Norman turned the key in the ignition. Flam jumped into the famous front passenger seat.
Molly walked back up the aisle. “Caroline, I don’t care where you sit, but you can’t sit in that seat. The navigator sits there. I am the navigator —”
Sweet Caroline blinked and Molly finished.
“I am she.”
THE WEIGHT
Written by Robbie Robertson
Performed by The Band
Recorded at A&R Recorders, New York, New York, 1968
Drummer: Levon Helm
They were four on the bus. From Santa Fe to Albuquerque, no one spoke. Then they picked up Route 66 and started west. “I want to make Flagstaff, Arizona, by dark,” said Molly. “No stops.”
“We need gas,” Norman pointed out. “And we need to call home. We haven’t called in two days and now we’re near telephones and they’ll be awake soon in Charleston.” He almost sounded like himself. She knew her mother would be beside herself with worry.
They entered a brilliant red landscape — red mesas, red rocks, red roads, red sand — all under the brightest blue sky Molly had ever seen. She wished she had a pair of sunglasses. They pulled off the road onto the dirt parking lot at a gas station on the Laguna Pueblo reservation outside Albuquerque. A sign on the square adobe building said HANZIE’S. Under that, HUNTING LICENSES SOLD HERE.
Victor stayed on the bus, but everyone else exited. “We’ll be right back,” said Molly. Victor didn’t acknowledge her. He took off his jacket and looked out the window at the basketball hoop nailed to a backboard against a telephone pole. It was missing its net.
Molly wanted to ask Norman how their money was holding out, but she didn’t want to ask in front of Sweet Caroline. She called home from a pay phone near the only bathroom.
“We were ready to send out the National Guard!” said Janice with such relief in her voice Molly almost cried. That would not do.
“We’re fine, Mom. We couldn’t find pay phones in the mountains, but now we’re about to drive across the Arizona desert and then we’ll be in California. Almost there!”
“I’m going to call Pam right away,” said Janice. “She’s still in Atlanta with The Aunts. You know how positive she is, but even positive people worry.”
“Is Lucy still there?” Molly asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Janice. “But the boy who was there left.”
This news made Molly sad.
“Everything is just fine here, Mom,” Molly repeated. “Nothing to worry about. The bus runs great. We’re eating and sleeping and seeing the country. Nothing to worry about.”
“Call tonight if you can,” said Janice. “Let us know where you land.”
“We will,” Molly promised. “Got to go, Mom. Norman’s pulling out!”
Hanzie saw them off. “We don’t get too many strangers through here, now that the interstate is taking over,” he said. “Nice bus.”
“Thanks,” said Norman. “Thanks for everything.” He climbed on board and saw that Victor was finishing his burger. He put his napkin and the burger wrapper neatly into the paper sack it came in, rolled the top down, and put it on the seat next to him. He glanced at Norman, who nodded to him. Then he looked out the window.
Sweet Caroline came from the direction of the bathroom. “You know where we need to go, Norman,” she said.
“Where’s that?”
“Disneyland!” She giggled.
“I don’t know,” Norman began.
“I do,” said Molly. “No.” She had six bottles of Coca-Cola in a carrier. She opened the ice chest and began to wedge each bottle into the ice.
“I really, really want to go to Disneyland,” said Sweet Caroline. She sat in the navigator’s seat, remembered her orders, and moved across the aisle. “Please, Norman?”
“I knew she wanted something.” Molly shoved the sodas into the ice, closed the ice chest, and shoved it between the seats.
“What are you talking about?” said Norman. “Stop that.”
Sweet Caroline pouted.
Victor stared out the window at someone burning trash in a rusty barrel nearby. “Orange groves,” he said. “Disneyland. Orange groves.”
“Yeah?” said Norman.
“Disneyland was built on acres and acres of orange groves that were bulldozed to make the park,” said Sweet Caroline. “I saw it on a television show!” She beamed at Victor. “Acres and acres of orange trees! Gone.”
Victor blinked at Sweet Caroline as if he was connecting that fact to a memory. “I see orange when I dream,” he finally said. “Clouds of orange fire. Then black.”
No one, including Sweet Caroline, knew what to say to that, and Victor didn’t seem to mind. He fell silent and looked back out the window.
They made good time across the Arizona desert on Route 66 and the new stretches of Interstate 40.
“Look!” chirped Sweet Caroline, cheered by every mile that brought them closer to California. “Watch for Elk!”
“Wow,” said Norman. “Elk.” Sweet Caroline smiled at him. He used the student mirror to keep a watch on Victor, but there was no need. Victor slept, his jacket under his head for a pillow, against the window.
Molly had read every one of Barry’s letters by flashlight in her tent, then returned them to their box in Multitudes. She had searched them for any clue to Barry’s whereabouts, but they held none. They were rants about their father, orations on the war, bombasts about music, but nothing about Barry’s life or what he was doing or how he was feeling, where he lived, who he had met, when he might come home. They had made Molly sad. Barry hadn’t asked about his sister, either. He just needs to be reminded that his family loves him, she thought. We are getting close.
The heat lulled her to sleep in her navigator’s seat until she realized with a jerk that it might do the same to Norman. She opened the ice chest and passed out sodas and then cups of water from the melting ice. She dug out a camping bowl for Flam and poured him some water, too. Sweet Caroline, who had long ago removed Molly’s skirt, made herself useful dipping one of Pam’s washcloths in the cooler‘s ice water and dripping it dramatically around Norman’s neck and shoulders.
“Stop that,” said Molly.
“It helps,” said Norman. He put the washcloth on top of his head. “Thanks.” He really wanted to close his eyes, but he also wanted out of this desert. The radio and Molly’s transistor played only static and no one felt like a sing-along. Molly packed the transistor away in her suitcase. It had been a bad idea to bring it along.
“Look!” Sweet Caroline became animated in her seat. “The Petrified Forest!”
“Perfect,” said Norman. He pulled into the Visitors’ Center parking lot.
“Far out!” said Sweet Caroline. “Not Disneyland, but still, petrified everything!”
“We’re not stopping,” said Molly.
“I just need a minute,” Norman said. “It’ll be air-conditioned.”
It was. The building was modern and beautiful, with glass walls and shiny floors and people everywhere. Smiling families dressed in their vacation clothes. Mothers carrying purses. Fathers wearing sport shirts and slacks. Kids with haircuts and clean clothes. They looked nothing like the kids Molly had just left at the Aspen Meadow. She’d had to make Sweet Caroline put on her skirt. She’d coaxed Victor inside as well. They let Flam out to run.
They spent a restorative half hour refrigerating themselves, drinking from the water fountains, stretching their legs, looking at the exhibits, pretending they were going to spend the day there. Victor had a bench to himself as adults guided their children away from him. He never said a word until they got back to the bus. Then, as Norman wearily climbed on board and Molly began opening windows again with Sweet Caroline’s help, he said, “I can drive.”
Norman raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think so, man.”
“Yes,” said Molly, making the decision for them instantly. “Thank you, Victor. I’ll navigate. We’re headed for a campgroun
d outside of Flagstaff. Norman, get some sleep. We’re two and a half hours out.”
Norman looked at Sweet Caroline. Sweet Caroline looked at Norman. Molly clapped her hands together once and got Norman’s attention.
“Give Victor the keys,” she said.
Victor shrugged. “I drove a tank in Nam. I can drive this bus.”
Norman scrambled off the bus and stalked past some onlookers who were staring at Multitudes’ portable canvas. Molly followed him. When they were far enough away for comfort, Norman wheeled on his cousin.
“That guy’s not even conscious!”
“Neither are you!”
“I’ve just driven halfway across the state of New Mexico, and halfway across Arizona! He slept the whole way!”
“So he’s rested!”
“Why are you on my case? Yesterday at the hot spring, last night’s disappearing act, and now this —”
“Because you’re being an idiot!”
“Because I go swimming with a bunch of kids? Because I win a bus race? Because I have a dog? Because I have a girlfriend?”
“She wants something, Norman.”
“She wants me.” His voice caught on the words.
“She doesn’t.” Molly saw Norman’s face begin to fall. She softened her tone. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, Norman, but she doesn’t.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know you’re too tired to drive.”
Norman rubbed his hands up and down on his face. He scratched his scalp vigorously with both hands, which made Sweet Caroline’s ridiculously small T-shirt ride up and down on his soft belly.
“What’s the story with this guy?”
Molly wasn’t ready to tell. “Let’s just say he’s a body in need.”
Norman sighed and looked at the bus. “Fine. You’d better know what you’re doing, Molly.”
“Somebody had better,” she said.
They watched parents taking Polaroid pictures of their kids standing in front of Multitudes. The kids were dissolving in laughter, posing and making funny faces, raising two fingers in peace. “Sock it to me!” said one kid. “Veeery interesting!” said another.
“Wimps,” said Norman. He wiped at his eyes. “They should have gone hiking on the Appalachian Trail.”
Molly sighed, relief in her voice. “Yeah. They’re squares.”
“She likes me,” said Norman.
“Let Victor drive,” replied Molly.
Norman handed her the keys. They climbed into their chariot and raced across the high desert.
THE LETTER
Written by Wayne Carson
Performed by the Boxtops
Recorded at American Sound Studio, Memphis, Tennessee, 1967
Drummer: Danny Smythe
Thirty-five miles out of Flagstaff they passed Meteor Crater Road, and Molly thought of Drew finishing camp in Little Rock and flying to Vandenberg Air Force Base in California, earnest Drew missing the Meteor Crater and the Clark Telescope. She’d forgotten about them. UNITED STATES NAVAL OBSERVATORY FLAGSTAFF STATION said a sign. She watched it wink past them.
Norman had snored through the hours. He woke as they stopped in the high elevations surrounding Flagstaff with its snowcapped peaks in the distance, mountainous evergreens, and red soil. They replenished their supplies, bought real dog food for a happy Flam, and decided to keep going. Victor was a very good driver and easily threaded the on-and-off nature of driving both Route 66 and the freshly finished sections of the new Interstate 40. They finally stopped for the night in Kingman, Arizona.
Victor made the campfire while Norman set up the tent. Flam stuffed himself, wandered in and out of the campsite, sniffing and exploring, and finally flopped under the picnic table, spent. Sweet Caroline helped Molly fry bacon in a giant iron skillet, slice potatoes into the grease, fry them until they were golden brown, then drain the grease and add a dozen eggs to the mix until they were set like a pudding. “Fritatta!” she proclaimed triumphantly.
Molly decided to accept that this concoction was called frittata. They ate the entire skillet between the four of them and then quartered an apple pie. “Just needs ice cream,” cooed Sweet Caroline.
They all took showers to wash off the dusty day — days. Norman took Flam into the showers with him, and the dog came out shaking and rolling in the pine needles. Molly washed two loads of laundry in the campground washers and Norman strung a clothesline between two trees. Their lawn chairs were by the fire, but they all sat at the picnic table with one of Aunt Pam’s tablecloths covering it and a lantern to light as night fell.
Victor looked like a different person. He was tall and skinny, like Norman, and the khaki slacks Norman lent him almost fit. He had said little beyond what he’d told Molly on the Square in Santa Fe before he boarded the bus.
“Where are you from?” Norman asked as they let their supper settle.
It took him so long for Victor to answer, Molly thought he wasn’t going to. He stared at his empty plate, then broke his silence. “I don’t remember my life before.”
“Before?”
“Before.”
No one spoke.
“It’s not important,” said Victor.
“It is!” said Sweet Caroline. She had been sitting too close to Norman, who didn’t mind, and now she reached her hand across the table for Victor’s. He withdrew it before she could touch it.
Norman hesitated, then asked, “Was it … horrible?”
Molly opened her mouth to answer, Of course it was horrible, you moron! then shut it.
“You are all very nice,” Victor finally said. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Molly tried to make her voice gentle. “Why not?”
Victor sighed. His wet hair had waves in it as it dried. It hadn’t been cut in a long time. He must have had a razor in his paper sack, for he was freshly shaven. The food and the shower and maybe the company seemed to have revived his spirit some.
“I slept in an old car in Santa Fe,” he said. “They towed it. But I had a bush to sleep under, too. And the side of a building off the Square. I knew those places. I had friends there. We shared whatever we found — food, blankets, medicine, cigarettes.”
“We can be your friends, Victor,” said Sweet Caroline without hesitation.
“I don’t know this place!” Victor said with sudden alarm in his voice. “And I can’t go home!”
Molly and Norman exchanged a glance.
Sweet Caroline looked stricken. “I can’t go home, either,” she said softly.
“Why not?” whispered Norman, almost to himself.
“I have bad dreams,” Victor added. His voice cracked.
“You’re safe here,” Molly said. She was sitting next to Victor and wanted to put a hand on his arm, but didn’t dare.
As if he knew it, Victor moved over to put a little more distance between them. Then he licked his lips as if he did want to talk but wasn’t sure what or how much to say. He looked at his baggy pants and his jacket hanging on Norman’s clothesline and said, “I had a future.”
Sweet Caroline began to cry. Victor stood up and took two steps backward.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Sweet Caroline shook her head. “No, no, it’s not you.”
Victor began to walk away. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his slacks pocket.
“My cousin’s being drafted,” said Norman quickly. “We’re trying to find him. We’re on the way to San Francisco. You’re welcome to ride with us as far as you want.”
“We’re stopping at Disneyland,” said Sweet Caroline. She sniffed and wiped at her tears.
Molly rolled her eyes. “We are not.”
“We must,” said Sweet Caroline. She collected herself and seemed to make a decision. “That’s why I’m here.”
“What?” Norman stood up now.
“Is your cousin really being drafted?” asked Victor.
“Just a minute,” Molly said. “I’ll be rig
ht back.” She brought Barry’s letters out to the fire. “Please,” she said to Victor, indicating a lawn chair. “Sit. You can smoke here.”
“Where did you get those!” Norman spluttered.
“You know where I got them.”
“They aren’t yours!”
“They’re written by my brother, and you didn’t even tell me you had them on this bus!”
“You didn’t ask!”
Victor covered his ears. “No more war!” It came out as a wail.
Immediately, Molly changed her tone of voice. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Victor. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, man,” said Norman. “I’m sorry.” Then to Molly he said, “It’s fine.”
“I know it is,” she snipped.
Sweet Caroline was next to Victor now. She touched his arm and he flinched. “Sit,” she said in such a gentle yet insistent voice she could have been Victor’s sister. “I’m going to comb this tangle of hair.”
Molly held her breath. Norman stuck his hands in his pockets and watched. Victor looked Sweet Caroline in the face, and she smiled at him warmheartedly, openly, with no guile.
Victor hesitated but finally sat in a folding chair. Sweet Caroline got her comb off the picnic table and stood behind him. She began at the very tip of his long hair with tiny, careful strokes. Victor jerked at her touch but Sweet Caroline said, “Shhhhh … Shhhhh … ” and little by little, Victor relaxed under her ministrations.
Norman was stunned. His hair was too short for Sweet Caroline to comb or even wrap her finger around, and he missed her touch already, even as Victor seemed comforted by it. He thumped into a lawn chair.
Molly remembered to breathe. She sat in a chair and began to read Barry’s letters, beginning at the beginning. She had meant to keep them to herself, but maybe they would help Victor to know he wasn’t alone.
I don’t believe in the domino theory … We have no business in Vietnam … A bunch of old guys telling us young guys to go to some foreign country and kill people … Why? What have the Vietnamese people ever done to us?
Anthem Page 20
