Traveling Light

by Lynne Branard

  When the idea was raised about him joining us, I was not at all comfortable with the thought of an additional passenger; but after hearing his request I admit I felt sorry for the guy. Besides, I feel somewhat indebted to Blossom because of the yellow dress. And it’s only for a day, since we expect to get through Oklahoma City and across the state line into Texas by dark later today. And to Dillon’s credit, he did apparently get up and leave early with Blossom to see the visitor center, allowing Casserole and me to sleep late, which seems to me to be an unexpected benefit of having him join us.

  We gave him pillows and our blankets, but Dillon slept with—maybe I should say in—Faramond, which was the only way I was going to let him stay. Neither Blossom nor her young suitor seemed upset about the arrangements, although he did turn up about an hour after he left, asking for Roger, claiming he needed someone else with him so he would feel safe. And after he got the remains, he didn’t bother us again. Funny what makes us feel secure. Some people need a gun or a dog. Apparently, Dillon just needs a box of ashes.

  Blossom’s ex-boyfriend says things like “it’s cool, dude” and “jacked up” a lot, which is a little annoying; but I think I can manage for a few hours. I’m used to working with James William, after all, and “jacked up” and “cool” are not nearly as bothersome to me as some of his sports clichés. He writes and says things like, “That pop fly was a can of corn,” or “They didn’t take care of the rock,” which I spend hours trying to translate in my edits. Besides, I sort of like Dillon, in a weird kind of way. He’s extremely childlike, guileless, innocent. He takes everything I say literally, which is, I don’t know, kind of refreshing.

  When Blossom and Dillon returned from their tourist excursion to Miss Laura’s Social Club, getting a number of quality photographs with Roger, Casserole and I had already checked out of our room and were waiting for them in the motel lobby. We gassed up at a station just off the interstate and are once again heading west.

  I’m driving this leg of the trip and Blossom has decided to take the backseat with Roger and Cass. The rain has ceased and it’s turning into a beautiful summer day. We’ve rolled down the windows and are listening to Dillon’s playlist on his iPhone. Unlike Blossom and her country music, he prefers rock and roll.

  “So, is it mainly road construction or building construction that you’ll be doing?”

  The first album has ended and Dillon is searching for a different one for our listening pleasure.

  “Roadwork,” he answers. “My stepdad’s brother owns a paving company.”

  “In Shamrock?” I clarify. I studied the map before we started the trip earlier and it looks like Shamrock is just across the state line.

  “Yeah, I think so.” He nods and keeps scrolling through his list of songs.

  “You’re planning to do that kind of work all summer and go back to Tennessee in the fall?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “Do you like the Black Veil Brides?”

  “Sure,” I reply, making the assumption this is a rock band.

  He makes his selection and places his phone back in the console between us. The music starts.

  “Blossom says you run a newspaper.”

  “Well, I don’t actually run it; my father does.”

  “Cool.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He sings along to the song and then he stops. “Blossom thinks you’re real smart.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yep, she said you use a lot of big words, but you don’t make her feel stupid.”

  Well, that’s nice to know. I glance in my rearview mirror and get a look at my passenger. She’s got on headphones and is listening to her own playlist. From the way she’s mouthing the words, I’m guessing it’s the Carrie Underwood album. I figure I’ve learned the words to all the songs on Blossom’s CDs. We’ve listened to the four she brought along with her for more than three hundred miles.

  “Blossom’s smart, too, but she don’t like people to know.”

  I figured as much.

  “Did she tell you I asked her to marry me?”

  I nod. “After she found out she was pregnant.”

  “No, this morning.”

  Okay, well, this is news to me.

  I turn to face Dillon. “And what did she say?”

  He slides his hair behind his ears and shakes his head. Clearly, it was a no.

  “I’m sorry, Dillon,” I say softly, waiting to hear his predictable assessment of coming all the way to Arkansas to have his heart broken. Surely, for the teenager, this is as jacked up as things can get.

  He shrugs. “Yeah, well, at least I get to ride all the way to Shamrock with her. And I really like you and Roger and Casserole; so it’s cool.” He closes his eyes as the music swells to a percussion solo and then he raises both hands and pretends to play the drums.

  His ease with disappointment surprises me and I turn to face the road. I glance back in my rearview mirror at Blossom, who smiles at me, and then I look ahead, watching the green Arkansas landscape fade to the brown of the Great Plains.

  chapter twenty-seven

  WE’VE stopped at the Oklahoma City National Memorial, but now that I have parked and turned off the engine near the entrance of the museum, no one is getting out of the car. The sun is shining; there is only a light breeze; it is a lovely afternoon. Yet we just sit here. Cars are pulling in and pulling out around us, people are coming and going, and we are staying right where we are without saying a word or making a move.

  Blossom, who made the suggestion that we visit the memorial site, sits in the passenger’s seat, just staring straight ahead without reaching for her door. Casserole and Dillon, both tired from the long walk we took only an hour ago near Norman at the Lake Thunderbird State Park, are curled up together in the backseat sound asleep. Roger has been taken from the console and placed in the front and is resting on the dashboard. And for some reason I can’t explain, I am not moving, either.

  I know that neither of my live human passengers was born yet when Timothy McVeigh parked a rental truck packed with four thousand, eight hundred pounds of explosives just across the street from the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building and walked away. Of course they both know the story, are familiar with what happened here; but they learned it later, heard it discussed on anniversary dates or in their American history classes. It was never something they watched on the news or heard about as it unfolded.

  They didn’t see the images of police officers carrying out the bodies of the injured and dead children hours after it happened, and they didn’t watch a national response of shock and disbelief when it wasn’t a Middle Eastern terrorist who was later arrested for the bombing but rather a young Persian Gulf War veteran from Lockport, New York, who was responsible for the killing of one hundred and sixty-eight people and the injuries of over six hundred more. They know the event, sympathize with those affected, have a desire to understand and learn the details; but they didn’t live with the story.

  I, on the other hand, was fifteen, and I watched the evening news on April 19, 1995, with my dad, who covered the story for the paper. It was on a Wednesday, later in the day after the morning bombing; and we sat together on the sofa in the den watching the images of destruction, hearing the names of the victims, learning that a day care center had been destroyed and that a number of those killed were children. We didn’t say a word to each other as we sat there side by side, Sandra somewhere else in the house, trying to learn some new dance steps. We watched the news without speaking and then he got up to pack and I stayed there, just like I am now, without moving.

  He was leaving for Oklahoma City that evening just after Tom Brokaw’s telecast broke for a few minutes so that the station could show some of the state’s local news. He had one suitcase with him and his old leather bag that he took with him everywhere, the one that he still keeps hanging on his s
houlder or the back of his office chair, the one that still holds his reporter’s notebook, pens, and whatever relevant research he has collected. Our neighbor Millie called while he was packing to say she would be over in an hour, bringing us chicken pot pie and chocolate cookies, letting me know that the arrangements for our care had been decided before Sandra and I had gotten home from school.

  I heard him say good-bye to Sandra and as he started to leave I finally got up from the sofa and followed him to the door.

  “How long will this take?” I asked. I knew how important this news event was to my father, but I was not nearly as interested in a bombing in a place three states over as I was in knowing how long we would be without him.

  He stopped and turned to me as I waited on the landing, the screen door propped open with my elbow.

  “I’ll be back by the weekend,” he promised. “Millie will check on you every morning and she’ll have you something to eat when you get home from school.”

  I nodded.

  “You’ll make sure your sister gets her homework done and gets to her dance class tomorrow afternoon.”

  Again, I nodded.

  “I’m just going to be gone for a couple of days,” he said again, this time with a bit more emotion than before.

  “I know,” I answered him.

  “And so, you’re okay?” he asked.

  Of course I was okay. I was fifteen. By that time I had been staying alone with my sister for two years while my dad traveled to cover the news. I knew the routine. Millie came over, brought us something to eat. She checked on us in the morning and she called me just before she went to bed. I helped my sister with her homework, fixed our supper, cleaned up, washed the clothes, ironed what my sister picked out to wear, turned out the lights, and checked all the doors. In the mornings, I made sure Sandra got to school, and in the afternoon or evening, I made sure that she went to whatever party she was invited to or class she was registered for.

  Because I was the oldest, I took care of things. I was responsible and dependable. I never missed a beat. I knew how to make breakfast and call 911. I was good with grammar and household emergencies. And this was Clayton, North Carolina; my sister and I were safe. I had never been afraid, never caused a fuss, never been anything other than the daughter Oscar Wells needed to keep things organized and working, to hold the family together.

  And yet, I don’t know, I can’t even remember for sure why, but this time, this news story, this national event he had to cover and write about, this taking leave of us bothered me. I even started to cry. And I remember how Daddy stopped at the car and turned once more to look at me.

  “Alissa,” he said, one of the few times I remember him calling me by my first name. “Do you want me to stay?”

  Every fiber of my being wanted to tell him yes. Yes, I wanted him to stay. Yes, I wanted him home. No, I did not want to be left in that house with this news, this terrible, horrible news still so fresh in my mind.

  But ever the good soldier, I shook my head, waved good-bye, walked inside, and shut and locked the door behind me.

  “You want to go?” Blossom pulls me from the memories of my fifteenth year and I feel her watching me.

  There is just one tear that has rolled down my cheek and I wipe it away. I pull Roger down from the dashboard and place him back in the console between us. I shake my head. “Not really,” I tell her.

  “Then let’s go west, sister. Roger Miller’s museum is right at the state border and if we hurry we can get there before they close.”

  “You going to have a meltdown at his grave?” I ask, clearing my throat, pulling myself together, and turning on the engine.

  Blossom rolls down her window and puts on her sunglasses. “Nah. He was a great singer-songwriter; but he won’t no Elvis.”

  I nod and pull out of the parking space.

  “Besides, this stop is for Roger. It turns out he and Mr. Miller have more than just a first name in common.”

  I wait.

  “Mr. Roger Miller was cremated. The location of his ashes remains unknown.”

  I put the car in gear, switch on my signal, and make my left turn. We are heading out of Oklahoma City.

  chapter twenty-eight

  “‘TRAILER for sale or rent, rooms to let . . .’” My dad is singing the words of his favorite Roger Miller song.

  “That’s the one,” I say. I called him after our stop at the museum, and now I’m listening to him belt out the lyrics, although they sound a little tinny coming through my cell phone like this. I never knew he was a fan.

  “‘No phone, no pool . . .’”

  “Yep, that’s still the one.”

  It took us two hours to get here and even though we’re clearly the only tourists in Erick, Oklahoma, the museum hostess, Irene, seems anxious for us to take our leave. Since we arrived a few minutes ago, she must have looked at her watch and mentioned a dozen times that the place closes in thirty minutes.

  I’m standing by the car and I can see Blossom inside trying to get Irene to hold Roger so that she can get a photograph. In spite of the fact that she must be late for some appointment, or nervous around the three of us, Irene is a good sport, even forcing a smile as Blossom takes the shot. I see her hand Roger back and then look at her watch once again. I check mine. Blossom still has fifteen minutes. She’ll probably want to buy a CD or a nightshirt.

  “I didn’t think you liked country music,” I hear my dad say.

  “No, not so much,” I answer, leaning against the front of the car. I look around the streets of Erick. It’s a pretty slow day in Roger Miller’s hometown.

  “But Dixie says you’ve been to Loretta Lynn’s Ranch, stopped at bars in Nashville, had your picture taken with Johnny Cash, and even took a tour at Graceland. Are you returning ashes to New Mexico or taking a guitar-picking hall of fame tour?”

  He has a point.

  “It’s my passenger,” I reply. “She’s only a teenager and she doesn’t sing or play an instrument as far as I know, but for some reason she likes the classics.”

  “Blossom?” he responds. I’m surprised that he knows her name. I don’t think I mentioned it to him in our past phone conversations.

  “I saw her on your social media site. Was that part of the plan? Pick up hitchhikers?”

  “You’re using the Internet?” I ask, teasing him.

  I hear him blow out a breath. “That’s real funny.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t mean to be funny; I just can’t believe you’re looking at Facebook.”

  “I’m giving it a shot. It turns out I can learn a lot about people by just reading their profiles. Some of this stuff is just a waste of time, but I can see why it’s important to keep up with the latest technology.”

  “I’m sorry. Am I talking to the publisher of the Clayton Times and News? Is this Oscar Wells, Oscar ‘That Computer Will Make You Stupid’ Wells? The one who still handwrites his stories in a composition book?”

  “I know, I know,” he replies. “Dixie’s got me set up with these media sites.”

  “Dixie?” Well, that’s a surprise. I thought it was Ben who was pushing for technological advancement.

  “Yes, she’s been real helpful that way.”

  Well, hooray for Dixie, I think. Maybe his hire of the single mom with one semester of community college wasn’t a complete waste.

  “Everything okay with this week’s paper?” I ask.

  “We lost a couple of ads to the N and O,” he replies, letting me know that the Raleigh paper is still king in eastern North Carolina. “But we got a good feature on Senator Hill’s widow and Ben did a nice job on the tobacco warehouse sale. I swear we should just change the name of the town to Reynoldsville, since all we seem to know how to do is grow tobacco. Hey, did you know Roger Miller died from lung cancer?”

  I did not know that.
I guess they didn’t choose to mention cause of death in that little ten-minute video presentation I watched when we first arrived at the museum.

  My daddy never was a big supporter of the tobacco farms that continue to prosper in North Carolina even though nationally cigarette usage continues to decline. We found out that most of the crop is sent overseas where there isn’t as much legislation on smoking and where, as he likes to say, “we’re popping cigarettes in babies’ mouths just to keep big tobacco companies in business.”

  He’s printed a lot of stories over the years about the hazards of smoking and the costs of lung and throat cancer to the state and has found himself more than a few times on the receiving end of angry op-eds and harassing phone calls from disgruntled farmers and unhappy businessmen. I think he’s always thought growing up on a tobacco farm had something to do with Mama’s tumors even though there has never been any scientific link between that particular crop and brain cancer. As long as he has run the paper, he has never liked what tobacco means to our hometown and he refuses to bow to the industry.

  “So, you broke rank and wrote a bright?” I ask, changing the subject when I suddenly recalled Ben’s report about last week’s paper and my father’s puff piece.

  “You heard about that, huh?”

  “From Ben.”

  “Yeah, it was just a silly thing I messed around with, about how squirrels got my last good tomato, just something to fill up space. Since you weren’t here to cover the summer weddings or finish up that feature on the twin valedictorians over at the high school, I needed something for the split page. Ben and Jasper thought it was okay to add it.”

  “I heard you got a lot of good responses.”

  “Nah, nothing like that, just a few calls.”

  I glance over at Dillon, who is walking back with Casserole after their stroll down to the corner convenience store. He’s got his hair in a ponytail and his earphones around his neck, he’s eating something that is dangling from his lips, and I’m pretty sure he’s talking to my dog.