Traveling Light

by Lynne Branard

  “But your dad sounded okay?”

  I think again about the call. He sounded like himself, only, I don’t know, cheerful, I think. And Oscar Wells may be described in many ways, but never cheerful. I should probably be happy about this, but it doesn’t feel pleasant to me. I’m a little concerned, actually.

  “Well, maybe we should just bag the museum idea,” Blossom says, surprising me.

  We both listen to the rain on the roof of the car and watch the wind kicking up in front of us.

  “Besides, I got a couple of great pictures of Roger with the security guys. I think he’s probably fine with that being our Little Rock adventure.”

  And I turn and watch as she takes a big slurp of milk shake and then holds the cup out for Casserole to finish it off. I don’t even want to know about how or when she got those photographs. I gladly crank Faramond and point us in the direction of the interstate, getting us safely, and without incident, out of town.

  chapter twenty-four

  FORT Smith is about one hundred and sixty miles from Little Rock. It took us about three hours to get here. With the weather and interstate construction, our afternoon and evening travel was slow; but we made it, and it’s another night in a busy highway motel.

  Blossom wanted to stop in Clarksville, just south of the Ozark National Forest; but I was heading west and moving as fast as I could away from the capital of Arkansas. If it had been up to me, I would have crossed the state border and spent the night in Oklahoma; but Blossom wanted to spend some time in the city that boasted to be “where the New South meets the Old West.” Plus she was charmed by the notion that the city’s visitor center was a former bordello and thought we would somehow miss out if we didn’t stop at Miss Laura’s Social Club and pick up a few brochures and take another picture of Roger. The center was closed by the time we arrived, so I promised her we could check it out tomorrow and we picked our place for dinner and found another pet-friendly resting spot and we have checked in for the night.

  There was a mall on our way to the motel and Blossom wanted to shop; so once we ate our dinner and arrived at the motel, I handed over the keys to the car, allowing her to drive back to the shopping center. Me, I’m going to make up with Casserole and hopefully return to his good graces. I told Blossom that a quiet evening would give me time to do a more thorough search for Mr. Roger Hart from Grants, New Mexico, even though I’m sure she saw right through me and knows that’s not really who I plan to thoroughly search for.

  I did finally ask her why she suddenly lost interest in my making contact with my old heartthrob and she just said that she didn’t know for certain that Phillip was exactly who I might think he was. When pushed for more, she clammed up again, promptly denying that there was any clear reason for her sudden lack of enthusiasm, saying rather it was simply a feeling she had after seeing some of the pictures he had posted online. She didn’t so much warn me to stay away from Phillip as she just thought it might be a good idea to check out some of the other guys who had friended me on Facebook. She even questioned me about my friendship with Ben from work.

  He has sent me more than a few messages, and she thinks this activity has some deeper meaning, but I know it’s just Ben needing help with his inserts and copy. All of his timeline posts and instant messaging are more reasons why I don’t have a presence on social media. The man has worked for the paper for a decade and still doesn’t know how to file a story or manage the cold type. He’s a good guy; but like the others at the Times and News, he needs a lot of handholding.

  “There’s a good shot of you on here,” I tell Casserole after I open up my laptop and get online. Blossom has posted a picture of my dog sitting next to a state trooper, taken once we were finally released from the mansion. I think I remember her asking the officer for a quick shot, but I was certainly not posing for any photographs; I was trying to get in the car and get out of there as quickly as I could. “You look all innocent, but I think they were on to you.”

  Casserole stands to check out what I am doing, yawns, and drops back down. He curls up on his stack of blankets, turning his back on me.

  “Yeah, you pretend you like Blossom more than me, but just remember who took you in nine years ago when you showed up at my door so pitiful and needy. She might give you vanilla ice cream, but I’ve cleaned your poop.”

  I hear him make a kind of snorting noise and I know he understands exactly what I’m saying. I scroll through the photographs Blossom has posted. And what do you know? She did meet the governor of Arkansas! I click on and enlarge the picture and there she is right next to the man.

  I guess at some point while I was sitting under guard in the locked room after they took her out to call her father, she was escorted to a part of the mansion where the governor was waiting for his security detail. How she got someone to take the photograph is beyond me, since I know they confiscated both of our phones when they stormed the car; but there she is, standing next to the state leader with Roger and two police officers nearby and now it’s a post on her timeline.

  “Did you know about this?” I ask my dog, turning the screen around to him, showing him the picture; but he doesn’t look and he refuses to say anything incriminating about his new best friend.

  I choose not to bear witness any longer to Blossom’s photographic journal of the day and click instead on Phillip’s page to check out his profile. There’s not a lot of detail; but he does have a few photo albums and over a thousand friends. I take a breath, and then, I don’t know, maybe it’s the secret thrill of almost being arrested, but I seem to have a bit more confidence than I did yesterday. I exhale and start typing.

  Made it to Fort Smith, I message him.

  I click send and wait, watching the cursor blink. It blinks and blinks. I get up and go to the bathroom for a glass of water and I come back. It’s still blinking.

  I’m just about to give up, thinking this is a truly bad idea and that I don’t really have jailhouse swagger because I would have cried like a little girl if I had been arrested and it doesn’t matter anyway because Phillip Blake is not sitting at his computer reading Facebook messages.

  Then: How far is that from West Memphis?

  He’s there.

  About three hundred miles, I type. I’m not exactly sure of the mileage, but that sounds about right.

  Did you stop anywhere?

  Little Rock, I answer, without further detail.

  I wait.

  Did you really see the governor?

  Blossom’s posts must have landed on my timeline. I have no idea what else she may have documented.

  No, just his house.

  A smiley face emerges.

  I read something you wrote, he adds.

  I’m not quite sure how to respond so I wait.

  From the paper, he explains. I found some of your stuff online.

  This makes me smile. Phillip is cyberstalking me.

  You’re a good reporter.

  I post a smiley face in return.

  I’m getting ready to go out. Want to talk tomorrow?

  I glance over at the clock. It’s not that late for him to be going out, and suddenly I wonder why I am thinking about what time he’s going out and whether or not it’s too late.

  Sure.

  You’ll be in Oklahoma City by then, I guess, he writes.

  At the rate we’ve been going, that’s correct. Probably.

  Okay, I’ll give you a call. You can tell me about Little Rock. Or maybe you’ll meet another governor.

  I definitely need to read my timeline.

  Okay.

  And just like that, Phillip is gone.

  I click over to my page and scroll down my timeline; but I don’t really see anything on my news feed about the governor’s mansion. I guess Blossom hasn’t posted it after all. There’s the picture of Casserole and there’s the selfie s
he took of us just before we saw the motorcade; but there’s no shot of her and the governor. I’m about to keep searching when suddenly there is a knock at the door.

  chapter twenty-five

  “JUST a second,” I call out.

  I check the clock on the nightstand—it’s just after eight o’clock—and then my appearance in the mirror on the dresser in front of the beds; it’s not great, but at least I still have on my clothes and haven’t started to get ready for bed.

  I run my fingers through my hair a bit, untangling some of the knots, and tuck my shirt in my shorts. I close the laptop and place it on the nightstand, smooth down the sheets on the bed, pick up the pillow I’ve tossed on the floor and put it back in its right location, and head to the door.

  Blossom must have misplaced her key or else she has her arms full with stuff from the car and needs help getting in. But why she hasn’t announced herself or started beating the door incessantly like she has done in the past, yelling lines from old television shows that she’s been watching while waiting for me to wake up, I don’t know. I wait, thinking the line is coming. She seems to like The Andy Griffith Show best, banging on the door talking about being Ernest T. Seconds pass and there’s nothing.

  I glance over at Casserole to see if he has a better idea of who is visiting us; but he’s not offering any assistance. He seems quite comfortable all curled up in the corner on his bed and clearly doesn’t smell danger.

  I stand at the door and peek through the tiny hole, just to make sure it’s my roommate. The image is distorted, the head looking a little like a giant balloon, but I can see that it isn’t my roommate after all. It’s a man, as best I can tell, a young one. He has long hair and I believe that’s an earring in his left lobe.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, my face smashed against the door.

  “Oh, hey,” he says, and he seems to know I’m peering at him through the peek hole.

  “Hey,” I reply, waiting for his answer.

  “I’m looking for Blossom,” the visitor announces. “Is this the right room?”

  I can see he’s pulling away and reading the room number posted on the door.

  I lean in even closer, squinting.

  “You work for the motel?” Maybe he’s maintenance or housekeeping bringing us more towels; but that doesn’t explain why he’s asking for Blossom, and, from what I can see, he isn’t wearing a uniform.

  “No,” he answers, without offering any more information.

  “Are you a police officer?” I ask. Maybe the finest of Little Rock has finally caught up with us. What if Blossom has an outstanding warrant? Or maybe after thinking about the two of us traveling together, the officers came to a decision that I’m a pervert who kidnapped a teenager and they drove all the way here to rescue her. I try to look around the balloon-headed man-boy to see if there’s a SWAT team waiting somewhere behind him.

  What might the police have dug up on me? There were some parking tickets I sort of let go unpaid when I was visiting South Carolina during a guild meeting last year. And there was some mix-up a couple of years ago over the stolen identity of a Mr. Albert Wells from Jacksonville, Florida, who kept calling me at the paper and accusing me of using his credit card and making all kinds of charges on the Internet. I thought we had cleared up that whole situation; but now if the police are digging into my records and are standing at my door, I’m not so sure.

  I try to remember where I put my phone and to decide who will get my one designated phone call once I am arrested. It’ll be either my father or Joe Creech, the DUI lawyer in Clayton, who is the only attorney I know.

  “What?” the stranger replies. He’s young, I can tell now, a teenager, not much older than Blossom; and he’s now trying to look at me through the peek hole, which obviously can’t be done. “Why would you think I’m a policeman—is she in trouble?”

  I see a giant eye staring back and it startles me, causing me to back away a bit.

  “No, not that I know of.” I wait and then lean back in a little more. “So, you’re not with the police?”

  He shakes his balloon head and I breathe somewhat easier. Although I probably should pay those parking tickets.

  “Well, is she there? Can she come out?”

  “Who are you?” I ask. “How do you know Blossom?”

  And then the balloon head turns away and I hear him talking to someone coming up the stairs. Casserole perks up now. It must be Blossom returning from shopping.

  “Is that her?” I ask my dog and he slowly stands, balances on his three legs, and stretches. I take that as a yes.

  When I open the door, I see that the young guy has moved away from our room and is standing near the stairs. I can see Blossom stopped on the top step and the two are speaking to each other.

  He’s thin, wearing a black T-shirt and an old pair of khaki shorts. He has on flip-flops and his stringy brown hair hangs down his back. It’s longer than mine but not quite as long as Blossom’s.

  I finally step all the way out of the room. Blossom is clearly focused on the guy and doesn’t appear to see me. She seems a little surprised but not afraid of the boy who is now talking to her.

  I clear my throat, but neither of them turns my way.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  She peeks around her visitor’s shoulders. “Yeah, it’s fine,” she answers, offering me a smile. She has two bags in her hands and appears at ease standing a few yards away from me with a strange young man waiting between us. “There was a sale,” she tells me.

  I nod. The boy hasn’t turned back around to face me, so I still don’t have a good visual on him.

  “I bought you a dress.”

  I glance at the bags in her hands. A dress? For me? I can’t think of the last time I wore a dress and I don’t ever remember having someone buy one for me. I must admit I’m pleasantly surprised.

  “I’ll be there in a minute and show it to you; I think you’ll like it and I hope I got the size right.”

  “Okay,” I say, still surprised by the declaration of her gift.

  “It’s yellow,” she adds.

  A yellow dress? I think. Well, that’s something.

  “I’ll be there in just a minute,” she informs me and smiles as if to say, You can go now; but I’m still not ready to step away. I’m still a little concerned about leaving her on the outside staircase with a boy I don’t know. Plus, curiosity has definitely got the best of me. When did Blossom meet a boy and give him our room number at a motel in Fort Smith that we just checked into?

  “You need me to wait out here for you?” I ask, hoping that she will at least make an introduction. “Or you want to come in the room and talk?” I’m holding the door open with my foot as I stand just outside. I can feel Casserole pushing against my leg, trying to get his own visual and, I don’t know, maybe another milk shake.

  “No, I think we’ll go to the lobby.”

  The boy now turns in my direction and he smiles. He sticks his hands in the back pockets of his shorts.

  I don’t respond.

  “Al, this is Dillon,” Blossom says, finally.

  Dillon. The old boyfriend from Newport, Tennessee. The father of her dead baby, the one she said was no longer in her life.

  I have no idea what to say.

  He holds up a hand, his greeting, and Blossom spins around on the stairs; and the two of them walk down the steps, as her bags bounce against her legs.

  chapter twenty-six

  THE yellow dress, sleeveless with tiny narrow straps, a tight bodice, and a knee-length, flowing skirt, is made with a floral print, covered with white flowers, small embroidered ones, and it’s flouncy and feminine. It reminds me of my recent dream of the garden of white flowers, so even though I own very few dresses, rarely wear them, and probably wouldn’t have even selected this one for myself, I have to admit I like it
.

  Blossom made me try it on, pulled me to the mirror and made me look. It was slightly embarrassing to gaze at myself wearing a sundress, having a teenage critic behind me telling me to work on my posture, pull back my shoulders, lift my chin, don’t wear a bra; but I did it, I stood there and examined myself in this lovely yellow dress.

  Blossom apparently has an eye for fashion, and she’s also apparently decided that I’m to be her project. When she asked me on our second day together about my wardrobe, thinking this road trip was not really a fair assessment of what might be in my closet at home, she became quite distressed to discover that I was actually traveling in my best work clothes, that the painter pants, oversized tees, and worn sneakers all are part of my daily attire.

  Immediately, she began to gather information about my size as well as my measurements and declared she would fix me by the time we got to Texas. The yellow dress is the first installment of her makeover. And, well, so far, so good. I do like her taste, even if I don’t really plan to wear this dress out in public, and I don’t think I can ever go without a bra. I’m not chesty, but I feel more comfortable with a little restraint.

  Dillon, it turns out, hitched a ride to Arkansas from Newport with various folks, the last being a guy joining the army in Fort Smith. Now that he’s here, he’s asked to ride with us to Shamrock, Texas, where he plans to get a job with a family member, a cousin or an uncle who runs a construction crew. Blossom admitted that she texted him when she left Tennessee, letting him know that she was going to visit her father, but she denies knowing that he would show up in Fort Smith, claiming he found out where we were because of the Facebook posts. He also finally confessed that he came because he thought Blossom was traveling with two men, Al and Roger; and even though they really aren’t together any longer, he claims he couldn’t stand it. So, he hitched a ride and found us. I think he’s more than a little relieved that I’m Al and Roger is in a box.