Firefly Island (11 page)

Dustin waited patiently until I was done. “That oughta take care of it.” He slid my sack across the counter. “It flushed out everything at our place but the scorpions. My stepdad had the feedstore order some stuff for that, but I can't remember what it's called.”

I didn't answer at first. I'd allowed myself to be momentarily lulled by the ambiance of the hardware store. The soft light from the second-story windows made the place seem quiet and contemplative. I was thinking that hopefully by the time I got back to the house, Daniel would be there, and he could do the steel wool stuffing and bug bomb detonation. This was a job for a real man, and now was as good a time as any to get over the tiff we'd had. Daniel and I fighting wouldn't help anything. . . .

That one word yanked me back like a bungee jumper.

Scorpions . . .
Did he say
scorpions
?

“What?” Scorpions lived . . . well, somewhere on the Discovery Channel, didn't they?

“They're not, like, the deadly kind or anything. They just sting really bad.” Perhaps Dustin could see the blood draining from my face, or perhaps my eyes bugging out tipped him off to the fact that he was face-to-face with a woman on the edge of hysteria. Suddenly he was in a big hurry to help the guy shopping for plumbing supplies in the back of the store. “The scorpions are more over on our side of the lake, I think. Anyway, have a great day.”

He was gone before I could gather Nick and my sack of ammo. I walked out the door, watching the ground and thinking of old western movies filled with wicked-looking creatures with lightning-fast curly tails.

Before pulling out of the hardware store, I texted Kaylyn.
Hardware store guy just told me the scorpions are mostly on the other side of the lake. Wondering if this qualifies as good news . . .

Looking down the main street of Moses Lake, I considered finding the feedstore and asking for more particulars, but on the theory that focusing on a problem can create it where it doesn't exist, I decided to head for home before I learned anything more about what might be hiding in the shadows there when I arrived.

The everyday kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines.

—Charles Kuralt
(Left by Dan and Theresa Lohman, touring Texas in their vintage motor home)

S
tanding there looking at the tire, I had a terrible, horrible sinking feeling. This was bad. Very, very bad. The U-Haul was tipped askew, the rubber part of the tire hanging in shreds on the metal inner portion. Even I, who knew not beans about cars and trailers, knew that flat tires didn't end up in this condition unless you'd been driving on the flat for a while.

I recalled my father berating my mother for something similar years ago, telling her she should have stopped and called for roadside assistance instead of remaining on the highway, obliterating the tire, and ending up marooned in the center median on the way home from one of my sister's cello lessons. “Well, how was I supposed to know?” she'd insisted, her eyes big and tear-filled. “I thought if it really needed to be changed, a buzzer would go off or a light, at least. The car should—” sniff, sniff, a delicate dabbing around the eyes, an attempt to salvage mascara, and then—“say something.”

My father, saint that he was, lost his angry look and laughed instead. “Mar . . . ger . . . ie,” he coughed out between puffs. “Sweet . . . heart.” And just like that, he was
taking her in his arms and soothing away the trauma of the tire incident.

“I swear, she gets away with everything,” Trudy, thirteen-going-on-thirty then, muttered in my ear. She was mortified that her friends might have seen us being delivered home in a tow truck with Mother's car dragging along behind, little tufts of grass hanging from the axle. “If
I
did that, I'd be grounded for, like, the rest of the year.”

I didn't really understand Trudy's complaining at the time. I couldn't relate to my sisters' tendencies to be strangely jealous of how much my father loved my mother. I never coveted my mother's role or admired it. My father's role looked better. He was the one in charge. The decision-maker. The one whisking off to exotic locations in private jets and limousines.

But now here I was in an empty parking lot, having clearly pulled
a Mom
, as Trudy had liked to refer to incidents like this.

I looked around as Nick tapped his window from inside and enthusiastically inquired, “We gotta fat tire?”

Then I felt like a total ignoramus. Even a not-quite-four-year-old could diagnose the problem. I'd heard the scraping sound back there, felt the U-Haul weaving around since Nick and I had left the house to drive to Moses Lake. I'd assumed it was the wind, or that the trailer was wobbling because the road was bumpy. Stupid. Really stupid.

“Uh-huh,” I answered. “Do you know how to fix one?”

“Okay.” Nick began wiggling out of his seat belt, happy to give it a try. His Hot Wheels cars had flats all the time. How much different could this be?

“I think we'd better call your dad.” I leaned into the car to grab my phone, popping it off the car charger.

Nick, halfway out of his safety harness, rolled his head back and yawned, studying the ceiling as I stood in the driver's
side door and tried repeatedly to get Daniel on his cell. No answer. I left messages, texted, waited, muttered, complained, then finally gave up. What were the odds of finding a wrecker in this town? Could wreckers even tow a broken trailer?

I tried staring at the mangled tire some more, hoping to shame it into repairing itself. Unfortunately, I'd killed it beyond dead. And I was no U-Haul expert, but I did know that there was no spare tire for the trailer. Daniel had grumbled about this fact when we were at the rental place back home. The attendant claimed that was because spare tires tended to mysteriously vanish before trailers were returned. If we had a breakdown, we were to call the U-Haul hotline number for help. I wondered how far, exactly, the nearest U-Haul roadside assistance mechanic might have to travel to reach me in a church parking lot in Moses Lake. I had a bad feeling this was not going to be a quick process, and right now the folder with the U-Haul numbers in it was sitting on the counter in the ranch house.

“Where all them kids go?” Nick asked, when he saw me looking at the building. The place was quiet and empty now, the park along the lakeshore deserted. We could walk back to the hardware store, hang out until Daniel finally noticed that we'd been trying to get in touch with him. My new friend Dustin would probably help us out. . . .

I shared the plan with Nick, and he frowned, giving me a tired look. The red rims around his eyes testified to the fact that it was well past his usual nap time.

“All right, here we go.” Before striking out, I attempted one last, desperate call to Daniel. He didn't answer, and in some inexplicable way, I felt my irritation transferring to him. He could have unhooked the U-Haul before he left with Jack West, at least. Hadn't it even occurred to him that Nick and I would need to go to town for lunch and some groceries? He'd
clearly been away from the house for hours, and he hadn't even called to check on us?

My mother's advice flew away like a sparrow with an alley cat on its tail, and I stood there stewing, resentful and abandoned.
He couldn't explain to his boss that he needs to go home? That he has a family to take care of? That we have to get the house into some kind of shape for us to sleep in it, and . . .

A rusty red four-door pickup with some sort of a cage on the back rolled into the parking lot, derailing my personal tirade. Holding Nick's hand, I turned and watched the vehicle veer in our direction. When the angle of the sun changed, I caught a glimpse of the driver. Cowboy hat, tall, thin. A child was sitting next to the driver . . . a little girl with ponytails . . . no, not a girl. A dog. In the back of the truck, a larger animal of some sort was circling in the cage. Shading my eyes, I tried to see what it was.

“Wook!” Nick pointed enthusiastically. “It's a g-raffe!”

“That's a . . . llama, I think. . . .” Although I was just guessing, too. The black-and-white polka-dotted creature was like nothing I'd ever seen. I didn't know llamas came in two-tone.

“Ohhhh,” Nick breathed. “Woooo.”

The llama stuck its nose through the railings as the vehicle stopped, and the cowboy got out, followed by the dog. “Flat tire?” The voice was barely audible over the rumble of the truck's idling engine; however, I quickly realized that the driver was not a cowboy, but a cowgirl—a tall raw-boned woman wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt and jeans that looked like they might have come from the men's department. Her cowboy boots were covered with dust and dried mud, and a ring of dirt around her straw hat testified to the fact that it had been sweated in a time or two. Her long, gray-tinseled brown hair was braided behind her back, and the tail hung over
her shoulder, the end bound with a green rubber band that appeared to have been salvaged off a newspaper somewhere.

With a strange fascination, I watched her approach, the dog trailing behind her, heeling perfectly, though there was no leash. I'd never seen anyone quite like this ruddy cowgirl woman before. She moved across the parking lot, loose limbed and relaxed, but all business, in a country sort of way. “Got a flat tire?” she asked again. She tipped her head to one side slightly, and so did the dog, as if both thought I might be a little daft.

I realized I'd been so busy looking at her that I hadn't answered. “Yes, yes, I do have a flat tire. Mangled, actually.”

Nodding, she gave me little more than a cursory glance before proceeding past me to get a better look at the leaning rental trailer. Nick and I followed in her wake like tourists having spotted a movie star in some Hollywood restaurant. “Yeah, they don't put spares in these rentals, either,” she observed with an obvious note of disgust, then leaned over to take a look at the tailgate of the Jeep, where the vehicle's spare was hanging. “Well, that thing won't fit it.”

“No, I didn't think it would.” As if it had even occurred to me that the Jeep had a spare tire of its own. I wouldn't have known what to do with it, anyway.

Glancing up and down the street, the cowgirl woman sucked air through her teeth, a critical sound, I thought, and I wondered if it was aimed at me. Strangely enough, the animal in the back of the truck made the same noise, showing teeth that looked startlingly human. Nick slipped from my hand to move a few steps closer. “I wanna see,” he whispered.

“Don't go too close.” I watched him from the corner of my eye as he moved toward the pickup one tentative step at a time.

“Trixie won't hurt 'im,” the cowgirl said, shooing Nick
onward. “She likes kids. She's my pettin' llama for school visits, that kinda thing.”

“Oh.” So it
was
a llama, and llamas did come with polka dots. I'd learned something today as a result of the flat tire fiasco. My father had always said that an experience you learn from is never a complete waste.

Nick moved closer to the pickup truck and stood with his hands on his hips, looking up at the llama. The llama looked down at Nick, pressing its nose to the bars as Nick squinted to get a better look at the animal's teeth.

“It's okay, you can pet her,” the cowgirl told him. “Al Beckenbauer.”

I realized she was introducing herself to me.

“Mallory Everson.” I reached out to shake her hand, and she crushed me in a big, bony grip that reminded me of Jack West's. Beneath her leathery skin, lean forearm muscles bulged. I tried to gauge how old she was, but it was impossible to tell. Somewhere between forty and sixty, but she probably looked older than she was. Her skin was sun-freckled and latticed with tiny dry-weather cracks. Her face was free of makeup, other than maybe a little ChapStick. She had an air of confidence and self-sufficiency that, quite honestly, made me feel sort of froufrou and incompetent. Wimpy, really. I'd never thought of myself that way before, but Al Beckenbauer was intimidating. I had a feeling she changed her own flat tires. Probably barehanded, without a jack, and she undid the bolts with her teeth.

When I pulled my fingers away, I fought the urge to shake the circulation back into them. Sweat dripped down my back, and I wondered at the quickest remedy for my current predicament. If it didn't cost too much, maybe I'd just pay to have the thing fixed and not say a word to Daniel about it. I was an idiot for having done such a number on the tire. “Any
chance there's someplace here in town that could put a new rubber part on the . . .” My grasp of the proper terminology lacking, I settled for, “ . . . thing?” What was the metal part inside the shredded rubber called, anyway?

Al shook her head, her salt-and-pepper braid slipping off her shoulder and tumbling down her back in a heavy coil. “Not here in Moses Lake. Ranchhouse Tire probably has replacements this size, but that's over in Gnadenfeld.”

We went on to discuss options—call U-Haul for a repair, unhook the trailer and leave it here, or leave both the Jeep and trailer behind . . .

A school bus rumbled into the parking lot and drifted to a stop near the edge where a thick patch of forest cast heavy shade. As Al and I watched, a line of children appeared like wood sprites from among the trees. At the head of the group, a young woman in a long denim skirt walked backward, a hiking stick waving in her hand as if she were directing an orchestra. The kids watched her with rapt attention. “Five plus two!” she called out, and the kids returned, “Seven!”

“Three plus three!” she called, and the crowd answered, “Trixie!” Though not in unison. The math lesson was down the tubes the minute the kids spotted the llama. Anarchy broke out with a chorus of excited squeals, cheers, and pleas of “It's Trixie! Can we go see Trixie? Hi, Trixie! Trixie, I love you! Trixie! Trix-eee!” Even the teenage helpers at the back of the line seemed excited to see Al's llama.

Trixie and the truck were soon surrounded by fans, and Nick disappeared in a squirming mass of little bodies. I was struck by the fact that he was right at home almost instantly, laughing with the other kids and pointing as Trixie pressed her nose through the bars and offered a llama smile.

The teacher crossed the parking lot, greeted Al, and introduced herself to me—Keren Zimmer. Keren was a beautiful
girl, with soft features and wide, kind brown eyes. Her thick blond hair was coiled in a bun on the back of her head. Like Al, she wasn't wearing any makeup, but she didn't need any, either.

“Keren's your other side-pasture neighbor,” Al offered brusquely. “You've got Keren's family on your west fence line, and my ranch on your east fence. 'Course, with all the land around that place you're on, it's quite a ways to the fences.” The last statement had a hard edge that reminded me of my chat with Pop Dorsey in the Waterbird store. Whenever the West Ranch came up in conversation, there was an undertone of taboo.