Wait for the Wagon
Mary Lasswell
For
LASS
Books by Mary Lasswell
SUDS IN YOUR EYE
HIGH TIME
ONE ON THE HOUSE
WAIT FOR THE WAGON
TOONER SCHOONER
LET’S GO FOR BROKE
The characters in this book are fictitious; any resemblance to real persons is wholly accidental and unintentional
“DRIVE WITH ONE HAND for a minute, Ol’-Timer.” Mrs. Feeley handed a can of cold beer over the back seat to him. “Sure stays cold in this big can o’ ice. Where the hell do you ’spose we are?” Dressed in her black dotted voile, she ran her fingers through her short white curls. Mrs. Feeley peeped across the alabaster shoulder of Aphrodite, the ex-statue that had been made into a tony lamp. Old-Timer’s snout was in the beer. Miss Tinkham dusted off her lorgnette with the hem of her pleated Roman-striped jersey skirt and said: “If my bump of location is not playing me false, we are headed in the general direction of Pennsylvania; all the major signs point definitely towards Pittsburgh.”
“Don’t none of ’em say San Diego?” Mrs. Feeley was worried.
“Not for several thousand miles yet,” Miss Tinkham said. “We definitely have to go through Pennsylvania, Gettysburg and all that.”
“I won’t feel good till we hit El Cajon Boulevard,” Mrs. Rasmussen said stolidly from her corner of the violent blue Cadillac that had been the last word in nineteen-twenty-six. “This bus sure beats the train, don’t it?”
“Wait till we park her in front of the Ark,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Nothin’ that looks this fancy ain’t gonna convince me till we’re clear home.”
Miss Tinkham looked at the cut-glass flower vases and the velvet-covered cords.
“Obviously custom built for an old man’s darling.”
“Yeup. One promise that he kept. Regular jungle this traffic, ain’t it? How far you reckon it is to San Diego? Think we’ll make it by Sunday?”
“It is now one-fifteen, Saturday afternoon,” Miss Tinkham said. “It would not be possible in anything less than a D-6.”
“We got everythin’ a D-6 has, after Ol’-Timer rebuilt her,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Beer, too.” She looked fondly at the big tightly covered tin full of cracked ice and canned beer that stood between the two jump seats of the limousine. The long Cadillac throbbed reassuringly as the traffic light turned green. There was a faint ping as Old-Timer hit the trash can on the street corner deftly with the empty beer can.
“I think the local constabulary would take a dim view of drinking beer while operating a motor vehicle,” Miss Tinkham said. “They are completely lacking in joie de vivre. But,” she twirled her silver chain happily, “as Kipling said:
What chariots, what horses
Against us shall bide.
While the stars in their courses
Do fight on our side?”
“I still think we better get us a map,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Pull in at the first Gulf Station, Ol’-Timer. If I had any teeth, my back ones would be washed loose by now.” Mrs. Feeley was out of the car before Old-Timer had set the brake. A smiling youth with teeth for two came up.
“That way, ma’am,” he pointed over his shoulder without looking back: “Fill ’er up?”
“We might an’ agin we might not,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Just rustle us up some good maps to San Diego an’ don’t crack wise, Buster.”
The windshield was shining like a Yankee schoolmarm’s glasses when the ladies returned.
“You can put in as much gas as she’ll hold.” Mrs. Feeley relented when she saw the handsome maps. “We only left Newark a little while ago. How long will it take us to get to San Diego, boy?”
“That all depends, ma’am,” the lad said, “just how fast and how long you drive this dreamboat. Looks like a souped-up job to me. You can make Pittsburgh tonight easy; it’s under four hundred miles.” Mrs. Feeley peered over his shoulder at the map he had opened and was marking with a red pencil.
“Sure,” she said, “ain’t but a coupla inches on the map.”
“You just follow Twenty-two to Harrisburg, then you hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike,” the boy said. “Four-lane highway, all one-way traffic, no speed limit. Most of the time it looks like the Stock Car Races. I’d like to be riding with Hot Rods like you.”
“Always room for one more,” Mrs. Feeley said. “You got the word, straight an’ ungarbled, Miss Tinkham?” Miss Tinkham nodded as the young man marked a wide red line on each of the maps he spread on the running board.
“Newark to Pittsburgh, three hundred and twenty-five. Pittsburgh to St. Louis, six hundred—a heavy day’s driving,” Miss Tinkham said, “but well worth the effort. St. Louis and those lovely Blues.”
“Browns,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Cardinals,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Music or baseball,” Miss Tinkham said, “it will be a long drive. St. Louis to Oklahoma City, five hundred and fifty-seven miles. Oklahoma City to Amarillo, five hundred and thirty-nine. That’s in Texas. Simply reeking with history.” She climbed into the front seat and spread the maps in her lap.
“How far to San Diego?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Amarillo to Tucson, three hundred and eighty-three; and then the last lap; Tucson to San Diego, four hundred and twenty-one miles!”
“I’m gonna get out an’ kiss the ground at Imperial Valley,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Not that we didn’t have one hell of a time in New York, an’ Newark,” she said to the boy, “but the best part of any trip is gettin’ back home. How much we owe you?”
Mrs. Rasmussen paid the boy seventy-two cents.
“Happy motoring,” he said, waving them off.
“Nice boy. Give him the word, Ol’-Timer.” The horn caroled “How Dry I Am” as the Blue Menace whirled out into the traffic.
“Lash up the mules, man! Now for California.”
“Where is it we’re going first?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Allentown, a short sprint. Just eighty miles,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Ain’t that the way?” Mrs. Feeley pointed to complicated traffic circle. As they drove around it they saw the signs pointing plainly to New York.
“We already been there,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Must be thataway,” pointing in the opposite direction. “See what the sign says.” The sign said To Philadelphia.
“We’re gettin’ nowhere fast,” Mrs. Feeley said. “It’s like comin’ out of a malt store with a beer crock under your arm; everybody tells you how! Somebody oughta do the lookin’ for the bunch.”
Miss Tinkham pointed a bony finger.
“To Route 22!” she announced. “And when we reach it, we follow it all the way to Allentown. I can be the navigator, watch the signs and chart the course, if you like.”
“You do that,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’ll pass out the beer an’ Mrs. Rasmussen…”
“I’ll keep a track o’ what we spent. Give seventy-two cents for gas just then.”
The fact that the highway was a commercial one and congested with heavy trucks did not seem to weaken Old-Timer’s foot on the accelerator. He shoved the blue limousine along at a breakneck pace.
“Sure runs good, don’t she?” Mrs. Feeley said. “Thickly Settled! Ain’t that the hell of a name for a town?” Through Plainfield, Somerville and Clinton they roared. Entranced with the swift motion, they scarcely spoke. Mrs. Rasmussen rolled down her window in the hot afternoon glare. From the front Miss Tinkham kept up a soft and steady chant.
“That’s right! We’re on Twenty-two. Twenty-two to the right. Sixteen miles to Whitehouse. Twenty-two left. Twenty-two straight ahead.” The steady intoning put Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen to sl
eep. They had had a good many beers at the send-off in Newark, no sleep at all the night before, and very little the night before that. Suddenly, Mrs. Feeley woke at the lurch of a car pulling to a halt at the side of the road. The swerve to the side of the road woke her—the swerve and the dismal wail of a motorcycle cop’s siren.
“Gawd!” she rubbed her eyes. “We musta went an’ done it!” Miss Tinkham and Old-Timer froze in the front seat. Mrs. Rasmussen opened a slit in one eye, saw the traffic cop’s cap, and decided on yet a little sleep, a little slumber. The police officer stuck his head in the window.
“Your trunk’s open,” he said and rode off the way he came. Even the alabaster Aphrodite seemed to melt with relief. Mrs. Feeley crossed herself piously.
“Beer!” she cried. “That was close.” Old-Timer closed the trunk securely while Mrs. Feeley got out the beer and Mrs. Rasmussen scrabbled in the paper carton for crackers and cheese.
“Made me feel right weak, that did.” She passed slices of cheese on saltines to her friends. “Where you suppose we are? How far are we from anywhere?”
“We’re near Allentown now,” Miss Tinkham said. “We have made remarkable speed. I wonder if that speedometer is working; it seems to be stuck at sixty.”
“You mean his foot’s stuck at sixty,” Mrs. Feeley grinned. “I hate dawdling, myself. Sure be nice if we knew what time it was—funny none of us ain’t got no dollar watch.”
Old-Timer took a red bandanna from his pocket and carefully polished the crystal of the clock on the dashboard.
“Heavens! Is it really running?” Miss Tinkham cried. “Three o’clock! We left the filling station at half past one.”
“Hadn’t been for them old dill-dopple-dated cars an’ them half-fast drivers,” Mrs. Feeley said, “bet we’d a been there already.”
“We must have a log,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Ain’t got no stove,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“A log—a record of the time, hours, miles, etc. Here’s an extra map I took, just in case. Use the blank edge until we can buy a proper notebook.” She handed it to Mrs. Rasmussen. “Write this down: Left Newark at one-thirty, Saturday. Tank full?” Old-Timer nodded.
“How many gallons?”
“About twenty-two with what we just bought,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Good,” Miss Tinkham said. “The next time we fill it up, we’ll know how far we’ve gone.”
“An’ how much we spent,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Let’s get goin’.” Mrs. Feeley heaved her empty beer can out the window.
“Since we have had this enforced stop, there will be no need for a pause in Allentown.” Miss Tinkham saw dismay in Mrs. Feeley’s eyes. “You look a little full in the face, Mrs. Feeley; perhaps just a brief pause…”
“For station identification,” Mrs. Feeley said.
The Cadillac whizzed down Route 22 at murderous speed.
“Sheer heaven,” Miss Tinkham sighed.
“Damn if the whole New Nitey States ain’t moved right out onto the Hiway,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Motels, hotels, beaneries, eateries, niteries. Nothin’ but stands an’ false-fronts. What a rat race!”
“The towns don’t amount to nothin’,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “The highway is the town.”
“Drive In, that’s all they know. The next generation is gonna be borned without legs. Drive in to eat. Drive in to the movies. Drive in to the laundry. Drive in to deposit money at the bank. That one hotel we passed said drive in to register. Next thing you know some enterprisin’ plumber…”
“Nomads of the Great American Desert,” Miss Tinkham agreed. “Houses and gardens will soon become obsolete.”
The late afternoon sun was blistering down. Mrs. Rasmussen pried the lid off the beer can and passed refreshments to her friends. All of a sudden Mrs. Feeley split the air with a shriek.
“We’re goin’ the wrong way. We’re back in Thickly Settled!”
Old-Timer released the sudden pressure he had put on the brakes and Miss Tinkham sighed with relief as she drew her feet back from the floorboards where she had plunged them up to the ankles, skinning them slightly.
“It simply means houses close to the road; you gave me a nasty turn there for a moment. We’re almost in Harrisburg. Visit Molly Pitcher’s Grave.” Miss Tinkham pointed to the sign. “That would be delightful.”
“We’ll just visit a pitcher and skip Molly when we get to Harrisburg,” Mrs. Feeley said. “All this jouncin’ has made me hungry.”
“There we pick up the Pennsylvania Turnpike and cover some mileage without the constant interference of these wretched traffic lights,” Miss Tinkham said. Signs, large and small, covered the roadside, advertising every conceivable type of service. “Truckers Welcome.” “Trucks Stop Here.” “Instant Service for Truckers.” “Showers for Truckers.”
“They are discovering the worth of the man at the wheel,” said Miss Tinkham.
“Be the only place to get anythin’ good to eat,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Them guys is steadies—drivin’ over these routes week after week. If the chow ain’t good they tell the others.” The assorted rumblings coming from the back seat sounded like the woodwinds in the Philharmonic tuning up.
“We’ll stop at the very first place that looks appetizing—and is on our side of the road,” Miss Tinkham said.
A large diner outlined in neon lights gleamed entrancingly in the setting sun. Its aluminum sides shone like the gates of Heaven. Mrs. Feeley took one look at the evergreen foundation planting and the neatness of the edging-up.
“Judgin’ by the number o’ trucks parked an’ the looks of the place, this feller’s as clean inside as he is out.”
“Interstate Truckers’ Mardi-Gras Diner,” Miss Tinkham signaled to Old-Timer and he slid the Cadillac in between two leviathans of the road.
“Gawd, ain’t them huge,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Phonoecian blinds on the back o’ the driver’s seat!”
The three ladies and Old-Timer climbed stiffly and marched into the diner. It was surprisingly large and contained many booths and tables. Two enormous juke boxes played simultaneously. The music was deafening.
“‘Harbor Lights’—sure makes me think o’ San Diego,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
The place was crowded. Pretty waitresses, dazzlingly clean, skipped from kitchen to table with laden trays. The long, stainless-steel counter was filled up, but as the ladies stood waiting a party got up and Miss Tinkham led the band forward to the seats.
“We can go in relays,” she said. “While you are gone, I shall order the beer.” The air was fragrant with the aroma of strong coffee and bacon.
“Sure smells good.” Mrs. Rasmussen settled herself on the stool and straightened her neat blue and white seersucker suit. “They don’t use ol’ crankcase grease for their fryin’ in here.”
Mrs. Feeley finished her beer at a gulp. “Gawd, I was thirsty. What’ll we eat?”
The young man next to Miss Tinkham had just been served a steaming plateful of liver and bacon with smothered onions and French-fried potatoes. A large ripe tomato salad with sour cream and chopped chives stood at the side of his plate.
“It’s all I can do to keep from snatching it away from him with my bare hands,” Miss Tinkham whispered.
“Get that for the lot of us,” Mrs. Feeley muttered, “I’m near dead of the hunger.”
The waitress brought four dishes of radishes, celery, olives and pickles; also a basket of saltines. Miss Tinkham signaled for more beer and the travelers devoted themselves to the appetizers in silence. The fragrant steam from the large mug of black coffee being gulped by the young man next to Miss Tinkham was intoxicating.
“We’ll have coffee.” she said to her friends, “with a long night ahead of us…just like when we used to go to night school.”
The first pangs of hunger dulled slightly, Miss Tinkham turned to look at the young man beside her. He had apparently just come from the shower; his blue-black hair was still wet. He had gr
ay-green eyes and a nice sun-tan. When he smiled at Miss Tinkham, she saw that he had one slightly crooked tooth that gave him a rakish look.
“Truckers,” Miss Tinkham said to Mrs. Rasmussen. The young man and the two seated next to him were all dressed much alike; they wore old khaki army pants, knit T-shirts and all wore jockey caps of various hues. The Mardi-Gras Diner seemed to be a clearing house for the coast-to-coast haulers.
“Ma’am, could he have the sugar, please?” Miss Tinkham liked the young man’s voice and his accent; southern but not mouth-full-of-mush southern. More like New Orleans.
“Indeed he may,” Miss Tinkham passed the sugar. “I was just admiring the beautiful tomato plant on your arm.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” he blushed, “but it’s a American Beauty Rose.”
“How stupid of me.” She examined the tattoo with her lorgnette. “Of course it is. Although one might take it for a cluster of hearts springing from green leaves.”
“Where you goin’?” Mrs. Feeley asked with her usual indirection.
“Columbus, Ohio, ma’am.”
“We’re goin’ to San Diego. Never went by car before.”
“You got good roads all the way. Watch out for the cops around Pittsburgh. They’re tough.”
He turned back to his companions:
“I been reading this column right along.” He pulled a clipping from his pocket. “You’d be surprised how many things that guy can start you thinking of.” The man he spoke to wore a red jockey cap and horn-rimmed spectacles hooked on to a beaked nose that at first glance could seem to be made only of papier-mâché.
“Now look what he had yesterday: ‘Pare me a pair of pears!’” His friends said it over and decided they liked it.
“And it’s right! They all sound alike, but they’re spelled different!”
Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen were leaning across Miss Tinkham, beer glasses in hand, trying to figure out what they could be missing. The exercise in semantics was too much for Miss Tinkham.
Wait For The Wagon Page 1
