the Lord with all of your heart and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your path. Merry Christmas, baby.”
Too exhausted to think anymore, Cassie said a quick mechanical prayer, asking for God's blessing on the Williams family and safety for herself, then she climbed, fully dressed, into her sleeping bag.
She pulled the thin, flannel-lined bag up over her head, zipping it to the top and, with the dry smell of straw and wood smoke surrounding her, listened to the soft whisper of the desert wind and fell asleep. She was too exhausted to notice the dryness of her prayers, or the feeling that when she had spoken them, th
ey went no further than the ramshackle walls of the barn.
*
Eleanor Young sighed as she locked the front doors of the Bowie Greyhound station. Her dogs were barking something fierce tonight, and even the new orthopedic inserts that Dr. Manadrell had given her were doing little to ease the throbbing toothache in her feet.
“Getting old Elli,” she sighed, flipping the plastic door shutter from open to closed, and switching off the neon bus sign and awning lights. She had laundry to do tonight and a pot roast to get into the oven and, more than anything, she’d like to forget both and curl up on the couch with a thick Jean Auel caveman epic, or maybe a hunky action movie and one of Joe’s beers.
As she passed back around the counter, she paused to sit a minute, removing her thick-soled shoes and rubbing her aching arches. Elli Young’s eye caught the creased boarding slip resting at her station, the word CANCELLED stamped across it in crimson capitals.
That little snippet hadn’t improved her mood today either, with her wide eyes and snotty little smile. The old woman grimaced as she picked up the slip with one hand, the other still kneading relief into her arthritic extremities.
Cassie Belanger, she thought, where have I heard that name?
Who cares?
Maybe she’d swing through Quick Time Videoon the way home and grab a pizza and a couple of movies. If Joe didn’t like it, he could fix his own pot roast. She almost laughed aloud in the empty office. The day that Joe Young marched his clodhoppers into the kitchen and fixed himself a meal was the day that they’d buried his old ball and chain!
Cassie Belanger.
Dropping the ticket back on the worn counter, Elli picked up the heavy, black receiver of the old rotary phone and dialed a number from memory, scowling once more as the young woman’s voice echoed in her memory.
Have a great day!
The line was picked up after two rings.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice said.
“Hello, Gracie?” the older woman replied, her mind already drifting to a mushroom and pepperoni pizza and a good ninety minutes of Mel Gibson’s flexing muscles. Now thatwould be a nice end to a long and lousy day, “it’s Eleanor Young, down at the bus station.” She glanced over the top of her glasses at the ticket again, “Say, aren’t you friends with a ‘Belanger’?”
*
After a long and restless night, Cassie woke up to a chilly gray morning. Sometime before dawn, heavy dew had fallen, descending through the gaps in the barn roof and seeping through cracks in the walls. She lay still for a few moments, looking out through the sagging barn door. The building had been abandoned longer than she had thought when she’d stumbled across it the night before. The roof and east wall were just a skeleton of thin sticks, cracked and gray with age, and Cassie could see scarlet holes in the boards where the old iron nails had long since rusted away.
Cassie shivered as she climbed from her damp bedroll and, with shaking fingers, pulled dry straw from the middle of the remaining bale to start a fire. Luckily, she had tossed her duffel bag into the corner and covered several shattered pieces of board, which had stayed dry enough to light. Returning the battered Zippo to her pocket Cassie hunched low over her work, rubbing circulation into her arms and legs, as tiny flames licked at the dry straw and wood. She fanned the flames with her hands, as it fed and smoked, until a small fire was snapping cheerfully at her feet.
After a sip or two of her dwindling water supply, and a handful of granola, Cassie rolled up her clammy sleeping bag, promising herself that she would let it air-dry after the sun was fully up. She ran her fingers through her short dark hair, wincing at the tangles, and brushed away the larger pieces of hay that clung to her clothes.
"Well," she said to the sagging walls, "I must be a real beauty this morning!"
Without running water, her soap and toiletries were useless. She packed them back up and made a mental note to find a gas station up the road with a rest room for her morning ablutions. For the moment, she settled for a quick and merciless brushing of her tangled black locks.
Half an hour later, she still wasn't warm, but at least she had stopped shivering.
Pulling her bag onto her shoulders, Cassie crushed her fire, kicking sand over the smoking remains. Then, squeezing out through the broken door, she hiked back to the highway, breathing deeply the cool morning air. The sun was just peeking over the edge of a gray-blue cloudless sky, promising another hot day.
Following the highway, which was all but deserted at this hour of the morning, Cassie turned west again, crossing the featureless plain in a mile-eating gait that warmed her quickly. Her watch read eight o'clock when the sun and the hiking had been enough that she stopped to remove her jacket.
She considered unrolling her sleeping bag to dry, but decided to wait until she was tired enough to need the rest.
*
By ten, Cassie had skirted the town of Willcox. Finding her way back to Interstate 10, she topped a rise and saw, a half-mile up the road, a small gas station and grocery store. Stepping off the highway and behind a cluster of brush, she unlaced one of her hiking boots. From the back of the boot, just above her heel, she removed a plastic sandwich bag filled with cash. Cassie had read a story in junior high about an old hobo who befriended a young boy while riding the rails. The hobo, wise to life on the road, told the boy to always split up his money, keeping a few dollars in his pocket and the balance divided and hidden in his shoes. This way, if robbed, chances were that you wouldn’t lose all your money. This had seemed like sound reasoning to Cassie, as well as adding a little spice to the adventure. Now, however, after removing a ten-dollar bill and replacing her insole, she felt a little foolish, teetering as she laced up her boot, hiding behind a bush in the middle of the empty desert.
With cash in her pocket, Cassie hiked to the little market where she bought a loaf of bread, a package of bologna, and a couple of candy bars. She stopped at the hotdog bar and slipped a handful of mustard packets into the pocket of her shirt. The cashier didn't notice. After she had paid for her groceries, the old man behind the counter directed her around to the back of the store for a water hose to refill her bottles. There was no rest room.
"Employees only," the manager had grunted in reply to her question, still not looking up from his fishing magazine.
Cassie used the hose to wash her face and arms, letting the cool stream flow over the back of her neck until she felt refreshed. The rivulets of water were already disappearing into the parched soil when she coiled the hose back up and, munching on a thick sandwich, started back toward the road. Cassie had worried the cashier might ask her who she was or where she was headed, but he hadn't. She felt secure that he wasn't a very gregarious fellow and that her passing would be quickly forgotten.
As she started back down the highway, a semi truck pulled out of the westbound lane to stop, in a cloud of dust and the squeal of air brakes, in front of the gas pumps. A middle-aged man wearing a bright red baseball cap over his long, blond hair climbed down from the cab and, after stretching a bit, walked into the store. A thought struck Cassie, as she stood there looking at the dusty blue cab, and she turned and walked back toward the truck. She was standing near the bumper when the driver returned, holding a paper grocery bag in one hand, and fishing in his pocket for his keys with the other.
"Excuse me," Cassie whispered, then louder, "Excuse me!” The driver stopped and looked up, seeing her standing there for the first time.
"What’cha want, kid?" He asked, still searching for his keys.
"Are you headed to Phoenix?" Cassie asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Yup."
"Could I catch a ride with you?"
The driver shook his head, "Nope, sorry."
"Maybe just to Tucson?"
"Can't do it kid," he said, pointing to a small sign on the door of the truck, "company rules.” The metal plate read Employees Only!
"I'd give ya a lift if I could, but I'm not going to risk losing my jo
b."
Cassie was stunned; her master plan for crossing the distance between here and Long Beach was crumbling before her eyes.
"Do all trucks have that rule?" She asked, her voice starting to waver again, as the man pulled a rattling ring of keys from his pocket.
"Most of 'em," the driver called back, climbing into the cab and slamming the door. "You might try to find an independent, a fella who drives his own truck, but most companies are pretty strict, insurance rates and all. Really not a very safe way to travel anyway."
"Thanks heaps!" Cassie muttered, but returned the driver’s wave as he pulled away.
This could be a problem. She had been depending on being able to hitchhike so her money would last through the spring. If she had to buy a bus ticket now, she'd never make it to summer term, much less September! Turning back towards the highway, Cassie swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and started walking again, her mind whirling. How could she tell which drivers were independents? Cassie thought about this as she walked along, and finally determined the only way would be to find a truck stop in Tucson or Phoenix and watch the rigs as they entered, looking for the telltale employees only signs.
This could take longer than she had expected.
Chapter Three
The afternoon passed slowly as Cassie marched doggedly through the heat.
Around two o'clock, the hottest part of the day, she took a break to rest in the shade of a highway sign, spreading out her sleeping bag to finish drying. Her feet had started to hurt an hour earlier as blisters began to rise within her sweltering boots. Now, as the blisters had begun to break, her feet had become a raw, burning ache at the end of her legs. As soon as she had sat down, Cassie pulled a clean pair of socks from her bag and then removed her boots and blood spotted socks to let her feet air and dry. This was a lesson she had learned hiking through the hills around Bowie as a Girl Scout.
Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One Page 3
