The Middle of Somewhere (3 page)

So when the dust settled after Gee's ambush, Pop asked again, “Where's your mother?” While I told him, Pop frowned. When I finished, he smiled. “How's that for timing? Just when you need me, I'm here. Ronnie, call that lady and tell her she won't have to take you to the hospital. When do we have to be there? Eleven? That gives us a few hours—let's put this house in order. Her bedroom's a wreck, right? Always is. We'll clear a path to the bed. Hey, Gee—buddy” (my brother was a little pouty after being yelled at) “gimme five.”

Being head of the family for the last twelve hours had
taken its toll on me—there's supersize and then there's way outtasize. So when my next of kin sailed in and masterfully took control, I almost burst into tears.

But instead, I burst into activity.

In a couple hours, the kitchen and living room were neat as a pin, and Mama's bedroom, though still chaotic, was organized chaos. “Like the U.S. government,” Pop said when I mentioned it.

We thought alike: when he said, “Let's move her sewing machine to the corner and stack all her storage bins here,” it was exactly what I would have done. When a pile of hatboxes toppled over and hit him on the head, he found a better place to put them. He made the same kind of busywork jobs for Gee that I often did, just to keep him out of our way while we did the real thing.

I'd never known Pop that well before; he'd never stuck around long enough. But after a few hours, I was starting not just to know him, but also to look up to him.

“Now!” he said finally, shaking the dust mop out the back door. “It's time to bring your mother home from the hospital in style.”

“In style” meant in a Coachman Freedom RV: Chevy chassis and motor, twenty-three and a half feet long, space to comfortably sleep four, with a thirty-two-gallon freshwater tank and a six-gallon water heater, reclining cockpit seats, oak cabinets, six-speaker AM/FM and CD player, smoke and CO2 detectors, microwave, three-burner range, shower—

“And a itty-bitty toilet!” Gee exclaimed, checking it out. “I have to go!”

Pop said no, so after a short trip to our own bathroom we were on the road, headed for the hospital—though I wished the trip could be a little longer, like coast to coast. Even a fifteen-mile ride in the reclining swivel seat made me feel like I was rolling along in a palace. “How'd you get it, Pop?” I asked once we'd turned onto the highway and reached cruising speed. “I mean …” None of his next-big-thing businesses had exactly paid off for him, but I didn't know how to tactfully suggest—

“Yeah!” Gee shouted from the dinette. “Your old camper was a piece of junk!”

So much for tact. He'd heard that from Mama—one of those statements kids aren't supposed to repeat. But Pop just chuckled. “That's a story for after we pick up your mother. Can't wait to see her face.”

Mama's face, when she saw him, went still and gray as Mount Rushmore: no remarks about what the cat drug in. It must have been from shock, though, because by the time we pushed her out through the big glass doors in a borrowed wheelchair, she was starting to perk up. And when she caught sight of the Coachman, she gasped out loud. “Dad! Where did
that
come from?”

He promised again to tell us later. For the ride home, he converted the dinette seat to a bed and hauled out extra pillows to prop up Mama so she could watch the scenery. He even took the long way, giving Gee plenty of time to get a can of Coke out of the little fridge and carefully pour it into a plastic cup for Mama and wash it out in the sink when she was done. As a reward for all that work, he got to go in the itty-bitty toilet—“Just this once,” Pop said.

For me, it was like a dream. Seriously. Every year at the state fair, I do my duty and take Gee through the livestock barns and petting zoo—but the high point for me, even better than the rides, is the RV lot. I go through every single one, even though Gee gets bored really quick and begs for another spin on the Scrambler. I pick up all the brochures and study the plans when I get home and imagine how cool it would be just to get in and go. And here I was, in an RV, just going.

Maybe in a year or two, I could talk Pop into taking me someplace. For now I kept pointing him down side roads, hoping he'd get lost and we could wander for a few hours. But his sense of direction is a lot better than mine, meaning we were home in forty minutes.

Mama was tired again, so she took a nap in her less-cluttered bedroom. During the afternoon, our neighbor Mrs. Tracy brought over a strawberry-rhubarb pie, and soon after Lyddie knocked on the door with a big pot of chili. Even Mr. Harper, principal of Partly School, came by with a coffee cake from the supermarket bakery. He was the only one to ask about the logo on the truck door: “‘Power from the Sky’? What does that mean, Mr. Hazeltine?”

“Just call me Jack, Bob. That means electrical generation from natural, renewable atmospheric sources. In a word, wind power.”

That was two words, but never mind—little did I know they meant a stiff breeze of destiny for me! Meanwhile, Mr. Harper asked, “But what does ’wind prospecting’ involve?”

Bad move—Pop could easily go on for twice the amount of time needed to explain anything. After five minutes, you either got it or you didn't, but he'd keep going regardless. I caught the gist of it: Pop was riding the headwinds—literally—of the next stage in power generation. His work as a prospector was to scout likely places for setting up wind farms. It sounded like another weird science project at first, like crop magnets or reversed electrons—until Pop mentioned getting a grant from some university in Kansas.
Hmm
, thought I,
could he really be on to something this time?

After all the company left, we rearranged the furniture in the living room to make a convalescent center. Once Mama was settled on the couch, with pillows to prop up all her sore parts, I spread a tablecloth on the floor and we gathered around for a picnic supper of chili and coffee cake. Gee ate them together.

Before sitting on the floor, Pop went out to the RV and brought back one of those plastic medicine organizers with compartments for every day of the week. “Wow, you take a lot of pills!” Gee exclaimed.

“Not pills,” Pop corrected. “Supplements. The secret of my glowing health and no small part of my recent success.” Mama and I hunkered down expectantly, knowing we were about to hear the story that was almost popping out of Pop.

“Back in April,” he began, “I was on my way to Lubbock to talk to some people at Texas Tech about my wind-power idea—and frankly, I was feeling a little down,
because I'd been spinning wheels for months without get-ting anywhere. But then I saw the sign!”

“The sign” sounded like some kind of vision from above. But when Pop stretched out a hand to mark the words, I realized he meant a highway billboard: “ ‘YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE AT MOTOR MIKE'S! Now at two convenient locations! Come see our fabulous new RV Lot!’ And listen to this: at that very minute, the
very minute
that billboard caught my attention, I heard Motor Mike himself on the radio, talking up his one-time-only grand-opening promotion. At that moment, I heard the knock of destiny.” (My ears perked up—what did Kent Clark say about destiny?)

“I drove right over to Motor Mike's,” Pop continued, “and signed up for his hard-body contest.”

“His
what
?” Mama gasped. “You're in good shape for a man your age, Dad, but—”

“The body in question belonged to the prize,” Pop said with a little frown. “Not the contestants.” (I don't think he likes references to his age.) “I'd been thinking that the main problem with my new business was presentation. Here I was, driving an old pickup and living in that camper that Gee has such a low opinion of—” Pop broke off in alarm when Gee flung himself back on the floor and laughed like a maniac. Dropping his name in conversation is one of the things that sets him off, but I shushed him.

“Anyway,” Pop went on, “by the time I got to Motor Mike's, there was only one contestant space left, and who got it? Yours truly.”

I wasn't getting this. “But what
is
a hard-body contest?”

He held up his hand. “Picture this. Saturday morning, five-thirty a.m. A fiery pink-and-orange sunrise splashed over a big Texas sky. Rows of gleaming pickups and campers under strings of white lights. Motor Mike himself on a flatbed trailer with the mayor and state representatives and local deejay. The high school band. TV cameras and radio mikes. Fifty hopeful contestants in bright orange vests. And in the middle of the whole scene: bright, sparkling, in all its maroon-and-white glory, a brand-new Coachman RV.”

“Hey!” Gee exclaimed. “Just like yours!”

I sighed, but Pop smiled gently. “Speeches are finally over. The band members finger their horns and woodwinds. A drumroll sounds. Motor Mike raises a pistol. Everybody sucks in a deep breath, and—
pow
! Fifty hands clamp to the body of that vehicle like magnets.” He slapped a hand against his knee so suddenly we jumped. “This triumph of the automaker's art will go to the last man standing.”

We sat absolutely still, even Gee, as his meaning sank in.

“But how did you go to the
bathroom
?” Gee burst out then.

Pop explained, and for once he didn't overdo it. Each contestant had to keep at least one hand flat on the vehicle at all times. They got fifteen-minute rest periods every six hours, and five-minute bathroom breaks every hour. Once in a while all the contestants would pick up their lawn chairs or camp stools and walk around the vehicle— never lifting their hands, of course—for ten minutes at a
time. Otherwise, they just stood there, exchanging recipes and family news and friendly insults—which got less friendly as the minutes dragged by, slowly adding up to hours. The sun went down, the temperature dropped, and the audience dwindled to friends and relatives cheering on Mom or Uncle Steve or Linda Sue. The chilly predawn hours dragged in day two. Heavy clouds gathered to choke off the sunrise. At midmorning, they let loose with a Texas gully-washer that lasted an hour and left the contestants looking like drowned cats. Another day crept by, then another night. …

“They're a determined bunch,” Pop said, “worthy opponents every one. But at the beginning of the third day, they're starting to drop off. Grandmas, plumbers, a marine, a mother of six—one by one they peel away. Hands that have to stay flat are starting to curl, like dry leaves in the fall. Every hour, another one staggers away or gets the disqualifying whistle. The sun sets again. During the night, eighteen more contestants hit the asphalt. I just pop my supplements and talk to stay awake. By the time it's all over, every contestant and car salesman and TV reporter in the lot will know my life story, philosophy, and long-term goals. Not to mention the equivalent of a college-level course in wind power.

“Day four dawns on about one-third the original number. By noon, five say adios. At sundown, three more collapse. During the fourth night, they drop like flies. At nine a.m. on the fifth day, I'm facing just one opponent, a feisty little one-hundred-ten-pound aircraft mechanic named Maria Garcia. The hours creep by. My hands are shaking,
but hers shake worse. ‘Ain't worth it, Maria,’ I start telling her, even though my voice is almost shot by now. ‘You've got a loving family and a boyfriend who's crazy about you and a fine life ahead—you don't need this vehicle. What you need is a real bed. A big puffy pillow. Your mama to rub your back and feet.

“There's a big crowd gathered because they know the end is near. Some of our former competition is cheering us on: ‘Way to go, Jack!’ ‘Hang in there, Maria!’ But her eyelids are heavy; her head starts to bob. As night creeps across the sky, her knees buckle—she's blacking out. A hush falls over the crowd. Her hand slides away from the passenger door, soft as a feather.”

And that made John Q. Hazeltine (better known as Jack), after one hundred and nine hours, thirteen minutes, and seven seconds, the last man standing.

Mama looked absolutely mesmerized, and I was just
tingling
. Talk about meeting your short-term goals!

Gee finally broke the silence, whispering, “Wow.”

After helping me clean up the kitchen and watching half an hour of TV—which he said was all he could stand—Pop went out to his double-size Royal Eaze mattress in the bunk of the RV (with the comfortable two feet of headroom). Mama managed to get to bed pretty much on her own with the help of rented crutches. I stuck a pillow under Gee where he'd fallen asleep on the living room floor and went to bed myself, thinking it had turned out to be one of the better days of my life. I fell asleep to the smooth, remembered sound of wheels rolling under my
reclining swivel seat, floating over the open road on steel-spring suspension. …

But as good as Sunday ended, Monday opened up rainbows, sunbeams, and white-water rapids of potential goodness. Because right after I came out of the bathroom, before anybody else was up, Mama whispered from her bed, “Ronnie?”

I tiptoed in, expecting she needed help finding her crutches.

Instead, she murmured, “I've been thinking. When your grandfather heads out to Kansas in a few days, what if you and Gee went with him?”