Thou Shalt Not Road Trip

by Antony John

  He lowers his voice. “What do you want me to do? Ditch Fran in the middle of the desert?”

  “That’d be a good start.”

  As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back.

  “You willing to share that thought with your fans at the next event? Or do you save the nasty stuff for family and former friends?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, you did. You just don’t want to admit it.”

  He heads inside while I grab my backpack and stumble along behind him.

  The foyer is small and cramped. Lightbulbs flicker uncertainly. Matt nods his head in the direction of the only corridor and stops at the first of two open doors, where Alex is waiting for him.

  “It’s not exactly the Empress Pasadena,” she says.

  Matt kisses her on the cheek. “Hey, it’s got a bed. That’s all we need.”

  He punches my arm in what I assume is an undergraduate gesture of farewell, and disappears inside.

  There’s a framed print just inside the door of the next room: a photo of the motel by day, dirt-brown mountains rising in the distance. It’s an alien landscape, not so different from Ludlow and Amboy.

  “Your bed’s there.” Fran’s voice drags me around. She’s here, in this room—as though she’s planning to stay.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m getting ready for bed.” She sounds bored. “You?”

  “But… you can’t… I mean, not here. Not with me.”

  “I’m not going to share your bed, Luke. There’s two, see? I have standards.”

  I run out of the room and bang on Matt’s door. A long while later, it opens. Matt’s already shirtless, which reveals his unnecessarily muscular chest.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “I can’t use that room.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why do you think?” I whisper. “Because Fran is in there.”

  “So? There are two beds.”

  “Uh-uh. Can’t do it.”

  Matt rolls his eyes. “You’re sharing a room with her, bro—not a bed. If it’s such a big deal, get another room.”

  “What’ll I tell Colin? That the two of us need three rooms? I think he’ll work out we have company, don’t you?”

  Matt sighs. “What do you want me to do? I mean, you can use our spare bed, but if you keep Alex awake all night with your snoring, she’s gonna be really pissed. And I should probably warn you that Alex and me, uh… kiss a lot.”

  He pulls a face like the thought of kissing grosses him out, and I take a step back. By the time I’ve gathered my wits he has closed the door and locked it.

  In the other room, Fran is sitting on the far bed with her back against the headboard. There’s a tiny bottle of a clear liquid in her right hand. Every few seconds, she sips from it robotically.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s um…” She squints at the label. “Huh! It’s vodka. Who knew?”

  “You’re sixteen. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that since I started drinking this little bottle, I no longer feel like sticking my fist through the window. You should be pleased.”

  I’m cemented to the spot, unable to take a step toward the Girl Formerly Known As Fran. She responds with a roll of her black-rimmed eyes and another long swig from the bottle.

  “Are you trying to get drunk?”

  “Trying, no. Succeeding, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because drunks feel less.”

  “Feel less what? What happened to you?” My brain is wired, but my voice is barely a whisper. “What went wrong?”

  “Rhetorical question. Love–fifteen,” she says, reprising a game we used to play when we practiced debating.

  “Please, Fran. We used to talk all the time, remember? In Andy’s office—plans for events, and fund raisers, and Bible study programs, and retreats, and Sunday school excursions. We prayed together. We made a difference together. How could you throw that away?”

  “Presumption of guilt. Love–thirty.”

  So this is how it’s going to be. It breaks my heart, but at least I’ve had a year to get over the shock.

  “I’m not going to fight you, Fran. No matter how rude you are.”

  “That’s a personal attack. Love–forty.”

  “But you were rude this afternoon. What you said to me and Teresa, that was unfair.”

  “Why? I was only telling you what you wanted to hear.” She forces the corners of her mouth into a smile, but doesn’t look at me. “Such a shame you blew it. She was completely your type—couldn’t have been more perfect for you if she’d tried.”

  “She’s no different than you used to be. Are you trying to tell me this is an improvement?”

  “This?” Fran’s eyes lock on mine. “Is that how you think of me now? Not even a person anymore.” Her voice is raw, and I know I’ve finally elicited a genuine response. On some awful level it feels like progress.

  “Don’t forget—I know you, Fran. I’m willing to help if you’ll let me. I want to help. But not when you’re drunk.”

  Fran downs the rest of the bottle. When she’s done she claps her hands together in mocking applause. “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

  “I’m not the prosecution.”

  “Course you’re not.”

  “You know what, forget it. I’m not staying when you’re like this. I’ll sleep in the hallway.”

  Fran jumps up and hurries past me. “Mais non! You’re the famous author. The celebrity. You can’t be roughing it on the floor. You deserve feather pillows and fresh sheets and flights of angels singing freakin’ lullabies.” She barrels out of the room.

  I hate hearing the venom in her words. I hate feeling defensive. But most of all, I hate how relieved I am to see her leave. “You’re wasting a break point,” I remind her.

  She stops dead and turns to face me, lank hair draped across her eyes. “You know, it’s possible to lose even when you win. Anyway, I can tell when I’m not wanted. I’ve had a lot of practice this year.”

  Fran shuffles down the corridor and turns the corner, out of sight. I don’t know where—or even if—she’s planning to sleep. I’m worried about her, and in the silence of the room I wonder if I could have handled things differently. The author of Hallelujah ought to do better than that.

  I guess I should follow her; but what would I say? She doesn’t want me around—I’ve had a year to work that out—and so maybe it’s best if I give her space, let her cool off.

  I brush my teeth and head to bed. But all I can think about is Fran as she used to be: the carefree smile, the entrancing eyes, the breezy movements of a dancer. And I don’t sleep at all. Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to.

  Sleep would mean letting go of that vision.

  MONDAY, JUNE 16

  Realizations 6: 5–9

  5. And then he found a quiet place, where there was very little noise; almost silent, with no noise at all. 6. Except for the idling buses just outside the wide-open windows. And the screaming students released from school for the day. And the jackhammer from the construction site across the street. And the airplane circling overhead, preparing to land. 7. Thus did he realize that it wasn’t actually silent. Not technically, anyway. But yet did it seem so to him. 8. And in that moment he realized the silence was not around him, but inside him. 9. And he thought, “Whoa. That’s actually pretty cool.”

  5:30 A.M.

  Tailfin Motel, Route 66, Arizona

  Matt doesn’t settle for knocking on my door; he hammers it repeatedly until I stagger out of bed and unlock it for him. Outside, the sun is just beginning to rise.

  “Dude, you look like crap,” he says.

  “I only just went to sleep.”

  “Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You and Fran made up then, huh?”

  “What? Oh, my—no!” I try to wash the thought away. “She’s not even here. S
he left last night.”

  “And you let her?”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Stop her!” He grips the doorframe. “She’s sixteen, and we’re in the middle of freakin’ nowhere. What if something’s happened to her?”

  He’s got me worried now. I pull on yesterday’s clothes, and together we sprint along the corridor, but there’s no sign of her. The foyer is empty too. We run outside and scan the parking lot; still no sign of her. We approach the Hummer and peer through the windows.

  Fran is fast asleep, sprawled across the massive backseat.

  “Guess I forgot to lock the car,” Matt says.

  I’m about to bang on the window when he stops me.

  “Let her sleep, bro. Whatever’s going on with you two, tiredness isn’t going to help.”

  “So why did you wake me up? It’s dawn.”

  Matt thinks about this. “Arizona’s a beautiful state. I’d hate to miss out on seeing it. Besides, there’s this great detour—”

  “Detour? What do you mean, detour?”

  Matt raises his hands. “It’s sixty miles, I swear. It’s so worth it.”

  I’m suspicious of the word detour, but as there’s no signing today, I decide to let it slide. All the same, as I head back inside to grab my stuff, I can’t help wondering how a sixty-mile detour could ever require a 5:30 a.m. start.

  6:30 A.M.

  Peach Springs, Arizona

  After breakfast in Peach Springs we hit the road again. The yawning emptiness of Route 66 stretches before us. I’m ready to get to Flagstaff, check into the hotel, and finally get some sleep.

  Instead we take a left turn.

  “This isn’t Route 66,” I say.

  “No,” says Matt, “it isn’t. This is the detour I told you about.”

  “I thought Route 66 was the detour.”

  “Nope. This is Highway 18. Beautiful, huh?”

  Beautiful isn’t the word I’d use. Remote, perhaps. Or scary. If this stretch of road had one of those Route 66 neon signs, it would probably say Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

  Alex interrupts my thoughts by cracking open her guidebook. “This sixty-mile stretch used to be a two-day journey in the nineteenth century,” she reads aloud. “Microclimates mean that you can pass from warm sunshine to snow in the space of only a few miles.” She pauses so we can share her excitement.

  Okay, maybe scary isn’t strong enough. This is the kind of road where you can break down and the search-and-rescue crews won’t find your decomposed body for months.

  It doesn’t take me long to lose my bearings. The road hugs cedar-covered hills, and is engulfed by giant pines as it rises to higher elevations. Every now and then there’s a break in the trees and I can see clear through to the mountains beyond.

  We push on through the wilderness, slowing down occasionally to gawk at a few ruined buildings dotting the roadside. Just as the sameness is lulling me to sleep, the trees end, the road descends, and we’re on a plain. It’s like a first grader drew a map where the woods stop dead at the line where the plains start.

  “That’s incredible,” says Fran, speaking for the first time all day. “It’s like someone drew a line and said ‘trees here, plains there.’”

  It’s as though she read my mind. But then, we used to think alike all the time; it was uncanny.

  Fran turns to me. “It is amazing… isn’t it?”

  I don’t know if she really means for me to answer that; she sure didn’t care much for my opinion yesterday. When I shrug, she purses her lips and mimes opening a cell phone. “Hey, it’s God,” she says, holding out the imaginary phone. “He says if you can’t appreciate this, then what’s the point?”

  “The point of what?”

  She looks away and studies the landscape. “Of everything.”

  Alex hastily reopens her book. “This kind of open range is rare, and sometimes— Oh, it says that cattle have right-of-way, so slow down, Matt.”

  Matt grunts and lets the speed fall by about one mile per hour.

  Out here it’s impossible to get a sense of scale. The mountains on the horizon could be in another state, for all I know. The highway is still deserted. We haven’t passed another car all day.

  In yet another dramatic change of scenery, the road swings left and right and the plains give way to solid rock walls and plunging gorges. I check my seat belt as we pass within a few feet of a seemingly bottomless drop.

  “It says here that the road eventually passes through sheer rock walls and deep gorges,” says Alex, head still buried in her guidebook.

  For a moment no one responds, but then Matt starts laughing, and I do too. Even Fran snorts. “Well, thank God for the guidebook,” says Matt. “We’d be screwed without it.”

  Alex looks up suddenly and takes in her surroundings. When she makes the connection, she laughs. And then we’re all laughing together, sharing in her silliness. It’s such a relief. Maybe this detour is a good thing after all.

  We slow down, and Matt announces that we’ve arrived. I can see he’s right—we’re in a parking lot, and ours isn’t the only vehicle here, not by a long shot. But we’re still in the middle of nowhere.

  We all clamber out. “Uh, Matt, where are we?” I ask.

  “The end of the road. The rest is on foot, so get your hiking shoes on.”

  “What hiking shoes?”

  “Sneakers, then. Just not those,” he says, pointing at my black leather shoes. “Oh, and I’d only bring a toothbrush and a change of clothes, if I were you. Just what you absolutely need for an overnight stay.”

  “A what?” Even Fran seems surprised.

  “Just trust me, okay?” Matt sounds simultaneously amused and irritated.

  “What about my book signing?”

  “It’s not until tomorrow. Hey, you’ll thank me for this.”

  I’m pretty sure I will not be thanking him, but the alternative is to spend the rest of the day and night by myself in a parking lot in the desert. So I grab my whole backpack—no way I’ll risk leaving it in the car—and accept when he offers me a liter of Gatorade, and then another. And another.

  “Exactly how far is this place, Matt?” I ask.

  “Not far. I just don’t want you getting dehydrated.”

  I take a sip from one of the bottles. It’s lemon-lime, my favorite. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, no worries.” He claps a hand on my back. “Gotta look after my little bro, right? Anyway, I couldn’t afford to get you airlifted out of here even if I wanted to.”

  9:40 A.M.

  Havasupai Trail, Supai, Arizona

  Fran is enjoying this, I can tell. The first mile of rapidly descending switchbacks was just a gentle warm-up for her, whereas I feel as though my knees have been used for batting practice. My quad muscles provide all the stability of Jell-O.

  Now that the rocky path has leveled out somewhat, Fran’s calves, toned from another year of cross-country running, flex with each step. She peers over her shoulder at frequent intervals to check that I’m not lagging too far behind—or maybe to check that I am. I’m not in the right shape to be doing this. My gym teacher says I have the physique of a long-distance runner, but he just means that I’m skinny as a rail. You wouldn’t be able to find my calves with a microscope. I have the cardiovascular fitness of an obese guinea pig. And I’ve already downed two liters of Gatorade just to stop from keeling over.

  “Easy, bro,” Matt shouts as I uncap my last bottle.

  “I’m thirsty,” I fire back. “Anyway, it can’t be much farther, right?”

  Matt opens his mouth, closes it again, and finally settles for an ambivalent shrug.

  “Right, Matt?”

  He stops walking and waits for me to catch up. “Think of all that our Lord endured,” he says solemnly. “And you’re getting worked up about a four-hour hike?”

  “Hold on, did you just say four hours?”

  Matt shakes his head in disgust. “And you call yourself
a Christian.” He chuckles as he rejoins the others just ahead of us.

  “I can’t hike for four hours, Matt. Not in this heat.”

  Alex and Fran turn away from the brewing argument.

  “Then just sit by the path,” he says. “There’s a mule train that passes by every day.”

  “You mean, I could hitch a ride?”

  “Sure.” He scratches his chin. “Unless there’s no room, in which case you’ll be vulture fodder by lunchtime.”

  Now that he mentions it, there are large birds flying overhead, and odd sounds echoing around the rust-red canyon. The path ahead of me is clear, and I have company, but on my own I’d be dead meat before nightfall.

  “Come on,” says Fran. She pats my arm, and then stares at her hand as though it acted without her permission. “Remember the cat flap, Luke. What goes around comes around.”

  Is she really comparing this situation to a passage from Hallelujah? Especially that passage. Our house doesn’t even have a cat flap, and I’ve never broken curfew. Is she suggesting I deserve this somehow?

  “Thanks for the support,” I say, and Fran half smiles, like she can’t even detect the sarcasm in my voice.

  11:50 A.M.

  Havasupai Lodge, Supai, Arizona

  I’m out of Gatorade and I’ve consumed two of Matt’s energy bars by the time the village of Supai comes into view. It’s nestled on a plain between canyon walls—beautiful, in a remote way.

  I slump down on a step as Matt heads inside the lodge. A few minutes later he emerges and leads us to our rooms. We check out the first of the two neighboring rooms: no TV, no phone. We’re in the land that time forgot.

  I claim the bed nearest the door and flop down onto it.

  Matt clears his throat. “We’ll meet in the café in thirty minutes. Got to get our energy levels back.”

  Being horizontal feels really good. “I might be in the shower,” I tell him.

  “Don’t bother. You’ll be sweating like a pig again this afternoon.”