"Can I take your order?"
If Lindsay meant to humble herself and say anything apologetic, the moment is gone now. We order. After the waitress leaves, we chitchat about how nice the weather is today. When that topic runs dry in about a minute, I pick up a card from the table.
"Hey, this explains the big guy in the parking lot. Originally, this place was called The Lumberjack Café, and there were two even bigger lumberjacks outside. The Zanzucchi family bought it back in 1974 and renamed it after Granny Ermalinda Zanzucchi."
"What happened to the other two statues?" The fact that she admits to being interested proves she must be as desperate for something to talk about as I am.
I skim the card and paraphrase it. "The family donated them to Northern Arizona University. They're still there, one inside the Skydome and one outside."
"So Little Louie is a replacement?"
"Um hm."
"Why do they call him Louie?"
I flip the card over, then shrug. "I have no idea. It doesn't say."
It's a relief when the food arrives and we can turn our attention to eating. The portions are large, which is a blessing, because the longer we eat, the less I have to talk.
It's a pleasant meal, and when we walk back out to the car, I'm encouraged. She may not have told me she's sorry, but at least my sister is being civil again.
"Hey, Nat."
I turn around to see Lindsay standing next to Little Louie. I cock my head, wondering what she's got in mind.
She shrugs. "Since we're here, you might as well pull out that camera of yours."
It's impossible to hide my surprise. "Seriously?"
"Sure. It'd be a shame to miss a giant lumberjack."
As I dig through my purse for the camera, it feels like a thousand little pins are pricking my nose.
I guess I got my apology, after all.
26
Wake up. We're here."
I open my eyes and slowly raise my head from the uncomfortable position I was in. When Lindsay offered to drive back in Flagstaff, I'd been more than a little surprised, but grateful. Sleep must have come soon after we hit the road because I don't remember most of the trip. "Where is here?"
"The Wigwam Village in Holbrook, Arizona."
"You want to stay here?"
"Yes, I do."
She sounds so proud of herself, I don't dare tell her I was hoping to cross into New Mexico tonight.
We go into the office. I'm still groggy from my unplanned nap, so Lindsay walks up to the front desk and takes charge. "We'd like a wigwam, please."
The man behind the counter smiles. "Let me see what we have." He clicks around on the computer, then looks back at Lindsay. "You're in luck. We have one wigwam available. It only has one bed, though. A double. Is that all right?"
"Sure. My sister and I can share."
Since when? I'm not sure how to take this new side of Lindsay. It's like I woke up in an alternate reality, one where she's happy to take care of me for a change.
"Wonderful." The clerk holds out his hand. "I just need to see your ID and a credit card."
Lindsay looks at me, turning her head fast enough to give herself whiplash. Ah, now that money is a factor, everything's back to normal.
After registering us, the man hands me the key. "It's the third wigwam from the right. If you need anything at all, just let me know."
There are about fifteen concrete wigwams forming a semi-circle behind the office. We walk into ours and Lindsay immediately laughs. "This is so cool."
It's definitely different. While the outside of the wigwam is curved, the inside is made up of flat panels slanted to create a roundish room. The walls go straight up, then angle in toward the middle. But rather than continue up until they meet at a point, they meet a flat ceiling. Because of the shape, nothing along the perimeter is higher than four feet. The window, AC unit, light switches, all are the perfect height for an eight-year-old. Even so, the room doesn't feel cramped. Quite a feat, considering we're inside a giant cone with the top cut off and closed over. But there is a dilemma.
I point at the bed. "Do you want the side closer to the air conditioner or the bathroom?"
Lindsay twists her mouth as she debates. Finally, she drops her purse on the side of her choice. "Air conditioner."
I sit on my side of the bed. "How did you find this place?"
"I saw a sign on the road that said 'Sleep in a Wigwam.' It sounded like fun."
Lindsay's new attitude makes me rethink my decision to stay off 66. If she's starting to enjoy the adventure of our journey, maybe we should see more of the Mother Road after all. I'm about to ask her when the strains of "Love Stinks" play out from my purse. It's the third time Tony's called since we left California. I didn't answer any of those times, and I don't intend to answer now.
"You can't ignore him forever," Lindsay says.
She's right, but is one night of peace too much to ask for? Since she and I aren't fighting right now, the last thing I want to do is get all riled up talking to Tony. On the other hand, I can only handle one conflict at a time. This might be the perfect time to talk to him.
I dive for the purse and answer the call before it can go to voicemail. "Hello."
"It's about time you answered." No doubt about it. He's angry.
"What do you want?"
"I want to know why you're contesting the divorce."
"Because you're trying to sell my home."
"No, I'm trying to sell the house we bought together so we can split the money equally. It's a simple financial decision."
He is so lucky Lindsay's sitting on the other side of the mattress, because that's the only reason I don't tell him exactly what I'm thinking. "There is nothing simple about this," I say slowly. "You have no right to make me sell my home. You're the one who asked for the divorce, not me."
Either there's no one within earshot of him, or he just doesn't care, because he doesn't censor any of his thoughts about the situation.
"Is that language really necessary?" I ask.
Now Lindsay leans over, putting her mouth close to the phone. "Is that jerk bothering you? Do you want me to talk to him?"
"Who's that?"
The demanding tone in his voice grates on me. He has no right to demand anything from me. Not anymore. "It's my sister. Not that it's any of your business."
"What are you doing with her?" He pauses, as if processing this amazing news. "Where are you?"
"In Hollbrook, Arizona."
"Arizona? What are you doing there?"
"We're driving to Illinois to see our parents."
"Why are you driving? Why didn't you just fly?"
"She didn't want to fly."
"Why not?"
"Because she's pregnant."
I hear the quick release of breath on the other end of the phone. "Oh." Then a pause before he continues. "I didn't know she was married."
Something snaps in my brain. How can he say something so stupid? "She's not. But it's not a requirement for conception, is it? You know, maybe that's what you and I were doing wrong all those years. Maybe if we'd skipped getting married and just shacked up, we would have had a herd of children."
The bed shakes as Lindsay gets up and hurries into the bathroom. She slams the door behind her, and I realize what a big mistake I just made. And it's all Tony's fault.
"Look," I tell him, "I don't want to talk to you about this anymore. From now on, if you have anything to say to me, you can do it through my lawyer."
Without waiting for an answer, I end the call and turn the phone off. Then I step to the bathroom door and knock on it gently.
"Lindsay?"
"What?" The way she fires off that one syllable communicates volumes.
"I'm sorry for what I said. Tony made me so angry that I kind of lost my mind. I didn't mean to insult you." I press my palm and the side of my face against the door, trying to hear through the wood, to make out words she's not saying. "Lindsay?"
The doorknob jiggles and I back away right before she pulls the door open. I was all ready for her to be harsh and angry. I'm used to dealing with that. But what I see now throws me. Her face is wet from tears. Her nose and eyes are red. Her lips downturned. I have no idea how to respond to this broken, fragile version of my sister.
"You must hate me." Her words come out in a heartbreaking whisper.
"Hate you? Why would you say that?"
"Because every time you look at me, you must think about Tony, and what he did." Her nose starts to run so she reaches behind her, yanks a length of toilet paper from the roll, and blows into it. "And you must wonder why someone like me got pregnant when you couldn't."
She needs affirmation, and she's looking for me to give it to her. I should tell her that all I've ever seen when I look at her is a beautiful woman carrying the gift of life. But that would be a lie, and there's been enough of that lately. "You're right, I did feel that way at first. But I don't anymore."
"You don't?"
"I don't. Do you know when it changed?"
She shakes her head.
"Back in Oatman, when you washed off that little girl's carrot. It made me think about how you'd be with your own daughter. With my niece."
"Or nephew."
"Or nephew," I say with a laugh. "And it made me happy."
Tears dribble from her eyes, but at least now she's smiling. I step into the tiny space and wrap my arms around her.
"I love you. Even if you are a brat sometimes."
She laughs and returns the gesture. Then, as we stand in the bathroom of a concrete wigwam with our arms around each other and our stomachs pressed together, her baby makes a statement of its own.
"Yowza!" I jump back, looking down at her baby bump. "Did you feel that?"
"Of course I did," she says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'm surprised you did, though."
"One thing's for sure. She's got her mother's spunk."
She puts her hand against her stomach. "And his father's sense of rhythm. I think he's dancing a mambo in there."
Interesting how I keep referring to the baby as a girl, and she's convinced it's a boy. I don't want to ruin our sisterly moment by voicing my opinion of Ben, but regardless of what sex it is, I sure hope rhythm is the only thing this little baby inherits from its father.
27
The next morning I wake to find Lindsay already dressed and sitting at the tiny table across from the bed. She chews on a pen as she stares at the maps and travel guides spread out in front of her.
"What are you doing?" I ask, rubbing the sleep-sand from my eyes.
She talks around the end of the Bic. "Trying to figure out the best way to get from here to there."
I sit up and roll my shoulders back, stretching my neck at the same time. "You keep looking. I need a shower."
After I'm done in the bathroom and feeling somewhat human again, I join Lindsay in looking over the maps. While much of Route 66 runs parallel to major interstates, there are several places where it jigs and jags wildly to the north and south. We debate the pros and cons of each way. If we take the interstates, we'll reach our destination sooner, but we'll miss a lot of cool stuff. If we stick to 66, we'll see enough bizarre attractions to fill several memory cards, but it will take us at least a week longer to get to Mom and Dad's. In the end, we decide it's best to compromise: we'll stick to the interstates but take in as many of the Mother Road oddities as we can find along the way.
After we put our bags in the car, I tell Lindsay I want to take one more picture of her in front of the wigwam. A woman smoking a cigarette next to her own teepee overhears me.
"Here, let me take one of both of you." She takes one more drag on the cigarette, then balances it carefully on top of a wooden post.
I hand her the camera and pose next to Lindsay, who immediately puts her arm around my waist. No rabbit ears this time. Just a sideways hug, a tilt of her head toward me, and a wave of her free hand to the camera.
"Thanks," I tell the woman.
"No problem." She retrieves the still-smoldering cigarette and holds it between the sides of two fingers. "You two sisters?"
We both nod, then the lady nods back.
"I could tell. You have the same smile. Have a nice day, now."
So far, we are having the perfect day. It couldn't be better if I plotted it out myself. Mostly, I'm happy, but a tiny part of me, a little slice of my brain, is wary. Yes, Lindsay and I had a breakthrough last night. We connected as sisters in a way we never have before. But I can't help wondering how long our newfound camaraderie will last. How long will it be before I say the wrong thing, look at her the wrong way, and she goes ballistic?
The woman walks away. Lindsay heads for the car. "Do you want me to drive first?"
"Do you want to drive first?" I don't know why I'm questioning her. There wasn't a note of sarcasm in her voice. No reason for me to expect a hidden meaning or agenda. But I do it out of habit.
Calm down, I tell myself. Don't look for trouble where there isn't any.
"Yeah. That would be great."
We get in the car, fasten our seat belts, and drive down the road. Our adventure continues.
It's probably the best day I've ever had with my sister. We take turns driving. We listen to each other's music on the radio and find common ground in artists like Michael Bublé and Bono. We crack jokes about the kitschy souvenirs we've found, but at every opportunity we buy more of them than we should. We have T-shirts, bumper stickers, refrigerator magnets, bottle openers, shot glasses, even a bamboo back scratcher that I plan to give to Jade. And we shoot lots of video. By the time we arrive at Tucumcari, New Mexico, I'm ready to settle in for the night.
After we check into the Blue Swallow Hotel, we go back outside to explore the town. The sun has disappeared and neon lights blaze on the main strip. There are so many illuminated signs, I don't know where to look first. It's like a mini-Las Vegas, only cleaner and with no casinos.
"What do you feel like eating?" I ask Lindsay.
"I don't know." She's got the camera again, and she seems intent on capturing every shiny thing in sight. "To tell you the truth, I'm not really hungry yet."
"Okay. Let's just walk until something grabs our attention."
Lindsay's not the only camera-toting tourist in Tucumcari. The sidewalks are full of people doing the same thing she is. As we stroll along, we come across a group of Asian collegeage girls. They're taking turns recording one another in front of different buildings, but no matter how they run around and reorganize, one of them is always left out, stuck in the role of photographer.
I walk up behind the girl currently holding the camera and tap her on the shoulder. "Excuse me. Would you like me to take a picture of all of you together?"
She glances over her shoulder looking confused. I repeat myself, this time using exaggerated hand motions. Her friends all start talking at once, their language short and clipped. I don't understand a word they're saying, but from the way they smile and point at me, I gather they understand my offer and are happy about it.
Grinning now, the gal hands me the camera. "Thank you," she says deliberately. Then she runs to join her friends. They huddle close to one another, waving and mugging for the video.
A minute later, amid a chorus of thank yous, they continue on down the street. When I turn to Lindsay, she's got her camera trained on me.
"Did you record all that?" I point toward the departing students.
"Yes, I did. It was a very nice cultural exchange." She lowers the camera and hands it to me. "Mom and Dad will be so proud."
If Mom even remembers me. The last time I saw her was Christmas three years back. Her memory was already getting sketchy then. She stayed home when Dad drove Tony and me to the airport. When Dad hugged me and said, "Come back soon, Sugar Plum," it was all I could do not to cry. Because I couldn't bear to see my mother slip away, piece by piece. I knew I wouldn't be back for a while.
&nb
sp; Lindsay and I continue walking. "When was the last time you saw them?" I ask.
She blows out a breath and bites her lip. "Right after I left college. So that was, what . . ."
I do the mental math with her. Lindsay attended Illinois State for two years before she decided college wasn't right for her and dropped out.
"Five years ago," we say together.
"How was Mom then?" I ask.
"Not terrible. But I could see where it was going."
So we both chose to avoid our mother rather than face the pain of seeing her mind deteriorate. It's something else we have in common, and I can tell she isn't any prouder of it than I am.
The flashing sign of a Mexican restaurant catches my eye. I grab Lindsay's arm, pull her to a stop, and point across the street. "What do you think?"
"I think it's a great idea." She puts her hand on her side. "So does junior."
Good. The more we eat, the less we have to talk. If we're lucky, we can put off the topic of Mom and how to deal with her a little while longer.
28
Because of the way the highway is laid out, we are able to cover four states in the next three days. From New Mexico, we cut across the chimney top of Texas, through the pot of Oklahoma, over the most southeasterly tip of Kansas, and head up through Missouri on a diagonal. Lindsay and I have spent a lot of time eating, laughing, singing, and talking, and we've managed to sidestep topics too deep or too personal. She doesn't talk about Ben, I don't talk about Tony, and neither one of us mentions our parents. It's a strategy that works well. At least it did until my phone rings and Dad is on the other end.
"Hi, Dad."
"Hey, Sugar Plum." His voice booms. "How are my road warriors doing?"
"We're great. Hold on a second." I turn down the radio and hit a button on the front of the phone. "I put you on speaker. Now you can talk to both of us."
"Wonderful. Lindy Lou! Are you there?"
I'd forgotten about his old nickname. It makes her sound like a Dr. Seuss character. As I hold back my laughter, she squeezes the steering wheel harder and shakes her head.
The Mor Road Page 11
