Johnson Junction

by J. W. DeBrock

  “Well then. Can I get you both a little something to eat?”

  I sniffled. “That would be great. And if there was something I could do to work it off – do you need anyone around here right now?” I wiped my cheeks.

  “What kind of work can you do?”

  I paused. “Before Bry was born, I worked several years in offices. I did light bookkeeping, phones, kept records – some computer work.”

  She regarded me with her beautiful blue eyes. “You may have come to the right place. But let’s get some food in you both first.” She rose and took my hand, and led us to the front of the empty cafeteria line. “Armando,” she said to the young man behind the line, “Please get these two whatever they’d like. Put it on my account.” She smiled warmly. “When you finish eating, please just come back to the window. I’ll be waiting for you.” She squeezed my hand in parting and my heart skipped a beat with joy.

  Bry ate a large helping of macaroni and cheese, two homemade rolls, and polished off a large glass of cold milk. I took delight in two catfish fillets with fries and hushpuppies, accompanied by the tastiest glass of iced tea I’d had in months. The unfamiliar sensations of belly warmth and satisfaction were very welcome.

  We returned to the window. Mrs. Waverly materialized and indicated the door she’d originally come out of. “Please dear, you and Bryan come in here and let’s talk.” We stepped through the door and entered her office. “Sit here, and Bryan – you may sit right there while I talk with your mom. Okay?” He grinned widely, clutching his ball cap. “Yes Ma’am.”

  “How polite!”

  “We lived in the South. It’s required,” I explained.

  “It’s a good requirement. Now – tell me more about yourself. By the way, is Maddy short for something else?” She smiled and I wanted to melt into her.

  “Madeleine,” I blushed.

  “A beautiful name. Now continue.”

  We talked and chatted for thirty minutes, during which time she indicated that she did in fact need some help in the office. She listened deferentially, nodding with sympathy and empathy at several of the more poignant parts of my saga.

  “The job entails you work six days a week here, six AM to two PM, with unfortunately just the one day off. We also offer housing, although it really is quite modest, but you and Bryan could be safe and secure on our private property. From time to time I might have you run some errands for me, but I would provide you with my car to do so.” She went on to describe my pay and although there really weren’t any additional benefits she did say I could have a charge account for meals at the restaurant, with a discount, for the two of us.

  I remember thinking I had died and gone to heaven.

  She instructed me to see if my car would start, and run long enough to pull it back behind the main buildings to the employee housing. I was delighted when the Saturn obligingly gasped its final breath as it slid into an available spot in front of a long row of doors and windows.

  Employee housing at Johnson Junction spanned a wide range of dilapidation. Foremost was the row of doors and windows I mentioned, set into an ancient adobe structure that certainly must have been a motor lodge in some other life. There were ten rooms, each with a door set between two flaking wooden windows. Our room must have been representative of the rest – an old cement floor, two aging twin mattresses with rickety nightstands, a small dining table with two chairs, a peeling bureau, one rack attached to the wall for hanging clothes, and a dwarfish-sized bathroom with a moldering stall shower, tiny hand sink, and filthy toilet.

  Given our present circumstances, I was delighted to call it home. It beat the hell out of living in the car. Bryan’s only comment to Mrs. Waverly was “are there any other kids here?”

  She smiled and touched his shoulder. “There are a few, dear. In fact, just a couple of doors down are two sisters who are about your age. Their mother works as a manager in the gift shop. I’ll see to it that you get to meet very soon.” She turned and took my hand in hers. “Maddy, I’m so glad that you and Bryan wandered in here this afternoon. I’ve been hoping for someone like you to come to me.” Her words touched me with warmth, genuine to the core.

  “Me too. I can’t thank you enough for giving us this chance. I don’t know what we would have done.”

  “Well,” she added, “people come in and out of our lives for their own reasons. I’m just happy we’ve found each other. Now, you unpack your car, and I will see you tomorrow in the office at about nine o’clock. That will give you and Bryan time to eat breakfast, and me to get settled in with my work before we begin training. See you soon.”

  I watched her walk back up to the main building, and enter through a back door set close into a corner. A gust of wind tumbled dry sagebrush across the asphalt.

  I turned to Bry and said “Can you start unloading the car, hon? I want to see if that pregnant girl who helped us earlier is still working in the gift shop.” He dashed to the rear of the car and threw open the trunk lid.

  I walked through the lot and around the front of the building. Entering through the main doors I looked around, finding her between the aisles closest to the jewelry counter, unpacking some small boxes and stocking shelves. I touched her shoulder and as she turned around she said “Yes?” and then smiled her beautiful smile.

  “I just wanted to say thank you for sending me to Mrs. Waverly. We talked, and she’s putting me to work, at least for a while. It’s a real lifesaver for us.”

  She grasped my hands in hers. “Senora, I am happy for you. I know you are a good woman when I first see you. I am hoping you come to help us.”

  I looked into her pretty brown eyes for an explanation. “Help you?”

  “Si. Help us.”

  She squeezed and then released my hands and a chill ran up my spine.

  4

  Johnson Junction had existed for many years. It was originally built in the 1940s, catering to truck drivers, salesmen and others who traversed that portion of high desert in the Southwest for business and pleasure. For the next few decades the restaurant served such delicious food – most notably the chef’s homemade bread, rolls and desserts – travelers would make special effort to pass through at mealtimes. In later years demographics shifted, and the whole establishment shifted focus to the courtship of family carloads, their free-spending children with disposable income, and busloads of sightseeing tourists. It began as the restaurant and one gas station; it mushroomed into the gift shop and birthed another fueling facility unto itself. It was built as a remote outpost, and remained that way. No town or settlement grew around it A shortage of employees forced the furnished housing – workers who were willing to be employed in less than desirable circumstances needed a little extra incentive – especially since many of them were afoot and without transportation. When I arrived, most of the workers were bilingual – a few local families could be counted – and the majority of the restaurant workers were Mexican.

  The gift shop sold a wide variety of items, everything from Black Hills Gold jewelry to authentic Native American wares, and volumes of cheap imports. A section of the shop was reserved for custom-printed tee shirts. A chocolate candy factory occupied another corner and had a special spotlight of advertising on all of the highway billboards. The restrooms were large and clean, but not particularly impressive as remodeling was long overdue. The gas stations each possessed a couple of banks of pumps as well as small convenience marts with overpriced items, vending machines, and a scattering of arcade games.

  It was a long hour’s drive to the nearest major city with any kind of shopping. A smaller town was a thirty minute drive, offering a meager grocery store, an elementary school, a chain hotel, one fast food establishment, and the closest bank. The nearest bar and liquor store was an eight mile trek, and those employees with vehicles were often pressed into service for tequila search and rescue with beer chasers.

  At the crossroads where the Junction stood, there were no other businesses, nor any kind of
recreation. Distant mountains to the west offered winter skiing and activities, snowfall allowing. A long-established state park forty miles north offered camping among the rocks, charred and rusty picnic grills, and hiking along a remote river canyon. Cell phone service was non-existent. A few employees acquired sporadic land-line service from a tiny company in a town sixty miles east.

  Isolation was the name of the county, alcoholism the favorite town to visit, and self-entertainment the home address. Everyone knew everyone’s business and nobody seemed to care.

  One mile distant to the northwest of the Junction structures, and connected to the rest of the buildings by a ribbon of dirt road, a very large adobe house was situated on a rise overlooking the Junction and the surrounding miles of desert. It had originally been built by the Junction’s first owner as a rather eccentric vacation residence – luxurious in its day, state-of-the-art for its time. Built for times that demanded sumptuous furnishings and imported oak and tile. Built for an owner managing servants and a well-heeled lifestyle. Built well out of any sane construction for a high desert residence – but surviving, nevertheless. At the time I became aware of its existence, its many arched windows twinkled gracefully in the distance at night. It seemed enigmatic and mysterious to a newcomer.

  One of the first lessons Mrs. Waverly instructed was that she was the office manager, while Mr. Waverly was the General Manager. They were married once upon a time, but divorced amicably – and both felt that their partnership should not be dissolved entirely as they complemented each other profitably in business arrangements. Therefore, Mr. Waverly resided at the House, as the adobe mansion was known, and Mrs. Waverly maintained an apartment residence above the office and gift shop. Her words also taught me to not ask further questions.

  As I worked and lived at the Junction, I learned that the “crew” was a motley assortment. The other two ladies I worked with in the office were both from local families and very presentable and helpful. The restaurant manager was from a large southwest city, a bit narcissistic, and ran his department with an iron hand. The gift shop manager was also a local man – rumor ran that his family had once received a land grant from someone of great importance when the southwest was not yet part of the United States. I never doubted this rumor after I had begun to know the man; his manner was imperious and certainly reminiscent of earlier colonial times. One other local man was in charge of the two gas facilities – he was quiet, dark, and unsettling. His brother-in-law was head of the maintenance department, an outgoing fellow who was always cheerful in greeting. The restaurant helpers and cooks were all brought up from Mexico – some with papers, some without. The common thread of their fabric was that none of them had wives or children to worry about, as they were all gay.

  The ladies who worked in the gift shop were the most fascinating to me. Every one of them was physically lovely – true Hispanic beauties, flawless olive skin and deep brown pools of eyes. Most of them were soft-spoken and seemed reluctant to chatter, working their assignments quietly. There must have been a dozen of them when I began my internment at the Junction.

  All of them were in varying stages of pregnancy.

  I remember crying the first couple of nights Bry and I slept in our tiny room. He managed to fall right off to sleep, tired from traveling and holding his special teddy bear, one of his few remaining possessions. I felt physically and mentally exhausted. I’d been with his father for seven years and aged twenty in that same time period. Our third night, however, I began to feel more comforted – at least my husband had no idea where to find us, the remote location of the Junction providing us with safety in miles. We had food in our bellies, and a bit of patchy roof over our heads, although in truth it didn’t look like it rained much in that particular desert. We had a private bathroom, a place to wash clothes in a shared laundromat, and at the very least a room to call home. It was all that I could have hoped to find and more – I had a job and would eventually be able to provide something more for Bryan. Any unsettling feelings I had about life would have to be suppressed and calmed for the time at hand – as the old saying goes, you do what you gotta do.

  When you are at the bottom of the well the light at the top seems very far away and you must convince yourself to swim for the top before you drown.

  5

  My first week at work passed by quite smoothly. Mrs. Waverly, Evelyn as she asked me to call her, was so pleasant and unassuming. She patiently showed me all I needed to know, touring me around the establishment as if I were a long-lost daughter and introducing me with warmth and courtesy. I could see she was admired and loved. My duties were fairly straightforward – I counted the money that passed through all departments, bundling the cash for bank deposits, counting and rolling coin, preparing the credit and debit receipts, stashing the proceeds each afternoon in the aging office safe. The two ladies I worked with, Joan and Darlene, lived locally and actually drove several miles into work each day. I did a small accounting summary each afternoon on their computer, and as each day passed I felt I was allowed to unwind, bit by bit. My gut began to feel as if it weren’t spring-loaded after all.

  That same week, Evelyn whisked Bry and me away to the nearby city to do a little shopping. She insisted on purchasing school clothes and supplies for Bry – he needed to be in first grade – and for me a few decent sets of clothes, some badly needed underwear, and basic personal items such as makeup – something I’d gone without for a very long time. She was never the least bit condescending toward us, even as she chauffeured us in her expensive luxury sedan. I teared up several times as I thanked her; her generosity with us was so welcome and by the end of the week I was head over heels in love and awe. She exemplified such presence and healing – I’ve never forgotten, nor shall I ever and ever, Amen.

  On the return home from shopping we stopped in the small town that was closer to the Junction so we could see the elementary school and get Bryan enrolled. I always carried his birth certificate in my wallet, habit from hard times, and with Evelyn’s help we left the building as a new first-grade student and his proud mom. He was to catch a school bus each morning right in front of our housing at the Junction, and be dropped off there each afternoon. The only condition I regretted was that his bus ride was an hour and a half each way, due to the remote coverage of the route. He became a brave little trouper and many times when he was dropped off after completing his day he was fast asleep on the bus, his head leaning against the window at his seat.

  Once I’d finished my shift in the office at two, and seen Bry off the bus around four, we’d go over his day at school while we ate our evening meal in the cafeteria. Bry already knew how to read – we’d been practicing that ever since he was four – and he was proud of himself for being able to help some of the other kids in his class with their lessons. It delighted me to see him happy and excited about something new; he’d needed that challenge for a long time as we’d been isolated in an old home out in the country before we escaped. Both of us reveled in the fact we could order a fresh cheeseburger and fries whenever we wanted – and even have what amounted to free rein with such marvels as a soda fountain and desserts! Often the smallest pleasures in life are so basic – even though they aren’t always free.

  We scavenged a couple of plastic outdoor chairs another employee had discarded and enjoyed sitting on the front porch of the housing row toward late afternoon. The building faced nearly due west and high desert sunsets can be spectacular. I’d made friends with the gal who was one of the gift shop assistant managers – Donna – and her daughters, a little older than Bry, proved to be good friends. Toward the end of the week the kids were playing outside in the courtyard, and Donna and I sat watching the sunset and sharing a couple of beers she’d provided. Although she was not a local, she and her daughters were full-blooded members of an indigenous Native American tribe with homelands a few hours’ drive north, and I found listening to her tales of tribal life and customs fun and fascinating.

  One even
ing she and I took the kids for a walk around the dirt road surrounding the employee housing, ever watchful for scorpions, snakes, and other desert dwellers. Toward dusk skunks could be a bit wary of people, but they loved to sneak into holes and gaps of the old buildings and leave their horrendous scent. As we rounded the northernmost corner of the dusty track we stopped to look at the adobe house, far up the road, blending into the surrounding hills. At that time of day its arched windows were lit with soft amber glow.

  “Is it just Mr. Waverly that lives up there?” I asked.

  Donna gave a quick laugh. “No, he’s got company, Maddy. Lots of company.” She shook her head.

  “What do you mean?”

  About that time a cloud of dust trailed a van up the road from the far side of the Junction. “Watch,” said Donna.

  The van was made for hauling people as cargo. I’d seen similar vans in the South that were made for ferrying prisoners to and from work details or similar transport. It was white, extended in the rear, with several sets of large windows and what looked like three rows of bench seating behind the driver. As it passed us by Donna waved to the people inside. It was driven by a man I didn’t know – and the bench seats were occupied by several of the ladies from the gift shop, the young pregnant ones.

  I felt as if I were missing some point. “Where are they going?” I asked as the van continued on toward the house.

  Donna looked at me and then smacked me playfully on the forehead. “Duh, gringa, they’re going home. To the House.”

  “Home?”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about this place, mija. Come on, let’s finish our walk.” We turned back toward our little apartments and she took hold of my arm.