“Dude, this is Al,” Dillon says. It’s an introduction, but without giving me his uncle’s name, it’s not a complete one.
“Ronny,” the man says, raising his chin at me in what I can only guess is a sort of cowboy greeting. He appears to be about my age and he’s wearing old jeans and dusty boots, a John Deere hat, and a Shiner Bock T-shirt. He has a mustache and a tattoo of a green mermaid on his arm that seems to move up and down as he flexes his muscles, which he’s doing a lot.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, stopping next to Blossom. I pinch her on the arm lightly and she glances over and I notice she seems a little nervous.
“What happened to your dog?” Ronny asks and I look down at Casserole, wondering if I’ve missed something since he was sniffing around the hotel.
“How did he lose his leg?”
Oh, that. I forget that having three legs is a disability, since Cass still has one more than most folks I’ve seen.
“Don’t know. He showed up that way.”
Ronny nods, giving a look of mild interest. “Good thing you don’t do dogs like horses.”
And while I’m trying not to edit that sentence or ask the question about what is done to horses, Casserole nudges me, asking me to leave it alone; and then it dawns on me that Ronny is suggesting my dog would be shot if he were a horse.
“Dude,” Dillon says, and the way he says it makes me think that his rules about not being offended by what people say to him must not apply to three-legged animals. His simple one-word defense of Cass makes me smile.
“What?” Ronny replies and elbows his nephew in the ribs. He grins and I see something small sticking between his teeth.
“So you girls are traveling all the way from Tennessee?” It’s a toothpick and he pulls it out and gives Blossom a long look, apparently making the choice to leave my dog alone.
“Newport. My dad lives in Amarillo,” Blossom answers, the tone of her voice surprisingly timid.
Ronny nods his head, sticks the toothpick back in his mouth. He keeps leering at her and she takes a small step closer to me. “What you driving?” He finally takes his eyes off of her and glances around the parking lot like he’ll know the car when he sees it.
I feel a little protective of Faramond and don’t want to point him out.
“He’s on the other side,” I say.
“He?” Ronny slides the toothpick from side to side in his mouth.
“Faramond. It’s German for ‘protector of the journey,’” Dillon announces. “Al named him when she was eighteen.” He eyes me and grins.
Ronny slides his hand down the front of his jeans. “What, is it some Nazi car?”
“It’s a Volkswagen,” I tell him, feeling more than slightly defensive. “Nineteen ninety-eight, two-door, automatic transmission with a 115 horsepower.” I take a breath. “Cherry-red hatchback.”
He makes a face. “Nineteen ninety-eight?” But he doesn’t say anything else, like how old Faramond is or how old I am or whether or not because of our age, one or both of us might be shot if we stayed in Texas.
I don’t respond, but something starts to nag at me. I glance back over at Dillon. He doesn’t seem like the same boy I met yesterday. He doesn’t seem at all like the young man I have come to like. His shoulders are slumped and his eyes keep darting in the direction of the interstate, like he’s expecting someone else to arrive in Shamrock.
“Well, boy, your daddy said you need hard work to keep you out of trouble—already knocked up one girl.” Ronny spits his toothpick on the ground and turns around to open his truck door. “But that wouldn’t be you, would it?” He grins and winks at Blossom, who does not respond. He turns to Dillon. “You got any bags?”
He shakes his head.
Ronny stops and stares down at his nephew’s flip-flops and shakes his head. “Well, you ain’t paving no roads in them.” He blows out a breath. “I guess we’ll have to stop at the store and get you some decent shoes. You’ll already owe me before you even start to work.”
There is a pause. Dillon doesn’t move, and for some reason I cannot name, I lift my chin and step forward.
“Stepdad,” I say.
Ronny gets in the truck and shuts the door. “What?” He peers down at me from his high perch.
“It’s his stepdad who told you that, who sent him here, not his dad.”
He studies me for a second. “What do you know about Dillon’s daddy?”
“I don’t know a thing; I just know you stated incorrectly that your brother is the young man’s father and that is not true.”
Ronny shakes his head and starts the engine. “Get in, boy,” he says to Dillon.
I cannot name this feeling that has come over me, but I have clenched my fists and tightened my jaw and I’m pretty sure that I could take Ronny if he got out of the cab of his truck and wanted to give it a go.
I turn to Dillon. “You can go on with us if you like,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know what’s in Amarillo, but you can stay there or you can go with me to New Mexico or I’ll take you back to Tennessee.” Casserole rises from his seat and steps in front of me, standing guard as Dillon and I hammer out these negotiations.
The boy smooths down his hair and shakes his head. “You’d do that, Al? You’d let me ride a little further?”
I nod.
“Cool,” he says and then steps around me next to my dog, placing his hand on Casserole’s head. “Sorry, dude. Looks like I’ve got a better offer.”
Ronny revs up his engine. He waits a minute like he’s trying to think if he just got duped and then he starts to roll up the window. “This is the only time I’m coming out to get you. Don’t call me again, boy.” And he hits the gas, throwing gravel and kicking up dust in our faces.
Not a one of us moves as the truck speeds out of the parking lot, until I feel Blossom’s arm around my waist, her fingers sliding up my spine. “I need to get a feel of this,” she says. “’Cause I haven’t seen a backbone like that since Grandma cocked her shotgun and met a thief at the front door. My women are tough.” And she smacks me on the behind, almost knocking me over.
chapter thirty-two
THE horizon on the Great Plains is so vast that it has been said that during an Amarillo sunrise and sunset a person can actually see the curvature of the earth. We arrived in the largest city in the Texas Panhandle just as the western sky blushed in the setting sun. We stopped in a parking lot at a diner at the first exit off the interstate because I had never seen that shade of red and because Faramond was smoking. I waited until the crimson streaks faded before I opened the hood and then all of us simply stood at the side of the car in a white cloud watching the earth as it turned.
We had originally planned to spend the night in Shamrock, even booked a room; but after meeting Dillon’s uncle and after our contentious encounter, none of us wanted to stay. Blossom and I agreed that Ronny seemed angry and just unstable enough that he might return to the Best Western hoping for a fight or to kidnap his brother’s stepson. And either Ronny Blevens has a reputation for unseemly behavior in Shamrock, Texas, and the manager knew our fears were not unfounded, or he was simply glad that the five of us weren’t staying, because we were refunded our full amount. We left not long after Ronny sped away.
Amarillo, it turns out, is only an hour and a half away from the town where Dillon was supposed to start his new life, and Blossom was sure her father wouldn’t mind us showing up tonight instead of tomorrow. He’s waiting for us now; but I’m not sure my car can make it any farther. The smoke coming from the exhaust pipe is white and has only a slight smell, but not one that I can clearly diagnose until I get a closer look.
“Faramond could have water in the combustion chamber and may have blown a head gasket,” I tell my two passengers when I can finally stick my head under the hood. “Or there is a leak in the intake manifold runner,” I add
. “But I can’t really tell.” When I pull my head out, wiping my hands on my pants, Blossom and Dillon are standing back staring at me.
I continue. “Or it could be a cracked cylinder head. If it’s a leak, the water is simply mixing with the air and that’s easily repaired. If it’s a blown head gasket, that means I’ll have to get a mechanic because the oil is no longer protecting the bearings and that will ruin the engine completely if it’s not replaced.” I glance back at Faramond’s insides. “Or I may have misdiagnosed it completely and it could just be the radiator overheating from driving so far and maybe he just needs coolant.”
They look at me like I’m teaching calculus and they signed up for art appreciation. It’s pretty evident that I’ve lost them.
“We can wait to see if it’s just overheating from losing water or we may need a tow,” I sum up. “I’ll call Triple A.” And I walk over to the driver’s side, take out my purse, and find my card. I pull it out and start to dial the number.
“Let me call Dad first,” Blossom says, stopping me. “Let me see if he can meet us and then maybe he knows a mechanic in town you can call.” She raises her chin, pointing to the diner behind me. “I’m kind of hungry, anyway.”
I glance behind us and I have to admit the thought of dinner sounds pretty good to me, too. I leave the hood open, letting the engine block cool, and open the windows for Casserole, explaining to him that he needs to wait with Faramond and provide a little moral support to the protector of our journey. Roger is safely stashed on the floor of the driver’s side. Blossom calls her dad and the three of us head to the diner, Dillon leading the way.
There is a buffet at the Petro Travel Center; and in less than ten minutes we are seated with full plates of steaming, mostly fried food.
“What do you know about Amarillo?” Blossom asks me.
I ponder the question. I realize I don’t know very much about Amarillo at all. “I know Oprah showed up here when she got sued for saying something bad about hamburgers and that she hired Phil McGraw to help her analyze members of the jury.” I take a bite of pork-fried chicken or chicken-fried pork. My mystery meal actually tastes pretty good.
“Dr. Phil knows Oprah?” Dillon pipes up. He hasn’t said much since we left Shamrock and I’m glad to hear he’s not rethinking his decision to leave Ronny.
“Dr. Phil doesn’t just know Oprah, he owes Oprah,” I say, remembering the Dallas-based jury consultant’s newfound fame. “She introduced him to the world.”
“Cool,” Dillon says, nodding and eating a piece of biscuit.
“Amarillo was incorporated in the late 1890s.” Blossom begins reading from her paper placemat that gives the history of the town in which we have landed. “It is the fourteenth most populous city in the state and also the seat of Potter County. The city was once the self-proclaimed Helium Capital of the World for having one of the country’s most productive helium fields.” She holds up her plate so that she can continue reading. “Natural gas was discovered here in 1918 and oil in 1921.”
Dillon nods and chews. “Helium grows in a field?”
Ah, I think, the boy is definitely back.
“What does the name Amarillo mean?” I ask, dismissing Dillon’s question and enjoying the little history lesson with our dinner.
“Spanish for yellow,” she answers, still reading, her fork in her hand. “Probably comes from the yellow wildflowers that were blooming everywhere in the spring and summer when the town got its name.”
“Or maybe because the first color associated with helium was yellow,” I add, recalling the story of the first sighting of the element that I learned in my high school chemistry class.
Dillon is staring again and I can see the wheels turning in his brain.
“Helium doesn’t actually grow in a field,” I answer before he can say anything else. “It’s a by-product of natural gas.”
He nods, pondering my science news.
“The airport has the third largest runway in the world and is designated as an alternate landing site for the Space Shuttle,” Blossom continues.
“Cool.” Dillon has apparently chosen to let his helium questions go unanswered.
“Why did your dad come here?” I ask Blossom, deciding I would rather hear more personal than city history.
“He wanted to be a cowboy,” she said, putting her plate back down on the history mat and diving into her dinner.
“I thought he was a carpenter,” I note.
“He is,” she explains. “But he first came to Texas to work with cattle. He met some guy in Newport who told him about some ranching jobs out here.”
“He was a cowboy when I met him,” Dillon adds, stuffing the rest of his biscuit in his mouth. “He drove to Tennessee that first Christmas we were together, remember?” he asks Blossom.
She nods.
“He was wearing this great big belt buckle because he had won some roping event at the rodeo. He had a bunch of horses. He was cool.” He sits back against the booth, still eating.
“He’s still cool,” Blossom responds.
Dillon nods.
“But he’s not a cowboy anymore?” I ask, wondering what happened.
“Hurt his knee,” Blossom answers. “But he still rides.”
I look up at the door to see a man entering the diner. He’s tall, with a medium build, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved Western shirt. He’s taken off his cowboy hat, holding it to his chest, a stance of respect, and I can see he has short wavy blond hair, like a young Robert Redford. He’s leaned down to speak to the older woman running the cash register at the front and she smiles and reaches out to touch his arm while he says something that must be funny. She throws back her head and laughs and just at that moment he glances up and catches my eye. I feel my stomach make a little flip.
“Why are you blushing?” Blossom notices I have quit eating and follows my line of vision. She puts down her fork, turns back to me with her eyebrows raised. “How do I keep missing this?” And she stands up from the table and walks to the door. Where is she going? I wonder. And what is she getting ready to do?
“It’s him,” Dillon announces, when he sees the two of them greeting each other at the entrance. “The cool cowboy.”
I have just spotted Blossom’s dad.
chapter thirty-three
HE looks like her or she looks like him; I can see that now that she has brought him over to our table and the two of them are standing side by side. There is the same quiet ease to him, a certain measure of confidence without coming off as cocky or arrogant. They smile the same way, with a similar tilt of the head; and I can see that they are tender with each other. He is, of course, taller; but it would be hard to miss that they are father and daughter.
“Al, this is my dad, Lou Winters.”
I wipe my mouth, hoping I don’t have fried dinner stuck in my teeth, wishing I had brushed my hair or taken a shower or, heck, lost a little weight. “Hi,” I say and extend my hand.
He takes it and gives a kind of small bow without looking away. His hat is still under his arm. “Al, I have to say that you are not at all who I expected.”
“It’s short for Alissa,” I reply, since I am used to the surprise my name will sometimes cause.
“And now I know.” He smiles with the slight tilt and squeezes my hand while elbowing his daughter as if the gender confusion was her fault.
“And you remember Dillon.” Blossom moves aside and announces the other person at the table.
Dillon is grinning. “Hey, Mr. Winters, ’sup?”
He drops my hand and this time the smile appears a wee bit forced. “Dillon.”
It’s awkward for a second because we’re sitting at a booth and for him to join us means he has to sit with me, on my side, and I don’t know the protocol for making room. Do I ask first and slide or do I make the presumption he is joining us
and slide without asking? I am completely out of my comfort zone here.
“Dad, why don’t you sit next to Dillon?” Blossom says, saving me from myself.
She takes her place beside me, and Mr. Winters—Lou—moves in next to Dillon. It’s worked out just fine and we all have a seat; but I have to admit it still feels a bit awkward.
“So, you’re having some car trouble?”
I exhale rather more loudly than is customary, because I suddenly realize I haven’t breathed since our introduction. I answer with just a nod.
“Tell him about the smoke,” Dillon says, prompting me.
“Well, it was white,” I say.
Lou nods with understanding.
“I figure that means—”
Dillon interrupts me. “She can tell what’s wrong with a car by the color of the smoke. And because it’s white it’s either a blown gasket or a cracked cylinder.” He’s grinning and nodding at me like he’s now the calculus teacher. “Dude, that is so cool.” And he pushes a strand of hair behind his ear.
I shrug. There’s not much else for me to add.
Mr. Winters watches Dillon briefly and then turns to me. “We’ll take a look after we eat. I brought my chains if we need to tow it. I don’t live far.”
The waitress arrives before I can give a better description of what’s wrong with the car. It’s pretty obvious she knows Blossom’s father. She flirts a little, calls him “hon,” and brings him a large iced tea before he even makes the request.
“I guess I’ll go ahead and get me a plate,” he says to the three of us and to the waitress, who has placed her hand on his shoulder.
“The pork is better than the chicken,” she leans in to tell him and I glance back down at my plate and wonder again which one I chose.
“Good to know. Thanks, Lacey.”
And she winks and walks away without asking anything else of Lou or any of the rest of us.
Blossom watches her father. “You eat here a lot?” She gives him the look of someone who knows the flirting language of waitresses better than most.
Traveling Light Page 14
