Just a Happy Camper

by Jinx Schwartz

  ❋

  Spending the night at a Texas roadside park for the first time raised my apprehension level some, but it turned out to be the perfect place to stop; radio alerts were reporting incidents of eighteen-wheelers being blown over.

  Once parked, just for jollies, I wound up the tv air antenna on the roof and was delighted to get a whole five channels out of San Antonio, three of them in Spanish, but I’m partial to Telenovelas anyhow.

  My jetpack internet was fast, thanks to a booster provided by the Texas Department of Transportation at rest stops. We had enough food on board for a month and, of course, my handy .380 ACP semiautomatic, chambered and at the ready in case an intruder was stupid enough to attempt breaking into an RV that sounded like a zoo.

  Being totally self-contained was an added safety factor, and had I not taken Po Thang for a couple of walks, we wouldn’t have had to leave the RV at all.

  And despite our relatively slow pace, we’d covered more territory in a few hours than we could have in twenty or so hours on Raymond Johnson. So, wherever she was headed, we could get there before she did. I hoped. I could end up crossing into Mexico just about anywhere from Texas to California.

  Settling in for the night, after another quick foray for Po Thang to do his thing, I sent a few emails, watched TV, and fell asleep on the couch. Except for the occasional truck noise, we spent a quiet, cozy, and safe night.

  And, we didn’t drag anchor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Maman Hetta?”

  Okay, being called mama was going to take some serious getting used to.

  “Bonjour, Antoine.”

  We exchanged some pleasantries, he told me about his soccer students, classes he was signed up for in the fall, and then he said, “I have the result of the paternal DNA. Still not that of my father, exactly, but a family tie, perhaps a second cousin? The surname is d’Ormesson.”

  After taking time for a slow breath, I said, “Yes, that is correct. I will contact him. I just wanted you to see the results for yourself first.”

  I didn’t add: Just in case the SOB dares to deny he’s your father. In which case you will never meet him because I will kill him with my bare hands. France doesn’t have the death penalty, after all, and I figure French prison food can’t be all that bad. Maybe they even serve wine?

  “Are you still there, Hetta?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “You know how to contact him?”

  “Yes, but it is a long story. I’d prefer to tell you in person, but I have something I have to take care of first.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Somewhere in West Texas on Interstate 10, headed toward Arizona.”

  “I shall come and meet with you. I have some free time.”

  “I might be in Mexico soon. Will your American tourist visa allow you to cross into Mexico and then back into the United States?”

  “I will find out. Where should I go?”

  “I really have no idea. Do you have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I suggest you start driving toward San Diego, and I will tell you where to find me.”

  “That will be fine. I shall leave tomorrow morning.”

  After we ended the call, I told Po Thang, “Why do I have the feeling a major kerfuffle is upon us?”

  “Ruff.”

  “Ack! Ruff! Kerfu…Oberto!”

  “Put a lid on it, Trouble. Po Thang and I are trying to think.”

  “Woof.”

  “So, should I just go ahead and call Jean Luc?”

  At hearing Jean Luc’s name, Po Thang wagged his tail. “Voof!”

  “I see you haven’t forgotten your French. Okay, I’ll call at our next stop. But remember, it was your idea!”

  “Voof?”

  ❋

  I drank a hearty Malbec while writing notes as to exactly what I’d say to Jean Luc. Actually, it was a script: He’d say, “Oui, ‘allo?” I’d tell him who was calling, then calmly inform him he had a twenty-year-old son he knew nothing about. Piece of cake, right?

  By the time I finished the second glass, I convinced myself I was all set to go. I checked the time in Paris. Perfect! Maybe I’d catch him asleep and unload my news bomb on him before he fully regained consciousness.

  One sip into a third glass, Jean Luc, in that extremely sexy accent of his said, “Hetta! I hope you are calling to tell me you have changed your mind.”

  Well crap. I forgot he knew my cell phone number. And changed my mind about what? Oh…that.

  “Hetta, are you still there?”

  “Uh, yes. And, non. I am still in love with Jenks.”

  “Ah, more’s the pity. My heart yearns for you.”

  Oh, yeah? I thought. Put on your seat belt, Dear Boy, I’m about to give that cheatin’ heart of yours a bumpy ride. I pictured myself as Bette Davis delivering a similar line from her staircase.

  But I froze, unable to speak. Maybe I overdid the wine bit?

  “Hetta, ma petite chou-fleur, just hearing your voice warms my soul.”

  My carefully scripted “Come To Jesus” spiel went to hell when he called me his little cauliflower. It’s a French thing.

  I finally babbled, “Jean Luc, you lousy rat, you broke my heart and ran off and left me pregnant and now you have a son at Stanford named Antoine and he wants to meet you and I’m…” I finally took a breath, giving him an opening.

  “You are what?”

  “Drunk.”

  Our conversation was mostly on his side from then on, with copious weeping on mine.

  ❋

  I hung up with Jean Luc, texted his phone number to Antoine, and told him his father awaited his call.

  Of course, Antoine called me back immediately. Not wanting to sound all weepy, I willed my voice to normal before answering. “Hi, Antoine.”

  “Oh, thank you so much. But does my father not wish to first see the DNA results?”

  “No. Jean Luc is delighted and excited to find out about you. He is, I have to admit, a good man.”

  “But, he deserted you.”

  “Honestly, I think if I had located him and told him about you back then, things would have turned out much differently. For all of us. I have a tendency to underestimate people.”

  Like my parents, I thought, but didn’t say so.

  “I will call right away. I am packed and ready to leave to meet you, so I will be on the road first thing in the morning. Please tell me where you think you will be.”

  “Probably still in Texas at the rate I’m moving. Just head south and I’ll call when I hear from Jenks. The last I heard my boat was just leaving a place in the Baja called Santa Rosalia.”

  “Your yacht? Je suis confus.”

  Well, hell. Antoine didn’t know about my yacht going sail about.

  “Never mind. I’m the one confused. Too much wine. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  I put my phone on DO NOT DISTURB and took a long nap before daring to drive again.

  ❋

  Two cups of strong coffee after my snooze, and I was ready to tackle the highway for a few hours more. I checked my phone and saw Jenks had called twice during my nap, and he’d left a message to call him immediately.

  “Where are you, Red? I was worried.”

  “I took a nap. It’s a long story. What’s up?”

  “Boat’s on the move. Headed north toward Bahia de Los Angeles.”

  “Okay, I’m still in Texas, headed west, but might make New Mexico today.”

  “I’m still not sure you should…never mind. I know better than to try and change your mind once you’ve made it up. I just wish you weren’t alone.”

  “I won’t be soon. Antoine is on his way south to meet me.”

  “Great. Have you heard from Jan?”

  “I was about to call her. Why?”

  “Just wondering where Chino’s kayak expedition is setting up.”

  “I think she said San Felipe, just south of the border on the Sea of Corte
z . I’ll call and ask for more details. Keep me posted on where Raymond Johnson is.”

  “I can do better than that. I’ve set up the Raymond Johnson tracker on one of my websites where we keep tabs on a customer’s location. So long as Nacho doesn’t somehow turn off your SeaSystem, we’ve got ‘em in our sights.” He gave me the website’s URL and password.

  “Okay, I’m gonna check it out right now. Love you.”

  “Me too.”

  After I hung up it occurred to me that Jenks might also be tracking me. Something to keep in mind, huh?

  ❋

  “Hola, Chica,” Jan greeted when she picked up my call. “What’s the haps?”

  I told her about the website for tracking Raymond Johnson, and that Antoine was on his way from Stanford to meet me. Then I asked, “Is your expedition base camp being set up at San Felipe?”

  “Yes, but we leave pretty soon after everyone arrives. Our first stop will be Gonzaga Bay. I’m on my way to San Felipe now, but I gotta take the long way ‘round, since the damned hurricane flat ruirnt Mex 5.”

  “I saw the photos. What a mess. I hear some folks are still using it.”

  “Not this girl. I just can’t chance it with all our supplies. I’ll have to do Mex 2, but that’s just as well since I’m meeting a provisioning truck in Ensenada at Costco. We’re feeding and watering almost thirty people, three times a day for a month.”

  “Thirty grumpy folks after the first week, I’d wager.”

  “Oh, we’ll have dropouts. That first week is wimp-weeding time. I looked at their profiles and can almost guarantee who they’ll be.”

  “Do you have extra kayaks?”

  “Why? If you’re thinking of joining us, I have to add you to the top of the wimp-out list,” she teased.

  “Hey!” I protested, but she was right. Kayaking is my least favorite water activity. I mean, I like floating around reefs watching fish and stuff, but what’s the big deal about ruining your rotator cuffs while sitting in a puddle of cold water? And with no toilet or bar? I’d take a forty-five-foot yacht any day.

  “I just thought Antoine might join you for part of the trip if he has time. He’s fascinated with the Sea of Cortez.”

  “Cool. And yes, we’ll have extras. Okay, we’ll be getting organized in San Felipe for the next couple of days, then, weather permitting, shove off for a shake down paddle to Gonzaga Bay, just a few clicks south.”

  “I’m on my way, Chica.”

  “We’ll pick up extra rations.”

  ❋

  After hanging up with Jan, I texted Antoine to meet me in Yuma, Arizona. “I’m rolling along pretty well, but driving this RV, I don’t see myself there before tomorrow, and maybe even the next day.”

  “I will be there when you arrive. Can you suggest a hotel?”

  “This time of year, you’ll have your choice. The snowbirds are moving out about now.”

  “What is this snowbird?”

  “People, many in RVs, who stay in Arizona and other warm places for the winter before heading north for cooler climes in the summer. Like birds, they follow the weather.”

  “Ah, yes. Jet-setters.”

  This son of mine has a lot of learning to do when it comes to his new culture.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the time I made it as far as Deming, New Mexico, I was plumb done for the day.

  I needed a place to plug in for the night, dump my tanks, and get a solid night’s sleep.

  Just a few miles south of Deming was Palomas, Mexico, known for the Pink Store; a place where lots of Gringos cross over to eat lunch and shop. When I was planning Trouble’s illegal flight into the US, I’d made notes about border towns where he could easily cross, and Palomas was one of them.

  I did some research and zeroed in on LoW-Hi Ranch RV Park in Deming, because it was pet friendly and had great reviews. Also, if Nacho changed direction during the night, I might have to cross into Mexico earlier than I thought, and Palomas fit the bill.

  Once I was settled into my space and plugged in, I took Po Thang for a nice walk, which invigorated me, as well. There was a fenced off dog area, and two other dogs were wrestling over a toy, so I let him inside and sat with the other pet parents while the dogs worked off some energy.

  The owner of the mutts, an older gentleman dressed in cut-off jeans and a tee shirt with a Harley Davidson emblem on the back, offered me a beer from his small cooler, which I gratefully accepted. “We got pizza tonight in the mess hall if you’re interested. Five o’clock or so. Cost you five bucks.”

  “I’m not even sure I can stay up that late. We’ve been on the road for several days and I’m beat.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “San Felipe, Baja. You ever cross over at Palomas and driven that way in Mexico?”

  “Oh, hell no. Not many safe places to stay on that route. Sounds like you’re in a hurry, and with so many miles to cover, I’d stick with Interstate I-10 and then I-8 to Yuma if I was you. Lot faster that way, and you can drop down and cross at Mexicali.”

  We talked a bit, I learned he was a widower who lived full time at LoW-Hi, which turned out to be headquarters of a group called, Loners On Wheels. He’d spent a few years RVing around the US with the group after his wife died, and now stayed in Deming.

  After a few minutes I yawned and apologized. “Sorry, not the company, but the road.” I stood and called out, “Po Thang, sorry dude, we gotta get back to the RV before this beer hits and your mama goes to sleep on this bench.”

  Evidently, he’d gone stone deaf.

  “I mean it, Furface,” I warned, raising my voice.

  All three dogs gave me a quick glance and then went back to tussling.

  “Give me his leash,” the man said, “and I’ll bring him back when they get tired, or I run out of beer.”

  I didn’t hesitate. Giving him my space number, I gratefully went back to feed Trouble and get into my jammies, then fell asleep on the settee until a knock on the door woke me.

  Still half asleep, I opened up and found my dog and my new friend. The man was holding a paper plate high over his head while Po Thang whined at it.

  “Pizza delivery!”

  I could have kissed him.

  ❋

  “They’re still moving,” Jenks said when I answered the phone the next morning as I was pulling out of the LoW-Hi RV Ranch.

  “I know, I just checked the website, but didn’t have time to do any calculations.”

  “Already did ‘em. Once Raymond Johnson cleared the Santa Rosalia Marina, they’ve been averaging about five knots. I wonder why they’re going so slow?”

  “Dunno. I know they can refuel at Bahia de Los Angeles, but after that, nada until San Felipe, so maybe they aren’t counting on refueling at all, but instead making a round trip to Santa Rosalia. There are a few jerry jugs of diesel on the boat, so they might be carrying an extra fifty gallons or so.”

  “So, again, why did they slow down, do you think?”

  “I wouldn’t bet my life on it, but they could be running one engine at a time, switching them every two hours to save fuel. We’ve done it plenty of times when fuel is scarce. By doing that they can get to…where? I’m driving, and my brain hurts from too much thinking, so you run the numbers. You know the boat as well as I do.”

  Jenks can add, subtract, multiply, and divide in his head twice as fast as I can with a calculator, so I let the wheels in his head turn as I drove back toward I-10 West. I knew there was a Pilot station in Lordsburg, New Mexico, where I could top my tank off. At ten miles to the gallon, the RV’s fuel consumption was starting to get my attention and I get a five percent discount at Pilot stations thanks to Good Sam, and then another kickback on one of my credit cards.

  “Okay, let’s say Nacho continues at five knots per hour. Sounds like he can get somewhere around four hundred and fifty miles before Raymond Johnson goes dead in the water.”

  “Hey, don’t use the word dead when referring to my home
.”

  “Have you had coffee yet?”

  “No, I ran out. You can tell, can’t you? I’m headed to Walmart right now to stock up. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay to be grouchy. You’re tired and worried.”

  Is Jenks a great guy, or what?

  “Just call me Grinch. Wait, what if Nacho refuels in Bahia de Los Angeles?”

  “Then why would he be running at five knots?”

  “I’m so glad one of us can think straight. I’m going to do my best to make it to Yuma post-haste, so I hope to shout Nacho isn’t headed for Bahia de Los Angeles. Mex 5 is a nightmare after that last hurricane and I’ll have to backtrack from San Felipe to I-8 and then down Mex 1. My money is on San Felipe, anyhow.”

  “My conclusion, as well. You aren’t planning on going to Yuma today, are you?”

  “No, Arizona allows overnight parking at roadside rest areas, so we’ll drive until I drop, then pull in for the night.”

  “Hetta, at the risk of getting my head bitten off, why don’t you just wait and see what Nacho’s up to?”

  “Consider yourself head-bitten. Honestly, Jenks, it’s a gut feeling thing. Can’t explain it.”

  “You have good instincts. You don’t always follow them, but hey, they’re there.”

  I laughed. “True dat. Antoine will meet me in Yuma, so I’ll have company and we’ll have an extra car.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. I’m really looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Speaking of…”

  “I’ll be back in the States before you know it, Hetta. Talk to you later. Love ya.”

  “Me too.”

  “Woof?”

  “Yes, that was Jenks, Mr. Thang. He says howdy.”

  “Ack, howdy! Howdy! Oberto!”

  “And he mentioned you as well, Trouble,” I lied.

  I pulled into the Walmart parking lot, unbuckled, rummaged in the kitchen cabinets, and gave them both a treat to keep them happy while I shopped.

  The things you do for your kids.