Mango Digger

by Bill H Myers

  I knew what she meant by “follow the map.” She wanted me to stick to the route she'd come up with, the one on the printout. She wanted me to follow Kat's path, drive the same roads and stop at the same places.

  I could see the logic. But it wasn't the route I would have taken if I were driving to Arkansas. Kat had stayed on the interstate most of the way, avoiding back roads. I would have done the opposite, stuck to the back roads and avoided the interstates.

  Still, if Abigail wanted me to follow the map she made, I would. But the other part of the message had me stumped. The two letters at the end. GG.

  I knew people used abbreviations when sending texts. Things like LOL or AFAIK or ROTFL. But I didn't know what GG meant.

  Then it came to me. GG was an abbreviation for Goat Girl. Maybe she had overheard Devin and me talking about her. If she had, maybe she didn't mind being called a goat girl or maybe she had a sense of humor.

  I sure hoped so. She'd need it on this trip.

  The night before, I had gotten the motorhome ready for the road. I'd topped off the fuel, checked the air in the tires, filled the fresh water and dumped the gray and black tanks. I'd unhooked from shore power before Devin arrived and made sure everything was stowed away.

  I'd been living in the motorhome for almost a year, ever since I lost my job and needed a place to stay. I wasn't looking for a motorhome when I was trying to find a place to live, but it was for sale and the price was right. I bought it, moved in, and planned my first trip.

  A friend suggested I go to Florida. She said her sister lived there near the beach, and I could live in my motorhome in her back yard. The only catch was I had to pick up a cat in Arkansas and deliver it to the sister in Florida.

  It seemed like a fair trade. Drive a thousand miles to Florida in my motorhome with a cat. No big deal, right?

  I was wrong. It was a big deal.

  The cat wasn't happy to be in the motorhome, especially with a stranger. He preferred life in a home that wasn't moving down the road at sixty miles an hour, bouncing up and down with every bump.

  He tried to escape every time I opened the door and almost succeeded once. Long story short, we made it to Florida. I delivered the cat, Mango Bob, to the woman's sister as promised and lived in my motorhome in her backyard until she changed jobs and needed to move.

  Her new place didn't allow cats and she asked me to keep Bob until she sorted things out. I reluctantly agreed, figuring it would only be a week or so before she came back to get him.

  But she never did come back. She never returned my calls or texts, and eventually changed her number. After nine months, I figured she wasn't coming back and I was stuck with the cat. And he was stuck with me.

  I was still sitting in the driver's seat, thinking about this and letting the motorhome warm up, when my phone buzzed again with an incoming text. The message said, “What are you waiting for? Drive! GG.”

  The goat girl was right; I needed to get on the road. We had a long way to go before we could pack it in for the day. I rechecked her map and saw our first scheduled stop was two hundred fifty miles north, just past Tallahassee at the Pilot Travel Center.

  I put the map away, put the motorhome in gear, and headed out.

  Chapter Four

  Even though I had wasted time arguing with Devin about the change of plans, we'd still managed to get on the road an hour before sun up. Leaving early was the only way to avoid morning rush hour traffic around Tampa. If you didn't get by before it jammed up, you could be stuck for hours.

  Leaving my site at Mango Bay in Englewood, I drove the mostly deserted side streets that would lead me out onto I-75. There weren't many other people on the roads and I made good time. As soon as I got on the interstate, I set the cruise control to sixty-five and hugged the right lane.

  The speed limit was seventy, but only the timid and those of us in motorhomes were taking it seriously. Everyone else was pushing at least eighty and some were doing ten over that. It was like a game of chicken. The fastest drivers, those leading the pack, would get there first, but only if they didn't get stopped by the highway patrol.

  Early morning, the troopers were stretched thin, usually only two or three covering the fifty-mile stretch between Sarasota and Tampa. To make the most of their limited resources, they concentrated their efforts near the construction zones. Armed with radar guns, they looked for the leaders of the pack, those running ninety plus.

  It wasn't long before I saw flashing blue lights up ahead. A trooper had pulled over a dark blue BMW that had flown by me earlier. The driver, with a cup of coffee in his hand, must have been doing at least eighty-five, maybe ninety when he passed me. Now he was doing zero, parked on the side of the road.

  It would be an expensive ticket for the driver. In Florida, speeding fines are doubled in construction zones.

  I eased over into the middle lane to give the trooper plenty of room and continued on my way. Once I had cleared the blue lights, I moved back into the right lane.

  The sun was just starting to break over the horizon when I reached the outskirts of Tampa. It was still an hour before rush hour and traffic was light. Sitting up high in the motorhome, I could see a clear path ahead with nothing to slow me down, a rare sight on the roads around Tampa.

  I knew if I could get past the I-4 junction, the main artery that led to Orlando and Disney to the east, it'd be smooth sailing to Tallahassee. No big cities or traffic jams to slow me down after that.

  Getting through Tampa without problems meant we might be able to make Vicksburg before the end of the day. With clear roads as far as I could see, I bumped the cruise control up to seventy and settled in for the long, boring drive ahead.

  Normally, Mango Bob would be in the passenger seat beside me. I'd talk to him as I drove, pointing out things he'd be interested in. Big trucks carrying cows or horses were his favorites. He'd sit up and make huffing sounds when the animal smells reached him. But most of the time, he'd just lie in the passenger seat and sleep.

  Today the passenger seat was empty. Bob was in the back with the goat girl, leaving me all alone up front.

  Three hours and two hundred miles later, my phone buzzed with a text message. Normally, I would have ignored it, as I'm not one of those people who gets a lot of texts, and I usually don't check them while driving. But Devin had told me that Abigail might text and, frankly, I was interested in what she had to say.

  Plus, I was bored.

  The interstates through Florida are mostly flat and straight. No mountains in the distance, no majestic scenery to stimulate your senses. Just green grass, palm trees and pavement. With no traffic around, I figured it'd be safe to check my phone.

  I pulled it out, swiped the screen and looked at the message. It said, “GG bored. Coming up front.”

  Just like before, she had referred to herself as GG. Goat Girl. Maybe she did have a sense of humor. That would be good. I texted back, “OK.”

  A few moments later, I heard the bedroom door open followed by the pitter patter of Bob's footsteps. He went into the bathroom to use the litter box and after taking care of business, he came up front to join me. He hopped onto the passenger seat and said, “Murrrph.” Then began to clean himself.

  From the back of the motorhome, I heard the toilet flush, followed by the sound of running water in the sink. Looking up at the rear-view mirror, I saw Abigail come out of the bathroom, heading in my direction.

  She had changed out of her pajamas into skin-tight, black yoga pants and a clingy, white top. No longer wearing a knit cap, her auburn hair flowed onto her bare shoulders. No sign of the purple streak. She must have washed it out.

  She was still wearing her mirrored sunglasses and from a distance, she looked a lot like Danica Patrick of NASCAR fame. She had the 'look' and definitely wasn't a goat girl.

  While trying to keep an eye on the road ahead, I kept glancing up at the mirror to see what she was doing. I expected her to come up front and take the passenger seat. But i
f that was her plan, she wasn't in any hurry.

  Instead, she stopped and touched each surface of the motorhome as she passed. Eyes closed, slowly moving her hands, feeling the textures. First the kitchen counter, then the kitchen cabinets, then the stove and finally the fridge.

  It looked like something out of a séance, as though she expected the appliances to send her some kind of message. I couldn’t imagine what the counter or stove might be telling her, maybe something about needing to be cleaned.

  With both hands flat on the fridge door, she slowly turned her head, opened her eyes and looked in my direction. She caught me watching her and shook her head like I'd done something wrong.

  I tried my best not to look. But it was hard not to, seeing her strange behavior while trying to figure out what the heck she was doing with her hands. I wanted to watch non stop, but I couldn't. I had to keep my eyes on the road. We were doing seventy and I didn't want to take too many chances. Still, I wanted to see what she was doing.

  I glanced up at the mirror again. She was still at the fridge but her eyes were no longer closed. Now they were watching me. I quickly returned my focus to the road, but it was too late. From behind me, I heard her say, “I saw you looking.”

  Her breathy voice surprised me. Sultry, almost sexy, and I wanted to hear more, so I said, “I couldn't help myself.”

  She smiled just slightly and said, “I know.”

  Chapter Five

  She opened the fridge, pulled out two bottles of water and brought them up front. Bob heard her coming and jumped down out of the passenger seat. He trotted over to her and leaned against her ankle as she passed. Then he jumped up on the couch and curled up for a nap.

  Abigail took the passenger seat and turned to me. “I brought you a water.”

  I was thirsty and had been thinking about water since before she texted me about coming up front. I'd even considered texting back and asking her to grab a bottle on her way up. But I hadn't.

  Still, she'd shown up with water, almost like she read my mind. But I knew she couldn't. No one can read minds. At least, that's what the experts say.

  The water was cold and felt good going down. I took two long sips, then put the bottle in the cup holder on the dash. When I did, I saw that she had been watching me drink. I smiled and she quickly looked away. She'd been caught watching me, and apparently that embarrassed her. I decided maybe it was a good time to try to start a conversation.

  I started with an easy question, something she might feel comfortable talking about.

  “So, you like cats. You have one at home?”

  She shook her head. “No, not anymore.”

  She paused then the words started spilling out. “I had a cat for a long time. His name was Bandit and he was the best cat ever. He went everywhere I went, even slept with me at night. When I'd go places in my car, he'd go along and sit in the passenger seat and meow softly.”

  She paused, then said, “I really loved Bandit. I miss him so much now that he's gone.”

  I nodded and wanted to ask what had happened to Bandit. But I didn't because I was pretty sure the answer wouldn't make either of us feel better.

  She could either read my mind or decided to answer without being asked. “It was kidney failure. They say it's common with older cats. He was seventeen, and the vet said there was nothing they could do for him.

  “I was with him until the end.”

  The conversation hadn't gone as I’d planned. I had hoped to get her talking about something that made her happy, but instead the subject had dredged up painful memories. The sadness in her voice was apparent. I needed to come up with something else.

  Fortunately, Bob came to my rescue. He trotted up front and jumped onto Abigail's lap. Almost instinctively, she began to stroke his back and he began to purr.

  We rode like this for another twenty miles. Me driving, Abigail with Bob in her lap, purring. I glanced over and saw that she was smiling. It was a good look for her.

  She continued to pet Bob and finally said, “He's a good cat. Does he like riding up front with you?”

  I nodded. “Most of the time he does, especially when we're on the highway and there isn't much traffic. He likes to sit there and groom himself to sleep.”

  She nodded knowingly. “My Bandit loved riding in the car with me. Whenever I grabbed my keys, he'd come running. He'd go outside and wait at the car door until I opened it. Then he'd jump in and find his place in the passenger seat.

  “If we were traveling with friends, they'd all have to ride in the back because Bandit was going to ride up front with me.”

  I nodded. “Sounds like he was quite a character.”

  She smiled again. “He was. There'll never be another one like him.”

  She looked off to her right, outside the motorhome. I was thinking maybe she was going to dab away a tear. But I was wrong. It wasn't a tear that was bothering her. It was something else. She looked over at me and asked, “How long has that white van back there been following us?”

  I looked in my side mirror and saw the van she was talking about. A late model white Chevy Express. A windowless cargo van. The kind used by plumbers and electricians.

  Most of these would have a business name painted on the side, and below the name, a phone number and maybe the company website. But the van behind us was too far back to tell if it had anything painted on it.

  We'd been on the road for more than three hours and not many vehicles stayed behind us for long. We were going slower than most everyone else and not many people wanted to be behind us. They couldn't see over or around us and knew that if traffic slowed or merged into a single lane, they'd be stuck, so they usually passed us as soon as they could.

  I hadn't noticed the white van earlier. But there was no reason to suspect that it or any other vehicle would be following us. And the van hadn't done anything that made it suspicious. It was just another of the thousands of cars, trucks, and RVs traveling west on Florida's Interstate 10.

  Abigail asked, “Do you see the one I'm talking about? The white van? Back there in the right lane? How long has it been following us?”

  I checked the side mirror again and could see the van was still behind us, maintaining its distance. Not getting any closer, not falling back. That in itself wasn't unusual. I had my cruise control set to the posted speed limit of seventy. If the van's driver had set his to seventy, he would be matching our speed and wouldn't be gaining on us or losing ground.

  I didn't want to explain all of this to Abigail, so I just said, “I see him. You think he's following us?”

  She nodded. “He's behind us, so he's definitely following us. I just don't know if he is following us or is just another traveler on the road.”

  I couldn't argue with her logic, so I said nothing.

  She continued to watch the side mirror, checking on the white van. After a few minutes, it sped up and passed us on the left. It had the words “Unlimited Plumbing and Drain Service” painted on its side. Below the name, a street address in Perry, Florida.

  Two ladders were strapped to the roof and, as it passed us, we could see plumbing supplies inside on metal racks.

  Wanting to see what Abigail thought, I asked, “So what do you think? Was it following us?”

  She smiled. “No, I don't think it was after us. I was just being paranoid. There's no reason for anyone to be following us, right?”

  I wasn't sure why she was asking me. I couldn’t think of any reason for anyone to be following us or to even care what we were doing. As far as the rest of the world knew, we were just two people and a cat in a motorhome traveling across Florida. Nothing unusual about that.

  Still, I felt a need to answer her question, so I said, “I don’t think anyone would be following me. How about you? Any reason someone would be following you?”

  She shook her head. “No, not that I can think of. No husbands or boyfriends to worry about. No bill collectors or parole officers either. Maybe it's your ex-wife. Think s
he has someone checking up on you?”

  I hadn't told her about my ex-wife so I was surprised she had asked the question. But the answer was easy. My ex-wife had ended our marriage on good terms. It was her idea, and, as far as she was concerned, there weren't any hard feelings. There'd be no reason she'd have anyone following me.

  Still, I wondered how Abigail knew I'd been married, so I asked her about it. “What makes you think I have an ex-wife?”

  She smiled, but, instead of answering, she said, “You do, don't you? And no children. Right?”

  She was right. There had been no children in our marriage. The ex-wife wanted it that way. Turned out it was for the best.

  I nodded. “How'd you know?”

  She shrugged. “Just had a feeling. You dating anyone these days?”

  In the course of ten minutes, she'd gone from not speaking a word to me since her introduction three hours earlier to asking personal questions and knowing things about me that she shouldn't. The fact that she felt comfortable enough to ask these questions was probably a good sign, but her knowing about my personal life was unnerving.

  “No, I'm not dating anyone. And I don't have any husbands, girlfriends or wives following me. Right now, it's just me and Bob. And you.”

  She smiled, seemingly happy with my answer.

  Chapter Six

  After listening to her questions about my personal life, I decided that riding in silence wasn't so bad. As far as I was concerned, as long as there were no more questions, I was comfortable with the silence. She seemed to be as well, at least for a while.

  Twenty minutes later, she asked, “How long were you married?”

  It was yet another question about my personal life, one that I didn't feel like answering. Not that I was ashamed the marriage had ended, I just didn't want to talk about it.

  So, instead of answering, I asked, “What did Devin tell you about me?”

  She laughed. “Devin? She didn't tell me much. She said you lived in a motorhome and had a cat. When I asked her what you were like, she said that most of the time you were like Clark Kent—easy going, a little shy, happy to let other people take credit.