The Leisure Seeker: A Novel (21 page)

About twenty miles down the road, we pass through a small town called Ash Fork, where I see—
ta-dah!
—a restaurant called the Route 66 Diner. We also spot a beauty salon called Desoto’s with an old purple-and-white car on the roof. Why it’s there, I do not know. Mostly we see long sunbaked lots filled with cut stone. We pass acre upon dusty acre of it—textured fieldstone, bleached fawn and silver, rough-hewn and chiseled flat. It’s piled on skids, on the ground, even stacked vertically, its irregular shapes jutting upward like the skyline of a dozen cities crushed together. One of my books says that Ash Fork holds the dubious title of “Flagstone Capital of the World.” One lot has nothing but huge, oversized steles. Two huge blank slabs in particular catch the glare of the sun, almost absorbing it, but not quite. The brightness is too much for my eyes, even with my sungoggles. I have to turn away.

John is quiet and I am thankful for it. I pick up the cellular phone and dial Kevin’s number. He should be just getting home from work by this time.

“Hello?”

“Kevin. It’s your mother.”

“Mom. Thank God. Are you okay?”

He sounds so worried. I feel a jolt of guilt for making him suffer like this, but there’s no choice. “We’re fine, honey,” I say, putting on an extra-cheery voice. “Everything’s
great
.”

God, am I a big fat liar.

Kevin’s voice, usually a solid baritone, rises as he speaks. “Mom, Dr. Tomaszewski thinks you should come home immediately.”

“Oh, does he?” I say. “Well, tell Dr. Tom to mind his own damn business.”

“Mom, please,” says Kevin, frantically. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Kevin, I am tired of doing what everyone else thinks I should do.”

Kevin takes a long breath. “Dr. Tom says if you don’t come home, you’re not going to last—”

“Damn it, Kevin,
stop it
.” I’m screeching into the phone by this time. I did not call to get all upset. I take a breath myself, try to calm down. “Honey, this vacation is a good thing, it really is. We’re having a real nice time.”

“No, you guys are coming home.
I mean it
.”

I’m surprised to hear this attitude from Kevin. He’s usually not this way, especially with me. “No, Kevin. And I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“I don’t care. We spoke to the State Police.”

I am not pleased with my son. “Kevin Charles Robina, why would you go and do something like that?”

“We didn’t know what else to do, Mom. That’s why.”

I can’t see it, but I know he’s got that mad, pouty look that he gets on his face when he defies me.

“Well, there’s nothing they can do,” I say brightly. “We haven’t broken any laws. Your father has a legal driver’s license.”

Kevin says nothing. The police probably said the same thing to him. Being old is not against the law. Not yet, at least.

“Mom, we tracked your credit card. I know approximately where you are. I’m coming to get you guys.”

“Don’t you dare, Kevin. I
mean
it.” I say this with all the maternal authority I can muster. “Now I want you to stop worrying. We’re both just fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I can hear his voice starting to crack. He’s trying to be strong. John would always tell Kevin not to cry, not to be a big baby, but he couldn’t help it. I would always say,
Stop yelling at him, John. He can’t help it. He’s just sensitive
.

“Sweetie, it doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.”

“If you come back, Mom, maybe you can get better.” His voice is quivering and damp with tears now, a voice that’s all too familiar to me.

“Dear,” I say, suddenly exhausted, “now you’re talking crazy.”

The line cracks and I almost think I’m going to lose the connection, but then it comes back.

John turns to me. “Who are you talking to?”

“I’m talking to Kevin, our son.”

“Hi, Kevin!” yells John, suddenly jolly. I hold the phone to John’s ear. “How’s my big boy?” he says. John listens for a second, then smiles. “Aw, we’re fine. Talk to Mom.”

“We have to go, Kevin,” I say, once I’m back on the line. “Tell your sister we called.”

A long pause. I hear my son blow his nose.

“Will you do that?” I ask.

Another pause. “Yes, Mom.”

He says something else, but I can’t make it out. His voice sounds far away. “We love you both,” I say. “Remember that.”

“Mom? I can’t hear you.”

“Kevin? Kevin? Are you there?” I pull the phone away from my ear, try to find a volume button on it. When I look at the dial, it says:

SIGNAL FADED

Well, I didn’t need all this.

I think about something that happened when Kevin was over at the house a few years back, putting the storm window in the front door. He accidentally cut himself on the door hinge. It wasn’t rusty, thank God, but it was sharp. He walked into the kitchen, blood dripping from his finger. As soon as I saw what happened, I jumped up and fetched a Band-Aid for him. I put a dab of antibiotic ointment on it then wrapped the Band-Aid around his finger, making it just tight enough. Then I squeezed his finger and, without thinking, gave it a little kiss.
That’ll make it better
, I said. Then I looked up and saw a forty-four-year-old man. It had been decades since something like that had occurred between us, yet nothing had ever felt so familiar.

These are the things that squeeze the breath out of me when I remember them. Just when I start to think I’ll be okay with what’s happening, something like this pulls everything apart, leaves me shattered.

We are both quiet for a while after the call. I try very hard to think about something else. “John, there’s a place in Seligman that’s supposed to have good chicken. How does that sound to you?”

“Nah.”

I sigh. “They’ve got hamburgers, too.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Good Lord. I don’t know why I even bother. I’ve had so many hamburgers this trip, I’m about to start mooing.

When we reach Seligman, it looks to be yet another depressed little burg, then we get to Delgadillo’s Snow Cap Drive-In. I read that it was supposed to be different, but I’m not quite prepared for how different it is.

“What the hell kind of crazy place is this?” says John.

“It’s supposed to be fun,” I say, but he’s right, it looks crazy. Painted red and orange and blue and yellow, the place is cluttered with mismatched furniture, old gas pumps, banners, even an outhouse. An ancient flivver is parked next to the door, decorated with claxon horns, flags, plastic flowers, and twinkle lights. There are signs all over the place.

DEAD CHICKEN

CHEESEBURGERS WITH CHEESE

EAT HERE AND GET GAS

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

SORRY WE’RE OPEN

I consider forgetting the whole thing, but there’s a tour bus parked in front of the place, so how bad can it be? Besides, we need a break. Maybe it’ll be fun.

Inside, it isn’t any less crazy. After getting laughed at by all the tour bus people on the patio for trying to get in through a door with a fake doorknob (John was not pleased), I wheel us into a room where the walls and ceiling are covered with calling cards, notes, postcards, and foreign money. It didn’t look as clean as I would like, but maybe it was just all the stuff hanging there.

Behind the counter is a tanned man in his fifties, all eyebrows and teeth and brilliantined hair, smiling like he can’t wait to talk to us. “LOOK!” he yells, then throws a candy bar on the counter.

John and I both look. LOOK is the name of the candy bar. I summon a polite smile. I hear laughing from the people in line behind us.

“What the
hell
is this place?” says John, in a tone that is not courteous.

It doesn’t faze the counterman, whose laugh is somewhere between a yelp and a bark. “Our special today is chicken!” he says, swinging a big rubber hen.

“Don’t wave that goddamn thing at me,” says John.

I see the uneasiness in the face of the man behind the counter.

“John,” I say, trying to smooth things out. “He’s only joking. I think they do that here.”

“This isn’t McDonald’s,” hisses John. I watch the redness
spread across his forehead, down his cheeks. His upper lip twitches.

“Calm down, John.” I avoid the stares of the folks behind us, a family with a little girl.

But he’s riled up. “What the fuck kind of place did you take me to?” he roars, slamming his hand on the counter, palm down. The candy bar trembles.

The counterman is not smiling anymore. He looks shocked and scared. “Sir, you’re going to have to leave.”

“You shove it up your ass!” bellows John.

I grab John’s arm and pull him toward the door. “I’m sorry,” I say to the counterman. “He’s not well.” But there’s no sympathy in the man’s face, only hurt and anger. It looks like he could cry. We’re making everyone cry today. John and Ella just out there spreading joy, that’s us.

John just stares at him, then steers his death ray at me. Fast as I can roll, I push past the little girl, who is about seven, with short sandy hair, big ash-colored eyes, and a barrette with a cartoon cat head on it. Biting her lip, she looks at me pleadingly, not sure what’s just happened.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, honey,” I say, trying to smile at her. She runs forward and pulls open the door for us. I touch her tender arm for a moment and keep moving. Out on the patio, the tour bus people are laughing, oblivious to the scandal that just occurred inside. I whisper to John, “We’ll go somewhere else for lunch.”

“Goddamn right we will,” he snarls.

In the van, John is still muttering. I don’t say anything.
I’m scared of him right now. I bury my head in one of my guidebooks. I read about the stretch of 66 ahead, from McConnico to Topock, leading to California. By all accounts, it’s the most authentic part of old 66 left—long stretches of isolated desert, ghost towns, roaming packs of hungry wild burros, loose gravel on the shoulders, and winding switchback canyon roads.

I direct us onto the interstate.

Ten

CALIFORNIA

We have arrived at our final state. After many hushed, tense miles, the sight of the Colorado River and
WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA
sign make me feel better, despite the fact that I am hellishly tired. We both are, I think. The time changes and crazy hours have caught up to us. The blazing heat doesn’t help, not to mention the fact that the AC doesn’t work at all anymore. And of course, we still have to travel with the windows partially open at all times because of the exhaust. Still, I haven’t suffered all that much discomfort. My trusty little blue pills have seen to that. Ella the crazed dope addict strikes again.

“We’re going to stay in a hotel tonight,” I tell John, trying to sound assertive, though I’m still afraid of him after the episode at the Snow Cap.

“Sure. Good idea,” he says, nice as you please.

We roll into the dreary outskirts of Needles. I will try not to be fussy about a motel, but I know I’ll be miserable if we end up in a fleabag.

“John, there’s a place over there. It says ‘Vacancy.’ Pull in.”

Without a word, John pulls in. I open the door of the van and a big blast of hot desert air hits me and almost knocks me on my fanny, I swear.

John gets my You-Go and wheels it around. I plop my purse in the basket and we head on up to the lobby. As soon as I walk in, I smell something I don’t like. I don’t know if it’s food or body odor or what, but I don’t like it.

“Can I help you?” says the young woman at the desk.

“No, thank you,” I say, turning around. John opens the door for me.

We go into three other hotels like this. I figure if a hotel can’t even keep its lobby clean, how are the rooms going to be? It’s almost 7:00
P.M
. by the time we settle on the Best Western and I’m about ready to keel over. There is no one to help us with our bags, so I have to put mine on the You-Go, which makes it harder to push. Luckily, there’s a handicap space right in front of the hotel by the lobby.

When I get into the room, there’s a delivery menu from a restaurant down the street. I order us roast beef sandwiches and milk shakes, then take my meds and a little blue pill and flop into bed. By the time the food arrives, I feel much better. John turns on the TV while we eat. It isn’t long before I fall asleep.

I dream of our old bungalow in Detroit. It’s nice being there again. Everything is the same. I recognize our old Danish Modern dining room set from Hudson’s, our old couch, I recognize the daisy pattern wallpaper that John hung in the kitchen. I can see the basement that John paneled and that I furnished with early American furniture from Arlens. I don’t even remember looking at these things in the dream, but I know they are there.

In the dream, I’m sitting in Cindy’s old room after she moved out to get married. We never really did anything with the room, but there was enough space for a television and a couple of old chairs. It’s late at night and John is asleep upstairs. I’m with Kevin, who’s about thirteen, and we’re watching Johnny Carson. We were both night owls and we watched
The Tonight Show
every night. I missed having Cindy around the house so it was nice spending time with my son, even though he probably shouldn’t have been staying up so late. But we both loved the comedians—Buddy Hackett, Bob Newhart, Shecky Greene, Alan King, Charlie Callas.

In the dream, we are watching Johnny do his Carnac the Magnificent routine where he dresses like a swami and holds an envelope to his forehead and divines the answers to the questions inside the envelope. Kevin and I are laughing at something Johnny says to Ed about a diseased yak in his sleeping bag.

It’s a wonderful quiet little dream. Me just watching TV with my son in a room filled with old furniture. We’re eating cheese crackers and laughing. The only odd part is the answer to one of Carnac’s questions.

“Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and the Ayatollah Khomeini,” Johnny says, holding the envelope to his turban.

Ed looks at Johnny and repeats,
“Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and the Ayatollah Khomeini.”