Road and Beyond: The Expanded Book-Club Edition of The Road to You

by Brant, Marilyn

  “So you came back and stayed in their place.” It wasn’t a question. I knew this was what had happened.

  He nodded.

  “It’s why I’m still in Chameleon Lake, too,” I confessed, though that wasn’t much of a secret either. Donovan had known years ago that I had aspirations of college. Heck, I’d told him my plans to escape our little town at our brothers’ graduation party. He knew then that I was just biding my time.

  “Is there anything more you want to see in Normal?” he asked. “If you want, if you think you might really consider this place for college, we could drive around for another hour or so. Pick up an application packet for you or something. Give you a chance to take a better look.”

  I studied the students milling nearby. Their Midwestern normalness—no pun intended—was almost jarring to me. It was the kind of campus that might have been of great interest to me a few years ago, but now it was too much like home. Too reminiscent of the kind of place filled with fun-loving, partying coeds that my brother might have gone to eventually, if ever he was ready to give up his passive fight against “the establishment.”

  I felt a heavy pang at what he’d lost. No doubt about it, it wasn’t different enough here to keep me from remembering my past or where I came from. I might as well just stay in Minnesota and be somewhere that would at least make my mother happy.

  “Nah,” I told Donovan, motioning him forward. “That’s okay. If I ever make it out of Chameleon Lake, I probably won’t go much further than Minneapolis. It’s not…not as easy to break away from home as I thought it’d be. Especially now.”

  “Yeah.” He pulled out of the parking space and started driving south and west.

  A couple of hours later and a hundred miles closer to St. Louis, we finally decided to stop for the night at a roadside inn near Litchfield, Illinois.

  There were a few appealing restaurants there, and the town’s oldest and most famous was The Ariston Café. I really liked the look of it, but the inn we chose a little further down the road had the advantage of being next door to a twenty-four hour diner and gas station, all owned by the same family, and we’d get a discount on our food and gas if we stayed there.

  The sign on the motel boasted, “Ultra Modern! Air Conditioned! TV in Every Room!” and, most importantly, “Vacancy” with a handwritten “1 room left” scrawled on a chalkboard by the office.

  Donovan said, “Let’s take it.”

  He produced the fake gold wedding band from his bag and shoved it at me. Though I made a show of sighing and looking irritated, I slipped it on my finger and we checked in as Mr. and Mrs. McCafferty, paying in cash. Strange how quickly such lies could become routine. Then we walked over to their family diner.

  There was nothing remarkable about our sodas or our burgers and fries but, while we were there, Donovan’s attention snagged on something unexpected.

  “Check out these placemats,” he said, pointing to the laminated, multicolored, ‘50s-era cheesy things beneath our platters.

  I slid my dish with my half-eaten burger aside and scanned the placemat. It looked like a vintage relic from the Grease movie’s props department.

  “Travel Mat” it read across the top. Then, “Scenic U.S. 66 Hi-Way” and, beneath that, was a line connecting the cities along the route, complete with recommended stops between Chicago, Illinois and Springfield, Missouri on the left side of the mat.

  I noticed that Bloomington-Normal was listed on there. So was Litchfield. So was St. Louis. Certain motels, attractions and diners were highlighted with short descriptions. In another section in the lower right-hand column was an additional bit of information with recommendations for the segment of the route between Springfield, Missouri and Shamrock, Texas. There was a mention of Tulsa and another of Oklahoma City.

  Donovan and I both flipped our placemats over at the same time. The travelogue continued with a new line of stops and attractions, this time including the featured places from Shamrock, Texas through to Los Angeles, California. And there were dots on the mat’s map pointing to Amarillo, Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Flagstaff, Topock, San Bernardino and Pasadena.

  The information receptors in my brain were pinging wildly with connections as I read these particular city names. Finally, something that might lead to something important. A clue at last that made the remaining entries in my brother’s journal make a little more sense.

  With my fingertip, I traced a few pen-and-ink sketches interspersed around the placemat, most likely to add decoration and to further entice potential tourists to visit. A St. Louis riverboat, Meramec Caverns, the Ozarks (all of those were on the Missouri side of the mat), a peculiar Blue Whale attraction somewhere in Catoosa, Oklahoma, the Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo, a steam train near Flagstaff and gold mines by another city in Arizona called Oatman.

  I opened Gideon’s journal, already knowing what I would find but just wanting visual confirmation. All of the cities mentioned within the journal’s pages were listed somewhere on the placemat. Somewhere on Route 66. Not to mention that both of the postcards Gideon had sent Amy Lynn—one from Amarillo and the other from Flagstaff—were also places that could be found on the classic 2,451-mile westward journey.

  Donovan verbalized what we were both thinking. “Where they were driving wasn’t random.” He ran his index finger along the highway, tapping the spot where the road met the ocean. “I don’t know why—maybe it had something to do with what they’d learned in Crescent Cove or found in Ben’s car—but, for some reason, it looks like they were following Route 66 toward California.”

  We both immediately went into investigative mode.

  I flipped to the back of the journal and read Gideon’s Pasadena page. But aside from the “M + 3, D + 7” code and the date (July 3, 1976, which really meant October 10, 1976), there were only a couple of phrases there (Sunset ranger? One shield?) and I didn’t understand their significance. The previous San Bernardino page was of no help either. It seemed Gideon had set things up so it would be necessary to figure out his journal clues chronologically.

  Meanwhile, Donovan began reading—with audible murmurs. He not only read the details on the placemat, but he expanded his search to take in the jauntily framed pictures on the walls and the decorative objects surrounding us.

  I realized I hadn’t really seen anything in the little restaurant that I’d looked at so far. I’d been tired when we sat down. Hungry. Unobservant. There were only a handful of other patrons in the joint, and none in the booths nearest ours, so we slipped out of our seats and studied our surroundings more carefully.

  “Look at this.” He pointed to a large Route 66 map tacked up on the wall opposite our booth. “There are dates showing the development, history and the decline of the ‘Mother Road,’ as they sometimes call it.” Of particular interest to us was not the year the route was built (way back in 1926) or the famous novels, like Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, that had featured tales taking place along its winding path, but the driving lines that showed the changes in the route. Some of them very recent.

  “The original road began in Chicago and went to L.A.,” I said, reading a blurb at the side of the map, “but things changed, even as recently as last year.”

  I showed Donovan the latest modifications to the route, trimming the eastern edge, so that the starting point of Route 66 was now in Normal, Illinois. Prior changes from 1974 had the western end of the road listed as Topock, Arizona. “So many people are now taking the faster, wider and better-paved four-lane interstates, bypassing these little towns, that many parts of the route have fallen into disrepair. And it says here that the U.S. Government decommissioned the Chicago to Normal segment in 1977. That’s probably why we didn’t see anything on I-55 about Route 66 until after we passed through Bloomington-Normal.”

  “But Jeremy and Gideon were traveling in 1976, so the road was still mostly drivable, at least through to Arizona, although most people would have used the interstates even then,” he said. “I’m getting th
e sense that they didn’t. That they took the original route.”

  I was getting that same sense.

  My eyes were at last fully opening up to all of the Route 66 paraphernalia around us. It was more than just the placemats and the map. It was Perry Como singing “Get Your Kicks on Route 66” over the speaker near the cash register. It was the faded Route 66 design on the coffee mugs. It was all of the 1950s kitsch throughout the café, complete with that billboard-like scripting and certain pastel shades, which had colored that particular decade…a time when the route was in its modern heyday.

  Times had changed since then. It was a part of American life that was romantic to think about—like Betsy did with her crazy love of poodle skirts, drive-ins and sock hops—but even the memories of that era were dying. Who wore poodle skirts anymore? Bell-bottom pants and tie-dyed shirts were in fashion. Fast-food restaurants had been new back in the Fifties, but these days they were tired old chains.

  Driving across the country in a big convertible had been a great family adventure once, but we’d suffered through long gas lines in recent years and people didn’t have the patience for that kind of travel. Who wouldn’t just fly if you had to go so far? Or, if you drove, wouldn’t you take the best and fastest roads?

  And who had time for bizarre attractions like a Blue Whale or a Cadillac Ranch? After all, we had so much entertainment right in our own homes. Four television stations! How many people would really get their kicks by doing any of that old-fashioned stuff nowadays?

  When I asked this question of Donovan, he just shrugged. “Maybe our brothers were sentimental about the past. Or they liked that old ‘Route 66’ TV show and wanted to be like the main characters—those two guys on it. I don’t know.”

  It was possible that Jeremy had been intrigued with the old Martin Milner TV series, but I couldn’t remember my brother paying much attention to it, even in reruns. Who knew the truth, though? Maybe he’d liked it more than I realized. Or maybe he and his best friend had had a particular reason for following the original route. Something that had to do with the trouble they’d gotten into in Wisconsin two years ago...and we just didn’t know what that was yet.

  The only thing I knew for sure was that we were following Gideon and Jeremy’s trail down a fading patch of pavement that was quickly becoming outdated and abandoned.

  It was an odd thing, really—not only had our brothers disappeared, but the road they’d been traveling down was experiencing the same fate. Fading from view right beneath our wheels.

  2:14 p.m.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Pasadena, California ~ Saturday, August 16, 2014

  The pavement was uneven and full of potholes, and the inevitable patches of road construction made even the short journey from Pasadena to Glendale a difficult one. They’d gotten us down to only one lane in each direction for several stretches, which was uncommon on most major thoroughfares these days. Hard for me to believe that, in 1978, when Donovan and I started heading down old Route 66, all of that historic highway had been built this way. That travelers once took entire trips across the country on a narrow two-lane ribbon of road.

  But I hadn’t been thinking much about the route itself back then. My focus was elsewhere—on trying to find my brother and on the crazy attraction I’d felt to that boy sitting next to me.

  Oh, Donovan McCafferty...why do memories of you on that trip wander through my thoughts so? Even now? Even all these years later?

  The Donovan of that long-ago summer created such a cocktail of emotions within me. Although, perhaps, maybe all adolescents felt that way about their first love. He made me feel like an inexperienced little girl half the time and, the other half, like the woman I was on the verge of becoming.

  It had been quite a feat of courage, actually, for me to push so hard for that trip with him along. It’s been decades since then and, yet, I’ve never forgotten a single day of our driving adventures. I think of them every time I get into a car. Literally, every time.

  When I finally arrived at Charlie’s apartment complex, the first thing I did was to check the parking lot for his reserved space. Had to see if his sporty red Toyota Celica was there. (Charlie always drove red cars. Naturally, it was the preferred shade of lead foots everywhere, and the one color that got pulled over by the police more often than any other. So, for both reasons, he’d had his fair share of speeding tickets.)

  The space, #326, which corresponded to his apartment number, was empty.

  Did he drive away somewhere, then? Or was the car destroyed? Stolen? Might he have gotten carjacked on the way home from work Thursday night and left dead or unconscious in a random ditch?

  To keep myself from dwelling on this thought for long, I parked in one of the visitor spaces and used the extra key Charlie had once given us to slip into the lobby. I knocked on the door to his third-floor apartment and called his name. Repeatedly. No answer. Dammit.

  I held my breath as I unlocked the door and pushed it open, terrified of what I might find...like Charlie’s dead body on the floor. A victim of a burglary gone bad or, possibly, something simpler, like carbon monoxide poisoning or a drug overdose from a substance addiction I didn’t know he had.

  But, no. The apartment—much like the parking space—was empty.

  There were a handful of dirty dishes in the sink and a half-eaten, foil-wrapped sub sandwich in the fridge. But, other than my son’s usual clutter of unopened junk mail on his glass living-room table and a small pile of crumpled laundry on his bedroom floor, I couldn’t spot any real messes. No signs that there had been a struggle or a break in.

  I sniffed, but I wasn’t able to detect the scent of gas either. And I saw no indication that he’d fled the country because he was—oh, say—being held at gunpoint by rogue Colombian drug lords. His large canvas suitcase was still in his closet, along with the vast majority of his clothing.

  One of the strategies Charlie’s grade-school teachers had instructed him to use to help manage his ADD was to encourage him to write down everything important. He took immediately to this behavior modification and, these days, had a dual organizational system in place. An electronic calendar on his phone with automatic reminders, and a paper calendar on the wall above his landline filled with notes written in pen.

  I walked over to the phone and checked his hanging calendar for this week and weekend. The last thing he’d written down was on Thursday. Drinks w/E @ 5:30.

  I didn’t know who “E” was. A work colleague? A new girlfriend? Could’ve been anybody. A man, a woman, a murderer. Had anyone seen him or heard from Charlie after that?

  But I noticed that he hadn’t written down the football game with his friends on Monday night, which left me questioning how comprehensive this calendar really was. Of course, going to that sports bar seemed like a last-minute event. He probably got the Facebook message sometime during his workday and went to the pub directly from the office. Given rush-hour traffic, he likely wouldn’t have had time to stop at his apartment first. And, when he got home late that night, there wouldn’t have been a reason for him to write it on the calendar after the fact.

  There was a stack of additional notes on the countertop next to the phone, though. A dentist appointment he’d made for mid-September. The phone number of his local bank and an account number alongside it. (I took a quick picture of that note with my camera app on my phone. It might prove useful later.). And there was a Post-It in his handwriting with the words: FRIDAY! Benson @ 11 w/Martin.

  So, Charlie knew for sure about that eleven a.m. meeting with the plastics people.

  My fear returned full force. If he’d known about it, written it down (with “Friday” in all caps, followed by an exclamation point no less), planned for it, etc., then, dear God, why didn’t he show up for that meeting?

  “There are no facts, only interpretations.”

  ~Friedrich Nietzsche

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  St. Louis, Missouri ~ Monday, June 19, 1978

>   Over the next few days, Donovan and I slipped into an easy routine—one of driving, collecting details and following hunches that pushed us toward the next location.

  Well, more accurately, I was following hunches. Donovan, despite his default setting as our resident skeptic, was following me.

  “We know they were in Normal on July 6, 1976 and that they got to St. Louis a few days later on Friday the ninth,” I told Donovan as he was chowing down a double scoop of chocolate frozen custard at Ted Drewes—a local spot that had been a recommended stop on the placemat.

  I swirled the custard in my single strawberry cup and flipped through the next several pages of the journal. “Thing is, they were here for a while and I have no idea what they were doing. They don’t get to the next city—Joplin—until Sunday the twenty-fifth. That’s more than two weeks that are unaccounted for…unless they were just hanging out here. But why?”

  “Maybe they were laying low like Amy Lynn said,” Donovan suggested, around a mouth full of frozen custard. “Waiting to see if they were being followed. Or listening for news reports to find out if they were wanted in connection with the Bonner Mill explosion. I don’t remember hearing about it in Virginia at the time, but maybe the blast made the regional news.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.”

  I didn’t remember hearing about the Bonner Mill incident either, and I’d been living a lot closer to it. I was pretty sure somebody somewhere capped the story on that pretty fast. Based on what we’d found at the library near there, coverage had been minimal even in Crescent Cove and Ashburn Falls.