Traveling Light

by Lynne Branard

  Clifford walked over to where I stood and then led me closer to the examination table. He took one of my hands and placed it on Joe’s chest and held it there.

  When I felt the beating of his heart I looked up and saw Clifford had closed his eyes, praying, I suppose; and I was flooded with a sense of relief or peace or hope, which at that moment were all one and the same. And for that glorious moment I felt as if I had landed right smack in the presence of the divine and I was grateful, so grateful, that Father Clifford had turned away from the church and obeyed his call.

  “Let me put on some clothes,” I say now to Casserole, who has hobbled over to the door to wait. And I’m hurrying because I know that my pet is considerate and has waited until the very last minute before waking me. I also know that even though he is very smart about understanding exactly how much time he has before he loses control, he hasn’t been in Tennessee long enough to take certain things into consideration, like how many steps he has to negotiate before making it to the grassy area or how many other dogs may be sharing the space with him.

  “Okay, okay.” I scoop him up and run down the stairs, because we have both learned to accept that sometimes speed just makes more sense than independence. I get him to the designated pet area, glad to find that we are all alone. We sigh our relief together.

  A box of plastic bags is stationed at the gate and I walk over to get one. I yank it out and glance around, taking in my surroundings now that the sun is bright and shining, remembering that our arrival to this Tennessee mountain town happened in the dark and I had not really seen how close we were to the highway and how many cars were coming and going near us.

  I clean up behind Casserole and watch as he walks around the small containment, taking in the smells of the others who have been here, accumulating important information that I do not understand, more than likely the sizes, ages, and home habitats of all the dogs that have walked along the perimeter.

  “You don’t really need to keep notes about this place,” I tell him, heading back over to throw the bag in the trash. “I doubt we’ll be coming here again,” I add.

  And he looks over at me, acknowledging my remark but clearly disagreeing with my opinion, as he continues to check every blade of grass for some significant detail I surely cannot comprehend.

  “You’re up earlier than I thought,” comes a familiar voice from behind us.

  Casserole glances up, wags his tail as if he was expecting this slight intrusion, and turns around to survey the part of the containment he has not examined.

  “You brought your dog,” she says without judgment. “You should have told me last night and I’d have given you a few scraps to bring him.”

  I look back and feel my surprise turn to a vague kind of interest.

  “I always keep a box of leftovers in the kitchen for the truckers who have dogs. It’s a violation of the health codes, but I hide it pretty good, so I don’t think the inspectors will find it.”

  She is standing near the gate and I cannot imagine how she got there without me seeing her.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” she replies and comes in through the gate and closes it behind her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just hanging out,” she answers.

  “Okay,” I say, thinking that it seems quite odd to find my waitress from last night greeting me so early this morning.

  “You sleep good?”

  “Fine,” I reply. “You?” This is such an odd conversation.

  She nods and pauses, drops the bag she has hanging on her arm. “So, here’s the thing,” Blossom says, and I wait. “I like you; I feel like maybe we might have known each other in another time, maybe, another life.”

  I realize that she’s saying she feels connected to me, but I don’t quite know what to say; so I just smile and nod.

  “I thought I might ride with you to Texas if you don’t mind.” And she drops to her haunches. “I can drive and I’ll even help pay for gas.”

  I open my mouth and then close it. I cannot find the words to respond.

  “I’m not crazy, in case you’re worried.”

  And I do it again. I open my mouth and then close it. Even Casserole seems confused at my response.

  “I thought it would be fun. I’m not bad company.”

  Open. Close.

  And she holds out her hands and my dog walks over. He’s immediately smitten and Blossom scratches him behind his ears and she turns to me and smiles as if she’s saying that since my dog approves I will as well.

  And I must admit I’m shaken. Sharing the trip with some waitress from a Tennessee diner was the farthest thing from my mind.

  chapter seven

  “WOW. . . okay . . . good morning,” I say, stuttering my way through a greeting. I walk over in her direction.

  “What’s your pal’s name?” she asks and she’s really giving him a good scratch.

  I glance over. “Casserole,” I say and then wait for the usual comment of surprise. Oh, what a weird name, or How did you come up with something like that?

  And just as I’m getting ready to explain, she interrupts.

  “Cool,” she answers—not at all the reply I expected. She holds his snout with both hands and gives him a kiss on the nose.

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Cass,” she calls, using the nickname I gave him; and my dog rolls over on his back.

  I watch as she scratches his belly, exactly the way Casserole likes it. He raises his chin, asking for more, and then closes his eyes, clearly enjoying the unwarranted attention. Blossom feels around his body, lightly, carefully, gently touching the stump, and then, apparently satisfied and finished, stands back up and wipes off the front and then the back of her legs.

  She is wearing jean shorts and a flimsy T-shirt, old sneakers, and quite a lot of turquoise jewelry—bracelets, earrings, a choker, and even a thin chain made from blue stones wrapped around her ankle. Her hair is long and brown. It was in a ponytail last night, but this morning it’s down and pushed behind her ears.

  “I need a change,” she tells me. “And after last night, after meeting you, I felt, I don’t know, connected or like it was meant to be or something, and I thought, what the hey, you’re going west, you’re alone.” She pauses and glances back down at Casserole. “Well, I mean alone as in without people company.”

  She grins, but it doesn’t matter because clearly my dog is not offended.

  “And so I just decided to show up this morning to see if I could catch you before you headed out.”

  I look around the parking lot. Maybe I’ll recognize something that will help to explain this young woman’s arrival. But I see nothing that offers any explanation. “How did you get here?” I ask.

  “Walked,” she answers, motioning in the direction behind the hotel. “I do that anyway when I come to work. It’s about six miles to my grandma’s.”

  “Did you walk last night?” And for some reason I suddenly feel very concerned for her safety.

  She shakes her head. “Booker T, the cook, he drove me home.”

  I bite my lip. I’m still looking for a clue that will help me to understand this strange twist in my plans to get to New Mexico.

  “I don’t smoke or anything,” she says, as if this might be my biggest concern, as if she’s applying for a job and understands my hesitation, can see my need for proof that she will be a good hire.

  “Why do you want to go to Texas?” I ask finally, trying to organize the facts and figure out this story. I’m a journalist, after all.

  She shrugs. “My dad.”

  I wait because I don’t know what this means.

  “He lives in Amarillo. He’s a carpenter, builds houses and things. Last year he got his electrician’s license, so he does some of that. He helps out on ranches, too.”
>
  I nod, thinking for some reason that I ought to be writing this down.

  “He moved out there when I was twelve, but we’re still close.” She smooths down her hair and sticks her hands in her back pockets. “My mom took off when I was four and he raised me for a while, but then let his mama take care of me while he tried to get a job. Turns out he can make more money in Texas.”

  “Why didn’t you go with him?”

  “Grandma was sick for about a year after he left, and I had this boyfriend.” She lifts her shoulders and then lets them drop. “You know how that can be.”

  I raise my eyebrows, although my expression doesn’t really give anything away. I recall the pregnancy she mentioned and wonder if it’s the same relationship, but I decide not to pry; besides, I’m still trying to figure out what I’m going to do with Blossom and her request to join me on my road trip.

  “Anyway, she’s better—even got married six months ago to this trucker I introduced her to.” She shakes her head. “Did not see that coming,” she says, and she laughs. “So, I feel a little like a third wheel, and since Dillon and I broke up after the miscarriage . . . I don’t know.” She takes her hands out of her pockets and raises them up as if she is going to catch something thrown her way. “So I figure now’s as good a time as any to make my break. I’ve been thinking about it for a few weeks and then last night I met you and it just felt right.”

  I continue to nod, without quite realizing that I’m doing it. And it’s not my I agree with you nod; it’s my I am trying to take all this in nod. Except that Blossom certainly doesn’t know the difference. As far as she’s concerned, my acknowledgment of what she’s telling me is a clear sign that this is going to work out great.

  “So, I’ll go get us some breakfast if you want, something to eat on the way.” She pauses for a second. “Or would you rather go in and sit down?” She’s peering over at the diner. “I need to pop over and tell Donny I’m quitting.”

  I’m still nodding away.

  “The French toast is always good, but so are the egg sandwiches if you just want me to get you something to go.”

  By now I’ve crossed my arms over my chest. Even Casserole seems a little put off by my mixed signals.

  “You want me to grab him some bacon?”

  He stares at me now like he suddenly approves of what’s going on.

  “No bacon,” I finally answer and I give Cass my best disciplinarian look. “Pork makes you gassy,” I tell him.

  “A little steak, then?” The young waitress shrugs, trying not to cause trouble. “You drink coffee?”

  It’s past time for me to assert a little authority.

  “How old are you, Blossom?” I ask.

  I rely upon facts. I live my life based upon facts. I don’t feel like we’re meant to be together. I feel like I need some facts.

  “Seventeen,” she says, surprising me even more than I am already surprised by this entire morning’s encounter.

  “Seventeen!” Now my nod is a turning from side to side. “Does your grandmother even know you’re leaving? Shouldn’t you be in school or planning to take classes somewhere?”

  Blossom stifles a laugh. “I graduated from high school three weeks ago,” she reports. “I started school early, when I was five; and I finished on time even though I missed a lot of classes when I left with the hippies last year and then after the miscarriage when I went and stayed awhile with Dad in Amarillo. I’ve thought about nursing school or even going through the management training that Donny offered me.”

  I wait.

  “But Grandma is fine; Dillon and I are still not together. I don’t really like blood. And I don’t want to spend my life closing up the restaurant. So I feel limited by my job options. It just seems like it’s the right time to go,” she says in conclusion. “I turn eighteen in a month.”

  I nod again. Only this time it’s not quite so ambivalent. Still, I can’t say for sure exactly what it means. Or how I feel about things. At least I know I’m hungry.

  “Okay, yes to the coffee and the egg sandwich.” I glance over at Casserole, who has started panting a little.

  “And the steak?” Blossom asks.

  “And the steak,” I answer; and my dog closes his eyes and raises his chin. No ambivalence there. He is suddenly and most certainly pleased with the way this trip is going.

  chapter eight

  ALONG with a box of ashes of a man I know nothing about, I’m now driving to New Mexico with a teenager who has seen a lot more of the world than I have and clearly loves the art of conversation.

  That’s a nice way of saying she talks a lot.

  I’ve told her about Roger Hart and the funeral home in the small town of Grants, how I happened upon his remains, and how I feel destined to return him to his western home. I’ve shared information about my job at the paper, my mother’s cancer, and why I don’t like my food touching on a plate. I wouldn’t have delved into that part, but she called attention to it at lunch when I asked for the stewed apples to be in a separate bowl from the hamburger and after I placed the fries on a napkin. She, on the other hand, stirred her green beans into her black-eyed peas, cut up her country-fried steak into little pieces and threw them in, and then spooned the whole mess onto a biscuit, adding salt, pepper, and hot sauce.

  If Blossom’s life is anything like her lunch, she leans more naturally in the direction of chaos.

  “So, Al, what’s up with that name?”

  And this from a girl named Blossom. The question doesn’t throw me, though. I’m used to it.

  We took our time getting to Knoxville and now have a couple of hours before we get to Nashville. We both agreed it was better not to use the air conditioner and have all the windows rolled down.

  Casserole has his nose in the air, taking in the mountain aromas from his spot in the backseat.

  I have to yell so that she can hear me. “It’s Alissa, actually. Alissa Kate. Al came from my dad.”

  “And Alissa Kate?”

  “A friend of my mother,” I tell her.

  “First and middle?”

  “Just middle,” I reply. I lean my head against the seat and think about the woman with the long red hair who visited us so often before my mother was sick. They had been childhood friends, grew up together, and I knew her as Aunt Kate, while she took to calling me Katydid, what we named the bush crickets in North Carolina. Daddy always seemed angry when she was staying with us, acted jealous or put out, something I never quite understood; and after Mama died, I never saw her again. She wrote me cards for a while, ones she made with pictures of butterflies and streams of water. She promised that she would always love me, that I was a special girl; but I never heard from her again.

  “And Alissa?” Blossom apparently thinks our names define us or at least open some door to understanding who we are. I suppose she’s just trying to get to know me.

  I shake my head as I merge into the left lane to pass a motor home. It’s a big bus, shiny and new, pulling a Hummer behind it. Somebody obviously spent a lot of money to take their house with them.

  “Don’t know,” I answer. “Guess my parents just liked it. Mama called me Alley Cat. Now it’s just Al.”

  I remember my mother’s voice, the way she would softly sing my name in the mornings to wake me, or yell it from the kitchen window when I was playing in the backyard, calling me in for supper.

  She was the only person in the world who could make Alley Cat out of Alissa Kate; but she always had a way of pulling something unexpected from what everyone else would have considered mundane. A song, a dance, a name, she could make magic out of anything. And talking to my passenger reminds me that I haven’t been called Alley Cat since my mother died. I doubt anyone even knows that was how I started every day.

  “My mama named me, too,” Blossom explains. “My grandmother says she told he
r that when I was born I looked just like a flower, bright and red faced.” She slides her feet out of her shoes. “I didn’t really like it when I was little; but I guess it could have been worse.”

  I wait, wondering what she thinks is worse than what she got.

  This girl is a mind reader. “Poppy,” she says with a grin.

  Not what I was thinking of; but I have to agree. It seems to me that would have been a lot worse.

  “She could have gone with Rose,” I say. “That’s not bad for a red flower.”

  Blossom shrugs and places her feet on the dashboard. “I was never that refined,” she responds. “Roses are too cultivated, high maintenance. Even though it seems Mama wasn’t really cut out for the whole domestic life, she knew enough about her baby to see that I was too wild to be named for a garden flower.”

  “So she called you Blossom.”

  “That’s what’s written on the birth certificate.” She folds her arms across her waist and lifts her chin up, just like Casserole. I wonder if she’s sniffing the air, too.

  “When I was little I used to think it was because of me that she left. You know, because I was bad or a lot of trouble. I used to think she hated me, hated being my mother, even hated the thought that I had been born.”

  I don’t look over. I keep my eyes right straight ahead as I signal and pull back into the right lane.

  “But Grandma told me once that she called me Blossom out of her love for me and that she had to have been thinking about me and hoping for me or she wouldn’t have given me such a beautiful name.”

  Now I turn to glance at her. She has her eyes closed, but she seems peaceful. And she doesn’t add anything else.

  I think about a mother leaving her daughter when she’s not even yet five, how that departure must be wrestled with and misunderstood and calculated, analyzed over and over, year after year. I think about my own loss and how my mama left, too, even though it was because she died; it wasn’t her fault. And I remember how I try not to blame myself every day I have lived without her.