Lady Luck's Map of Vegas

by Barbara Samuel

  Instead, I am only pregnant.

  Only.

  Once a day, I let it in, the panic. What am I going to do? I have to make some choices, and soon, before there are no choices open to me. I have to tell Jack, too. I could, if he were someone else, have an abortion and never say anything about it. But I'd have to be someone else, too. Whatever happens, he needs to know.

  It makes me miss him acutely.

  Enough panic. I put the dish with its toast crumbs into the dishwasher, brush off my hands, and go back to planning the drive. As I do, I set a deadline: By the time I come back, I will have to decide what I'm going to do about the … situation.

  By the time Jack calls that evening, however, the primary subject on my mind is the trip itself. I'd sent him an e-mail earlier in the day, letting him know our basic plans.

  “I'm insane,” I say without preamble. “Insane. This is the stupidest idea I've ever had in my life. What in the world made me think this would be okay?”

  His chuckle is low and soft, and immediately the tense muscles in my neck ease the slightest bit. “You'll be thankful later.”

  “Yeah, way later. Can I complain for a few minutes about this wretched route?”

  “Surely.”

  “For God knows what reason, we have to go billions of miles out of the way to Tucumcari, which is in the wilds of eastern New Mexico, where nothing lives except walking stick cactuses and coyotes. Then we have to go up to the mountains to this weird, scary little town in a part of New Mexico where the bloodlines go back to the conquistadors and they speak a weird variation of Spanish that's as archaic as the English in the Appalachians. Then we'll have to stop in Espanola, which is a mean, unfriendly place.”

  “Maybe you'll find her in Tucumcari.”

  “Maybe.” A headache burns at the base of my skull. “Ugh. This is crazy.”

  “Take it one day at a time, sweetheart. Just one step at a time.”

  I nod. “Right. God, it's good to hear your voice. How was your day?”

  He makes a dismissive noise. “Boring meetings. I'm tired of the road, of hotel rooms, of restaurant food. I would rather be there, sleeping with you tonight.”

  “I'd like that, too.” And I remember something he'll like. “I saw the coyotes last night! It was so cool.”

  “You saw them? What were they doing?”

  I tell him the whole story. “It was magical.”

  “I wish I'd been there.” His voice is sincere. He adores everything about the west. Even tumbleweeds, which I tease him about. Anyone who has ever had a pile of tumbleweeds collect in a corner, grabbing every stray bit of paper in the universe, or tried to yank one out of the ground while still living, has no illusions about the noxiousness of the creatures. But Jack loves western images. Tumbleweeds, coyotes, gunfighters, saloon girls. Everything. I smile to myself. “I'll bring you souvenirs, shall I? A six-gun in a holster, an Indian headband?”

  “I would like that, sweetheart.”

  We talk for a little longer, and I feel the weight of my secret growing, tugging at my longing for him, my yearning to keep it just as it is, never cross that line. But I feel guilty, too. I see his craggy face, the gray threads at the temples of his hair, the way it gets too long because he gets busy.

  What I want to say is, Jack, did you know I've fallen in love with you? Instead I say, “Jack?”

  “India?” he says, lightly mocking.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  A pause. “Is it bad?”

  I'm not sure how to answer. “Um.”

  “You've met someone.” He says it matter-of-factly Without expression.

  “No.” There's a close knot in my throat. “That's not it.”

  “I'm listening.”

  I squeeze my eyes tight. “I'm afraid I've had a biological accident.”

  “What?”

  “I'm pregnant, Jack. And I know this doesn't figure into anything we've ever discussed and we don't have to talk about it tonight. I just wanted to tell you that I am, that I'm thinking about what to do. And I don't know.”

  I run out of words and halt.

  The silence from the other end of the phone is deafening. I hear it down the line, and echoing into the apartment around me. Echoing the dullness and emptiness of what my life will be like post-Jack. Starting over. Again. I can't quite get a good breath.

  Finally, he says, “I see.”

  And I realize I was hoping for something else. Perhaps I'd imagined that he'd be happy, and his pleasure would make me feel more optimistic.

  “I'm sorry, Jack,” I say. “Do you want to just think about it for a day or two?”

  Still a hush. Finally he says, “I'm sorry, India. I'm flummoxed.”

  I nod. “It's okay. Me, too.”

  “You know I'm Catholic, India.”

  “Yeah, well, I mean, yes, I do, but what does that mean?”

  “I cannot give my blessing for an abortion.”

  “Jack! That's not fair. You know the circumstances here. You know why I never wanted to have a child.”

  He's quiet. “Yes. Bloody bad luck, this.”

  “Let's just think about it for a day or two, huh?” I rub the spot between my eyebrows, the Gulf of Sorrows opening up in my chest. “We'll talk when I get back.”

  “India—”

  I wait.

  He says only, “I'm sorry, India.”

  “Me, too, Jack.”

  Part Two

  THE BLUE SWALLOW MOTEL

  An authentic Route 66 establishment awaits you! Built in 1939 and listed on the National and State Historic Registers, it continues to provide cozy accommodations at budget prices.

  Chapter Ten

  India

  Eldora opens the door with a flourish the next morning. She is dressed in a pair of slim black slacks, black high heels, and her emerald-green blouse. Her sunglasses are black cat-eyes with teeny rhinestones on the swooping top piece. She wears them along with a green chiffon headscarf without a hint of irony.

  “Off we go on our adventure!” she sings. Her Tabu slams my lingering morning sickness like a fist to the gut. I have to step back, take a gulp of April morning.

  “Are you all right, India?” she asks, touching my forehead. “You're pale as a ghost.”

  No, I want to say. My life sucks and this is the stupidest idea I've ever had. “Fine,” I say, leaning away from the perfume. “Let's get you loaded up.”

  “Oh, let me get that, sweetheart,” she says, shifting a Lifesaver around in her mouth. “It's pretty heavy.”

  I raise an eyebrow at the enormous suitcase. “Is that even going to fit in the trunk?”

  “Sure! I've done it before.”

  I shrug, and let her drag it on its wheels down the sloping driveway. Everything about her irritates me—the high-heeled sandals, the sound they make as the case gathers momentum and she's tippy-tapping down to catch up. Her stupid glasses. Her perfume. She waits at the car for me to come unlock the trunk, and takes out a cigarette and her lighter. “Can't you wait?” I say with a scowl.

  “I'm just getting it out.” She takes hold of one end of the suitcase. “Ready? It'll take us both to lift it.”

  I don't suppose she's considered that I might have some luggage, too. But then, being an ordinary sort of woman, I won't require the props Eldora needs for staging her life.

  Meow, meow.

  It fits surprisingly well, and my mother, no dummy, steps away from me a few paces. “I'll just smoke this right quick and we can get going. Do you need anything? Some water or something?”

  Which is shorthand for something she wants to stop and get. “I'm all right. Did you have something in mind?”

  She exhales. “I wouldn't mind a nice Starbucks. We could go through the drive-up.” This is a concession, because she usually insists on going inside and having flirting time with the counter people.

  I nod, my arms crossed over my tender stomach. Maybe steamed milk would be soothing.

&
nbsp; I am miserable from more than the morning sickness, of course.

  There was nothing from Jack in e-mail this morning. I'd thought he might try to call me, too, but he hadn't. Who knows when I'll have a chance to check my e-mail next?

  “All right,” my mother says. “Let's hit the road, Jack.”

  She doesn't know what she's saying.

  I'll let her live for another hour. Maybe. Especially as she hands me a piece of Juicy Fruit gum, and miracle of miracles, it settles my stomach.

  The day is crisp and fine driving south on I-25. The Spanish Peaks rise like blue hips from the dun and green of the high plains, scatters of thin white clouds form scarves across their tips. The sky is fiercely blue. We're listening to the radio, and the car has a satisfying amount of power, not to mention a certain cachet. My mother in her dark glasses looks like she's headed for Vegas. It's not so bad.

  Eldora is not in one of her chatty moods, and once I adjust to the perfume, it's peaceful enough.

  But I'm still startled to be doing this. Why am I, again?

  One thing about driving—you can't run away from your thoughts. And my thoughts this morning are all about Jack. There's a sore spot in the middle of my chest, like a goat head is stuck there.

  I tell myself that he's not a young man, after all, and it was sudden, springing my pregnancy on him like that. I've had some time to adjust—that sneaking suspicion for at least a month before I let myself even start to fret, then a week or two of strong worry, then the confirmation and a week since then.

  Nonetheless, I'm knocked out a little by his reaction. Not just his disappointment, which I'd expected, but his line in the sand over the possibility of abortion. Did that mean he would not condone it and be angry with me and get over it, or would the sin be so serious it would end our relationship?

  The goat head digs deeper into my heart.

  The rhythmic sound of the car wheels sets my mind to wandering, back through time. To the second time I saw Jack, in New York.

  It was only a few weeks after that night at the pub that I saw Jack a second time. We corresponded via e-mail a few times, talked twice on the phone, then I made arrangements to fly out and meet his staff to get their input. I was to fly in on a Tuesday, out on Thursday, giving us the full day on Wednesday to meet with his staff.

  I'd never been to New York City before, and although I was trying to be cool, I was giddy with excitement, craning my neck and biting back exclamations of delight as we circled the city—so distinctive even at night from the air, that skyline poking so tall into the darkness. All those floors of offices and apartments and hotels, so many people, so many little containers of life, stacked up so high! I could see landmarks and water, river and bay, tiny twinkling lights in a dazzling display. Gypsy I thought, would love this.

  And all the way there, I admit, I was thinking about Jack with a burn in my chest. His gray eyes, that lock of dark hair on his forehead, his generous smile.

  That kiss. Blackberry sweetness.

  I was trying to tell myself it was unprofessional, that I needed the contract, that it would help me establish myself, but when I saw him standing in the faintly green, dingy light of the airport, all sensibility went out the window. He wore his worn leather jacket, and his hair was even shaggier, so straight and black, that scar standing out against his brow.

  What slayed me was the way his face brightened when he saw me. I hurried up to him, not sure what to expect. He took my hand, leaned close to me. “Hello, India,” he said, low and close.

  I was lost. “Hello, Mr. Shea.”

  “I am not Mr. Shea right now,” he said.

  “Jack, then.” His fingers laced between mine, and I clasped my purse close to my body, a gesture of defensiveness, gathering myself so I could look up without revealing everything too fast. “It was beautiful flying in.”

  “It's going to snow,” he said. “Tomorrow, after our meeting, I'll show you a little of the city. Would you like that?”

  “Yes.”

  Outside, next to his car, he paused. “I have thought of nothing all day but kissing you.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” I whispered, and let him gather me up, like a doll into the blanket of his arms, bend his head, that lock of hair just brushing my forehead as he kissed me.

  It wasn't just nice. It was like biting into hot berries—little blasts of surprising heat and sweetness. I touched his face, the leanness of his jaw, felt the faint prick of his beard against my fingertips. His breath soughed over the corner of my mouth, and I know I made a sound. He pulled me tighter, plunged a hand through my hair, and I felt myself wanting to inhale him, make his cells part of me.

  I broke away. Took a breath. Put a hand on his shoulder and stared up at him. “This is rash. How can I work with you if we kiss like that?”

  “It'll be fine,” he said, and kissed me again. “Christ,” he whispered. “I can't think when my head's been so crowded with thoughts of a woman.”

  “I know,” I said. Snow was starting to fall. “Me, too.”

  “Shall we find you some supper?”

  “That would be nice.”

  He drove into the city, and I drank it in like a giddy child, trying not to press my face too much against the windows. He was a sophisticate, a man of the world, one who'd seen everything. I didn't want to look like a hick.

  In his warm cello voice, with that musical lilt, he said, “It is a magical place, isn't it?”

  I smiled at him.

  We had to walk up a street filled with tiny, narrow shops crowded together, their signs bright against the night. A jeweler, gold chains in the window, a dark man nodded at us as we passed; a shop with bright silk—turquoise and red and white—flowing against the walls. He took me to a tiny Italian restaurant where there were checkered cloths on the tables, and flowers in tiny white vases, and candles in wine bottles with the wax dripping down the side. I didn't think such places existed.

  We drank Chianti, and talked about our pasts. Cowboys and Indians, that was the fare of his childhood. I chuckled. Mine had been castles and keeps.

  He talked about his travels—he'd been everywhere. I'd been almost nowhere, and it made me feel as plain as the prairie. There was an air of adventure and exotica surrounding him, a scent of something foreign and far away, a cloak of excitement that might rub off on me.

  “What was your favorite?” I asked.

  The gray eyes stared off into the distance. “So many are beautiful, but I must say the place I miss most is home. Galway. It's the only place I care to travel to now, fortunately work requires it at times.”

  “Is it beautiful, Ireland?”

  “It is. You would like it—it's so different from Colorado. Rolling hills and not many trees, and very very green.” He took my hand across the table. “I have been talking too much. I do that when I'm nervous.”

  “Do I make you nervous?”

  “Not you,” he said, stroking the center of my palm. “This. It's not the usual, is it?”

  I lowered my eyes. “I should tell you I don't get involved as a rule.”

  “That's all right. Neither do I.”

  “I'm not being coy,” I said, lifting my eyes.

  “I can see that.” He tapped my palm, once, and straightened. “Check, please.”

  Chapter Eleven

  India

  We pause in Raton, so my mother can smoke. She doesn't stand and rush through it, either, like any thoughtful smoker would. No, she settles on a bench and crosses her legs, adjusts her glasses and holds the cigarette at the ready, smiling when a trucker—his belt stationed around his hips in order to accommodate his belly—halts to light it for her. She smiles happily, takes off her sunglasses, and he walks on. Jauntily.

  The moment is so very Eldora, I have to share it with someone, and reach in my purse for my cell phone to call Hannah. The phone isn't there. It takes a minute to sink in, a minute during which I'm patting and probing through the whole bag, over and over, as if the phone
is a penny stuck in a seam.

  It's not there.

  And with a flash of memory, I remember why: It's still lying on my kitchen counter, plugged in and ready to go.

  Damn. It makes me feel panicky, thinking of those empty miles, the desert stretching all around us and me with no phone. Visions of ban-ditos with bullets crisscrossing their chest rise in my imagination. I also think of things like flat tires and blown gaskets.

  Then again, this is trucker alley, and there is my mother.

  I lean on the car, watching her. She takes her time. Inhaling, dropping her hand to her knee, exhaling as her foot in its strappy shoe wiggles. From a distance of twenty feet, she doesn't look more than forty, and even up close, she doesn't look more than fifty

  The forgotten phone is annoying, but not a disaster. Perhaps I can rent one in Santa Fe or something, just for the sake of my own sense of safety.

  Eldora finishes her cigarette, stands up and carries the butt to a nearby trash can, and takes her time walking toward the car. “All right, sweetie. I'm done. Thanks.”

  We stop again in Maxwell, in a little diner where I eat a hamburger because I'm starving. My mother smokes, drinks coffee, and picks the cherries out of a piece of pie. I think of my sister and smile. “Can you imagine how Gypsy would be shuddering over you doing that?”

  “Lord! That used to drive me nuts—no round food. Everything is round, ever notice?”

  “Was she always like that?”

  Eldora spears a cherry, examines it, makes a weary noise. “From the time she was little tiny. Which says something about how they don't think children are schizophrenic, doesn't it?”

  “She was always a little different.” I poke a french fry into a pool of heavily salted ketchup. “But a lot of kids have eccentric habits.”

  “And she wasn't all that weird, really, was she? Not when she was little. The round food, but that's like a kid who won't eat anything orange because he doesn't like carrots. Gypsy got the stomach flu right after she ate some grapes once and I always figured it came from that.”