Misisipi

by Michael Reilly

  Scott agreed, “Yeah. Travelling solo has its compensations.”

  “Why are you solo?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said, looking wistfully at his feet, “to tell the truth, I bailed on my M-E program bout three weeks ago, just before my exams.”

  “M-E?”

  “Engineering. I graduated last year. Jumped straight into the masters. Guess I ain’t equipped to cut it. Haven’t gotten the nerve to tell my Dad just yet, so here I am.”

  “I’m sorry, Scott. I’m sure he’ll understand.” Julianna put a consoling hand on his arm.

  “Maybe. I dunno. I guess he’d just find it hard to learn that I’ve got… ya know… limitations. Or maybe how I was doing the wrong thing all along. Might blame himself for railroading me into it.”

  “A good father would scoop his boy up and tell him he was proud of him, no matter what,” she said. “And a good son would never be afraid to admit his weaknesses and fears to him.”

  Scott nodded, still avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “There’s a little body shop round back,” she said. “I’m sure they’d have your car going in no time. Plus there’s a payphone inside. You could call your Dad. At least let him know you’re ok.”

  “Yeah, it might be the thing to do,” he puffed.

  “And then you’d have a choice. Onward west or homeward east. One of life’s true crossroads, to wherever it might lead.”

  They locked eyes. Hers were deepest brown, their cores as coal-black as her hair. Scott now noticed how close-set they were, unusually so for a girl. They made her long angular face a compelling study. Knowing he shouldn’t stare, still it seemed to him she didn’t mind.

  “What do you think I should do?” he asked.

  Julianna bit her lower lip. “I’m not really the best person to take advice from.”

  He leaned closer. “I’m just asking. If you were in my position, what would you do?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Sure. I’ll catch your lifeless body before it falls.” Scott held his arms as a cradle. The hairs on them fizzled as, unexpectedly, Julianna grasped his hands in hers.

  “Honestly,” she shrugged, “go west. Go make every stupid mistake you can. Get it over and done with before it takes root and festers. Shake it out of your system. Then go home and settle down. Embrace normality and convention. And never look back.”

  He stiffened. “Wow. Sounds like you’re talking from heavy experience.”

  “No.” She released his hands. “Just perceived wisdom. I really don’t have any of my own to give. Sorry.” She smiled apologetically.

  “That sounds like ‘Goodbye’ too,” he sighed. “But you’re right. I ought to let you get back to your friends.” Scott rose from his seat and Julianna quickly gathered herself out of his way.

  “Are you gonna be ok, Scott?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He nodded manfully. “You’re right. It was stupid to come out here. The car’s not up to the trip. Maybe I’m not either.” He glanced everywhere—anywhere—but where her attention was trying to catch his.

  “I don’t believe that for one instant. Maybe you just haven’t decided on what you want or expect to find at the end of the road. I really hope you don’t think that of yourself. Or that I think it of you.”

  He forced himself to look at her, offering his hand in parting. “Thanks for helping me up here. I really appreciate it.”

  They shook awkwardly. “Ok. Make sure you get that belt fixed, ok?” she said. “Get the tank filled and drive carefully.”

  “I will.” He released her hand, immediately feeling the pang of separation.

  “Ok.” Reluctantly, Julianna walked toward the Rav4. Scott was still watching the desert as she stopped and turned.

  “Scott. Do you have enough cash?”

  He scrunched his eyes shut. Oh man.

  She marched back and glowered her disbelief at him. “You don’t, do you?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I didn’t, til now. We’ve been talking for—like forever. You are wasted. You ought to be inside getting something to eat. I was hoping you’d buy me a soda. You’re supposed to buy me a soda. But you never moved from your seat the whole time.”

  “I’m just getting my breath.” He glanced sheepishly at the ground.

  “Really?”

  “I was figuring out if I should phone Dad or my mentor back in Albany. I had enough change to do as much.”

  “God! And then what? What were you going to do? Stand out on the road and beg?”

  “I dunno. I woulda figured something out.”

  “Why didn’t you just say? You could have asked, you know.”

  “And said what? Start hitting you up for cash? You don’t even know me.”

  “And you would have let me go? Gotten yourself stuck here? And I would never even have known that you were in this predicament.” Julianna ploughed her fingers through her hair. “How do you think I would have felt?”

  Scott pursed his lips. “Well, you wouldn’t have known, wouldya? You would have been gone.”

  “Which is what?” She planted her hands on her hips and raised her head to confront him. Though she was considerably shorter than him—perhaps 5’3”—she seemed to grow an entire foot taller. Or maybe he was shrinking under her scorching pique. “You were trying to get rid of me?”

  “Eh. Yeah. No, I just mean I didn’t want to burden you with my problems.”

  Julianna paced on the spot, considering his excuse, never taking her arms from her hips. She looked down, watching her feet shift in their bright green sneakers. Finally, she shot him a withering stare.

  “Well,” she announced, “I reckon I saved your ass, which means you owe me. I own you now. So stop with the ‘burdening’ crap. I’m buying your silence on that score.”

  She unzipped the belly bag on her waist and found her wallet. The moment she produced two $100 bills, Scott shook his head steadfastly.

  “Stop it,” she barked. “It’s not a charity thing. It’s a trust thing. I give you this cash, it’s a good deed. You’ll get to LA in one piece so I won’t be worried for you. Whether or not you pay me back is up to you. You aren’t under any obligation to. If you do, I get the cash back and I still saved your life. If you don’t, I saved a life that’s forever tarnished as ungrateful.” She softened this reprimand with a smile.

  Reluctantly, Scott accepted the notes, holding them up, quietly willing her to reconsider.

  “Take them,” she insisted. “It’s a thing done.”

  “How will I get a hold of you? Where are you staying in LA?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I haven’t made any arrangements. I don’t even have a telephone number.”

  “Well, that’s a big help to me.”

  She prodded his chest. ‘Well, do you know where you’ll be, Mister I’ve-Got-A-Quarter-For-A-Phone-Call?”

  “No,” he shrugged. “But haven’t you got a cell?”

  “No way. Have you seen the price of those things? Do you?”

  “No. I just thought—”

  “Jonathan’s rich for a reason, Scott. Don’t mistake my generosity for his profligacy.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I snapped. I didn’t mean to. It’s just…” She squished her face, concentrating.

  Scott watched the way her lower lip disappeared into the pensive grip of her teeth, her eyes drifting back and forth, increasingly pausing on his as they passed. She murmured to herself, “When I get settled, I’ll need to let you know my telephone number. How to? How to?” Her voice trailed off, the moment suddenly shattered by her yell so shrill it made Scott take a step back. “Eeee! I know. Yah-Me! I’ll leave my number somewhere safe for you to find it.”

  “In Los Angeles?” he laughed. “It’s kinda a big place. I don’t know anyone there. Do you?”

  “Actually yes. Do you know Merle Oberon?”


  “Who’s he?”

  “Not he. She. She’s—was—an actress. I really love her. She died a few years ago. She’s buried in LA. I don’t know where exactly but definitely in the city. I saw a documentary on her on PBS.”

  “Not in any shape to pass on a message then, is she?”

  “Speak well of the dead, Mister. She has a grave, right? It’s a location we could both find separately.”

  “So you’re gonna leave a note under a rock in the middle of her grave?”

  “No. I’m sure someone would find it and toss it. She’s very famous, probably got fans always fixing up her plot, you know, just like those people you see shining the stars on the sidewalks. They’d think it was just trash.”

  “What then?”

  “Well, a note wouldn’t work. But the rock by itself might. Look at these.”

  She foraged in her belly bag and produced a neat leather pouch. She undid the tie, itself a length of leather cord, and extracted a small stone.

  “What’s this?” Scott asked, accepting it from her.

  “Navajo fetish stones, from a craft store we stopped at in Seligman. They’re so beautiful, the bag too. The lady explained what the markings mean. I think this one”—Julianna spread his hand open and flipped the stone right-side-up in his palm, revealing a delicate etching on its face—“is for prosperity. Good hunting and all that.”

  As she turned the image to herself, Scott felt the tips of her fingers charge his skin where they touched.

  “How appropriate,” she giggled. “You better hang onto it. You’ll need it to recognize the others.”

  The stone in Scott’s hand was disc-like, about the size of a quarter. It was bulbous at its center, flattening to a roughly-finished edge around the rim. Dark tan in color, the intricate symbol scored into it was emphasized by the bright mustard lines carefully painted inside its fine grooves. The symbol itself comprised of a pair of close-set parallel lines, broken at matching intervals by a single dot each, three breaks in all.

  “Is it Morse code?” he asked.

  “They’re deer tracks.”

  “Heap um small deer,” he joked.

  She swatted his chest. “Be respectful, paleface. This is from a culture older than the pyramids. You’re gonna put a juju on this.”

  “Sorry. You said ‘others’.”

  “Yup.” She emptied several similar stones into her own hand.

  Scott said, “So what’s the plan, Pocaha—” Julianna glowered and, wisely, he cut himself off.

  “It’s simple,” Julianna began. “A telephone number has seven digits, right?”

  Scott nodded.

  “So, when I get my bearings in LA and—specifically—a phone number where you can reach me, I find out which cemetery Merle Oberon’s grave is in. That’s something you can do at your end too. Voilà, we have common ground. That’s step one. So far so good.”

  “And step number two?”

  “I take the remaining stones and place each strategically on other graves in the same cemetery.”

  “Strategically?”

  “Keep up, Mister Engineer. Graves have headstones, right? What do headstones have on them?”

  “Names. Dates. Numbers. Ok, lots of digits. I follow ya.”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to do. A single one of these won’t look out of place on a grave. No one’s gonna mess with it. These are easy to spot. Say I put them… bottom-left corner of the plot.”

  “Not so hidden I won’t see em,” he suggested.

  “Well, sure. Discrete enough so no one else will notice them. Only you”—she brushed her finger teasingly across the tip of his nose—“will be expecting them. You can find them quickly enough before they ever get disturbed.”

  “So,” Scott continued, “I find the stones. Then what?”

  “Ahhh,” she gasped, “here’s the masterstroke. One stone per grave. The grave where you find it will give you a number from the headstone. The number on the headstone will be a number from my telephone number. I’ll place them to correspond. Seven stones. Seven graves. Seven digits. One telephone number. I’m a genius! Thank you. Thank you. You’re all much too kind!”

  Scott was hesitant to share her enthusiasm. He wanted to argue how the whole thing sounded quite lame, a very convoluted solution to a very simple problem. They could just make an arrangement to meet at some agreed time at some well-known landmark in LA, couldn’t they? Such as… well, there was the problem. Nothing suitable sprung to mind right then. He was sure that was just an effect of the heat. And her. And she was still talking! He snapped back to her patter.

  “—they’re all movie stars so I’m sure the graves must be mega-normous. There can’t be that many in a single cemetery.”

  “No. No,” he muttered, playing conversational catch-up. “I mean. Seven little stones. Should be a cake walk. Which number?”

  “What?” she snapped.

  “On the headstones. What part of the date are you gonna use?”

  “Oh.” She thought for a second. “Let’s keep it simple. The very first number written on the headstone. Whatever is the first digit that you encounter as you read it.”

  Scott squinted one eye shut, evaluating her logic, his head tilting left-right as he worked it through. When he opened his eye, his smirk had a knowing smugness. “Hmm. I bet I can guess your phone number. Right here, right now,” he declared.

  “How could you?” she asked, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “Even I don’t know it yet.”

  “It’s 1-1-1, 1-1-1-1.” He fisted her shoulder playfully.

  “That’s not a telephone number. In LA, don’t they all start with 5-5-5 or something?” She returned the push, firmer.

  “Only in the movies. What’s usually on a person’s headstone, Einstein?”

  “Err. Their name. And then some dates: born-on, died-on, sometimes the age but always the other two. We’re using the year part. I’m trying to keep this simple for the intended audience.” She jutted her chin out defiantly.

  “And?” Scott lowered his head, challenging her to figure out the flaw.

  “And? What?” She touched her forehead to his in combat-joined.

  “And when are most people born, Julianna-with-two-Ns?”

  “On their birthdays, Scott-with-no-end-to-all-his-complicating-this.”

  It was much too good a comeback and Scott leaned back, laughing heartily. She put her hands on his shoulders and joined him as they howled at their mutual silliness. Her laugh was deep, a bawdy cocktail of gasoline and champagne which intoxicated Scott as it washed over him.

  “Oh boy, I kill me,” she hooted, wiping away tears with the ball of her palm.

  “Ok,” Scott continued. “I meant, when you look at the first digit in the year that most people in a graveyard were born on, what’re you most likely to see? The very first number?” He held up one forefinger to clue her in.

  “Oh.” Realization dawned on Julianna. She put her finger to her mouth but couldn’t suppress a final chuckle.

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “Everyone will have been born in the 20th Century—or earlier—but all will be in One-Something-Yada-Yada. You’ll get the same first number on every single one.”

  “Gotcha,” she mouthed silently.

  “How about,” Scott suggested, “instead of the first number, use the last, from the year they died. All bounda be different, right? So 1997 gets you a 7, et-cet-era, et-cet-era.”

  “Ok, Yogi.”

  Scott restated the plan, much more enamored of it now he had perfected it. “Ok. So, Pearl Oberon. Wherever she’s buried. You place the stones on certain graves where the last number of the year they died coincides with a digit from your telephone number. I find the stones, put the numbers together. I give you a call. You get your 200 bucks back.”

  “Merle Oberon,” she corrected. “And you can pay me back the difference after you buy me that soda—if you want to. Hey, will you do me a favor and bring the stones back? They are special. I don’t
much go in for souvenirs but this is my first time out west. I’d like the keepsake.”

  “Of course. I’ll keep this one,” he said, clenching the single stone in his fist. “You have your seven to prepare your treasure hunt with, yeah?”

  Julianna counted the remaining stones. “Oh no. There’s only six here. This isn’t enough.”

  “Here.” He offered his back. “I think I can remember what they look like.”

  “No!” she snapped, abrupt enough to startle him. “It’s not fair.” She directed a plea skyward. “Why couldn’t there be eight? It’s as many as I’d need.”

  “Julianna,” Scott tried to reassure her, “take this one. I won’t need it. Honestly. Committed to memory.” He tapped his head.

  “No, Scott. My thought was to give you it. I want you to have it. I guess it means you’re meant to have it. I know it sounds pretty kooky. Sorry. Guess I’m just an old mystic at heart.”

  “Well, that still leaves you one short.”

  “No. It just means the number seven picks itself. Somewhere in the mix it has to be there.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced herself but she hoped he would miss that.

  “And if it doesn’t?” There was no trace of male smugness in his tone now.

  “It has to. Otherwise…” She took his fist and clasped it within her own hands, an irrevocable transfer of the first stone. She couldn’t believe how she felt like crying. God I’m so lame, she thought. She said, “Otherwise, you’re 200 bucks to the good and you’ve had a lucky escape from the mad Indian pebble woman of Arizona.” Her laugh was tinged with a brave acceptance of a possible bad end.

  “You can count on me,” Scott swore. “And lucky seven. I’d be burned bones here by the end of the week if you hadn’t helped me, a total stranger. I promise, I’ll repay you the—”

  Julianna stepped forward, quickly cancelling the space between them. Her body eased up, rising against his as she stretched high as her tippy-toes allowed. She speared her outstretched arms either side of him, her elbows leaning on his broad shoulders. Behind his head, she brought her palms together and spread her touching fingers to a five-pointed star to watch over him. She didn’t dare clasp them. She knew she would be lost if she locked herself to him. She knew if she allowed her fingers to find his neck, her arms to encircle it, it would bind her to this moment forever and to him, whom she might never see again. So she simply kissed him. Like a gentle swell rippling and dancing over the ribboned sands of a shallow shore, her lips caressed his, nothing more. One kiss, or more accurately, the allusion to the illusion of a kiss.