The man laughs. "See. They're harmless as a bunch of hungry kittens. You ladies enjoy your stay now." He nods us a farewell, then saunters away, already waving and calling hello to a family on the other side of the street.
The smallest burro, the one who was not victorious in his quest for food, turns in my direction. He stretches his head toward me and blows out a big, warm breath.
I hold my palms out. "Don't look at me."
Satisfied that I'm not holding out on him, he walks away, no doubt in search of an easier mark. "What do you think?" I ask Lindsay.
She looks at the store behind her, then back at me. A grin blooms on her face. "I think we need to buy some carrots."
"Did you know that Clark Gable and Carol Lombard spent their honeymoon in the Oatman Hotel?" I look up from the pamphlet in my hand and point across the street. "Right over there."
"Cool." Lindsay is poking through a bin of costume jewelry. She puts on a ring with a big purple stone in a flower-shaped setting and holds her hand up to admire it. "What do you think?"
"Pretty, but kind of big." She nods and tosses it back in the bin. I continue reading about the hotel. "It says they've restored the room so it looks just like it did when the couple stayed here. I've got to see that."
"Sounds kinda la—uh, lovely."
I appreciate her attempt to cover over her disinterest. I guess it is kind of lame that a woman on the brink of divorce would want to see a honeymoon suite. But I have to believe romance is still alive and well somewhere in the world. Even if it's only in the faded memories of a long-gone celebrity couple.
But I know how to grab Lindsay's interest. "There's a restaurant in the hotel. We can eat first then take the tour."
"Deal."
We leave the gift shop and walk down the sidewalk. Up ahead, a family has made friends with the cutest burro I've seen yet. It's tiny, probably not full grown, and has pale beige markings. A little girl stands in front of him, clutching a carrot close to her chest. Her mother stands behind her, giving her full attention to the squirming toddler in her arms. Off to the side, the dad has a video camera up to his face, capturing everything.
"Hold out your carrot, honey," he calls.
Honey smiles at her father. There's so much love and trust in that smile, it breaks my heart. If Tony and I had had a daughter, would she have looked at him the same way? I'll never know. I'll never have a child of my own. Not now. But Tony will. He's the one who broke our vows, broke the rules, yet he's the one who's going to have precious moments like this. Suddenly, I'm not so excited about seeing the honeymoon suite anymore.
Lindsay and I reach the family just as Honey holds out her carrot. The burro is not as docile as he looks, and he lunges forward. The girl drops the carrot, emitting a shriek loud enough and high enough that it scares the donkey away. Since her dad is following the animal's movement with the camera, and her mom is still trying to calm down the baby, neither one of them notice Honey's quivering lip and downcast eyes. But my sister does.
Squatting down on the balls of her feet, Lindsay picks up the carrot and hands it to the girl. "Here you go."
Honey looks at Lindsay, looks down at the carrot, then back at Lindsay. "It's dirty now."
She shrugs. "That's okay. These guys eat off the desert floor. A little dirt won't bother them."
"It's dirty," Honey insists. "I can't give dirt to the pony."
Now she's got her mother's attention. "It's a donkey, honey, not a pony. Now tell the nice lady thank you."
"Thank you," she says loudly. Then she leans in to Lindsay and whispers, "It's a pony who was turned into a donkey by an evil witch. But this is a magic carrot."
"I see," Lindsay says gravely. "And this carrot will break the spell."
"Yes."
"But only if it's clean."
Honey's eyes grow wide, as if amazed to find an adult who understands. "Yes."
"Then there's only one thing to do." Lindsay fishes her water bottle from her purse and rinses off the carrot. She wipes it dry on her jeans and hands it back to the girl. "How's that?"
"Perfect." Honey beams, then turns to her father and yanks on the tail of his T-shirt. "Daddy, we need to find that donkeypony."
Dad laughs, Mom smiles and thanks us, and the family walks away.
My chest grows tighter and tighter as I watch my sister interact with the little girl. I was so sure God wanted me to be a mother that I tried everything I could to get pregnant, but nothing worked. Lindsay and Ben definitely didn't plan to have a baby, yet there she stands. Not only is she pregnant, she's just shown me a tender, maternal side I never knew she had. It strikes me that maybe, in the grand scheme of things, there was a reason for how it all worked out.
But what? What is it that makes me unsuitable to be a mother? Is it a character flaw? Some genetic oddity I don't even know about? What's wrong with me?
Lindsay stands up, wiping her hands together. "I'm going to need a washroom before we eat."
I don't answer. I just stare until she finally looks at me, her brows drawn together.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," I say. "I was just thinking."
"About what?"
I wish we had the kind of relationship where I could tell her anything. It would feel so good to share my pain with someone and receive some support. Some encouragement. But Lindsay and I aren't at that point yet. I don't know if we ever will be. So I smile and only tell her the good part. "I was thinking you're going to be a great mother."
For a moment, it seems that she's trying to decide whether or not I'm being serious. Then her facial muscles relax, her brows return to their natural level, and the pucker leaves her lips. She doesn't say anything in return, but when I link my arm through hers to lead her across the street, she lets me.
19
That may have been the best burger I ever ate." Lindsay gives her fingers one last lick before swiping her mouth with a napkin.
"When you're starving, everything tastes good." I couldn't tell you what the darn thing tasted like. It could be the most delicious burger in the world, or it might be made out of cardboard. Since we sat down, I haven't been able to concentrate on much of anything except for how unfair life is.
The waitress, Sharon, comes over and lays the check and a Sharpie marker on the table. "In case you ladies want to sign bills for the wall." She picks up our plates and walks away.
"What do you say?" Lindsay asks. "Want to leave your mark?"
The inside of the restaurant is full of dollar bills. They cover the walls, frame the doors, and hang from the ceiling like stubby stalactites. Each bill bears the name of the person who left it. A few hours ago, I would have been eager to add mine to the collection, and Lindsay would have rolled her eyes at the suggestion. Now, I just want to get in the car and drive.
"Don't you think it's kind of lame?" I ask, fiddling with the straw in my half-empty soda glass, concentrating on the clink clink of ice against the sides.
Lindsay leans back in her chair with a frown. "What bit you on the hind quarters?"
I can't help laughing. We've only been in town a few hours and she's already talking like a local. "Nothing. With the exception of some stubborn cellulite, my hind quarters are perfectly fine, thank you."
"Then snap out of your funk and let's have some fun." She puts her purse in her lap and pulls out her wallet. "Look, at least I'm trying. If we're going to show Mom and Dad all the stuff we did on this trip, this is the kind of thing they'll want to see." She puts one dollar bill on the table and waves the other in my face. "I'll even donate the bills."
"How can I pass that up?" I snatch the dollar from her before she can change her mind.
She writes across President Washington's face, her name big and bold. Just like Lindsay. Then she writes something under it that I can't read from where I'm sitting.
"What's that say?"
"It's just some words of wisdom. Now it's your turn."
I take the pen from
her and write my name in neat, precise letters off to the side of Washington. But when it comes to words of wisdom, I'm stumped. What do I have to share with weary travelers who might pass by?
Watch out for hungry burros.
Stay hydrated.
Don't trust men.
No, none of those will do. Finally, something comes to mind. Something that sums up the reason for this trip, my hope for what it will be. I write it down, then hand it to Lindsay.
"Enjoy the journey," she reads. "Nice. Worthy of a bumper sticker."
"What did you write?"
She smirks and hands me her dollar. She drew a donkey head next to her name. Written under it in all caps are the words WATCH YOUR STEP.
It's perfect on so many levels.
We go up to the counter, pay for our meal, and hand our signed dollar bills to Sharon. I pull out the camera and record her as she reads them and laughs. "These need to go where people can see them."
She tapes them right on the back of the cash register. I get a close up of them, then tell Lindsay to get in the shot. She argues until Sharon comes around and takes the camera from me.
"You two both need to be in the picture. Get on over there." She motions where she wants us to go. "Good. Now try to look happy."
Miracle of miracles, Lindsay puts her arm around my shoulders. I smile and snake my arm around her waist. Then I feel something on the back of my head and Sharon laughs.
"Are you doing bunny ears on me?"
"Who? Me?" Lindsay feigns innocence, but from the speed at which she removes her arm, I know I was right.
"Thanks, Sharon." I take the camera back and give a little wave. "Have a nice day."
"Wait a minute," Lindsay says. "Didn't you want to see the honeymoon room?"
I shake my head. "It's okay."
Now Sharon blocks my way. "You haven't seen the room? You can't leave without seeing it."
"We really should get back on the road."
"But it won't hardly take any time at all. It's right upstairs. Amy!" Sharon calls toward the kitchen. Almost immediately, a teenager with a blond ponytail bounds through the half double doors. Sharon points at us. "We've got two for a tour of the Gable Suite."
"Great. Follow me."
Lindsay gives me a shrug. "I guess we don't have a choice. Come on."
Sharon was right. The tour doesn't take long. We go up a wide flight of wooden stairs, down a hall, around a corner, and there we are. Amy opens the door with a flourish and ushers us into the room.
As Amy launches into a prepared speech about the popularity of Gable and Lombard and how he loved to visit Oatman, Lindsay and I walk around the small space. Most of it is taken up by a white iron-frame bed. The patchwork quilt covering it looks homemade, but I doubt it's old enough to be the one the famous couple slept under.
"What's the deal with the coins?" I point at the spare change lying here and there on the quilt.
"Visitors toss them there."
"Why?" Lindsay asks.
Amy shrugs. "I guess they think it's lucky. Like coins in a fountain. We collect all of it and donate it to a children's hospital."
In each corner of the room are wooden chairs that look like they came from someone's dining room. An old lace dress has been carefully draped on one of them. Age has given it a slightly yellow tinge, but I imagine it's supposed to be a standin for Lombard's wedding attire.
Lindsay goes to the window and touches the edge of a faded curtain. "It's not the Ritz, is it?"
No, it's not. There's something sweetly sad about this room. As though the reality of the couple's love story wasn't enough of a testimony, so it's been preserved in an embellished time capsule. I think back on the budget-conscious hotel room where Tony and I spent our honeymoon. The only thing special about it had been the two of us. Fool that I was, I thought that was enough.
Judging from the excitement in Amy's voice, she's just gotten to her favorite part of the speech. "Gable had to get back to Hollywood where he was filming Gone with the Wind, so they only spent the night here. But they would return often in the years to come."
"You've got to be kidding!" Lindsay shouts.
"No, really." Amy holds her hand up as if giving an oath. "He liked to play poker with the miners."
But Lindsay's not even paying attention to the girl. She hasn't taken her eyes away from the window. I walk up beside her. "What's wrong?"
She points down at the street. "He followed us."
He's not hard to spot. In his black T-shirt, low-slung jeans, and silver studded belt, he looks completely out of place among the tourists and the burros.
It's Ben. Lindsay's boyfriend has just become her stalker.
20
How did he know we were here?"
Lindsay turns defensive. "How should I know?"
"Who?" Amy asks.
"Her ex-boyfriend." I turn back to Lindsay. "You told him, didn't you?"
"No."
"Lindsay!"
"Okay, I told him we were on 66. But I never said where."
She didn't have to. Oatman's one of those can't-miss spots on this route. There's one road in and one road out. The fact that he's here isn't so surprising, but his timing is darn near miraculous.
I pinch my forehead. "When did you call him?"
"I didn't."
"But you just said—"
"She texted him." Amy interrupts, her tone asking What century are you from?
Lindsay frowns at Amy. Amy shrugs. I grab Lindsay's wrist and pull her toward the door. "We've got to get out of here."
"Why?" Amy asks. "Is he dangerous?"
"Yes," I say.
"No," Lindsay says.
I glare at her. The bruise around her eye has mostly faded, and what's left of it she's covered with makeup. Maybe no one else can see it, but I know it's there. I remember what it looked like when I first saw her. And whether she admits it or not, I'm convinced Ben gave it to her. And now he's followed her into the desert.
"We're not taking any chances," I say to her. "Amy, will you help us?"
Apparently, this level of intrigue doesn't come through Oatman very often. The girl's eyes are practically snapping with excitement. "Of course. What do you want me to do?"
"Distract him and give us time to get to our car."
"You got it. Where are you parked?"
Lindsay shakes her head. "This is so stupid."
I shush her and answer Amy. "Across the street."
She leads us back down the stairs, then motions for us to stop. "You should go out through the kitchen," she says in the loudest whisper I've ever heard. "Go around the building and wait 'til I lure him inside. Then you can run to your car."
"Lure him how?" Lindsay asks.
She shrugs. "I'll think of something."
After a quick thank-you hug, Lindsay and I go the way Amy pointed. The cook staff doesn't seem bothered that strangers are running past the fryers and grill tops. Once we get outside, we run up to the corner of the building and come to an abrupt stop. Ben is walking across the street, heading straight for the hotel.
My heart pounds in my chest. It's like being in the middle of a made-for-TV movie . . . a down-on-her-luck novelist risks everything to save her sister from the maniacal exboyfriend who won't let her go. The ex-boyfriend who at this very moment has a burro nibbling at his back pocket. I have to admit, right now, Ben looks more confused than crazed. Behind me, Lindsay laughs, and Ben looks in our direction.
I hold my breath. Does he see us? He squints. Is the sun in his eyes? We need some help here, God.
Amy dashes outside, her hands cupped around her mouth, and yells, "Free beer for the next two minutes!"
Several people follow her straight into the restaurant, including Ben. From inside, I hear a woman bellow, "Amy! Have you lost your mind?" God does indeed work in strange and mysterious ways.
"Come on."
I run across the street. Lindsay walks behind me. I'm elated. What an adrenaline rush. In
a game of cat and mouse, we are victorious!
I should have spent a little less time reveling in our victory, and a little more time looking where I was going. The next thing I know, my foot slides out from under me as it connects with a little burro present in the road. I hit the pavement hard, knocking the air from my lungs with a whoosh.
Lindsay looks down at me, hands on her hips. "Didn't I tell you to watch your step?"
"Very funny."
Watchful of where I put my hands, I push myself off the ground. But one step forward tells me I'm not going very far. As soon as I put weight on my right foot, a pain shoots through my ankle and I almost go down again.
Lindsay grabs my arm and helps me to the car. I move toward the driver's side, but she drags me forward. "Oh, no. Let me drive for a change."
I want to argue with her, but I have no good reason. After all, she's pregnant, not incapacitated. "Okay." A moment later, we're speeding out of Oatman and heading down the hairpin curves of 66.
Whether it's the speed of the turns or the smell emanating from the bottom of my shoe that makes my stomach lurch, I don't know. But Lindsay is having the time of her life. The convertible top is down, and her hair whips around her face like a glorious red and yellow flag. "Born to Be Wild" comes on the radio, and for a heart-stopping second she removes her hand from the steering wheel to turn it up.
"Sing with me, Nat!" She yells over the music, then breaks into full-throated song.
This is just the right song for her. Perhaps she was born to be wild, or maybe she's grown into her wildness. In any case, there's a sense of abandon about Lindsay that I've never had. All my life, I've wanted to please people. Lindsay just wants to please herself. Somewhere, between the two of us, a happy balance exists. But for now, I'll humor her and try to embrace my inner wild child.
I open my mouth and sing.
21
The Mor Road Page 8
