by LS Hawker
Ray collapsed to the ground.
“Drop . . . the . . . phone.”
“But—but it’ll break . . .”
“Drop it!”
He did, and it did.
“We’re leaving now,” Petty told them. “We didn’t hurt anyone. Don’t call the cops, or I’ll come back here and finish the job.”
Ray and the phone man both nodded dumbly, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed.
Petty backed away, aiming the gun with both hands, back and forth, between the two guys. Once we reached the edge of the parking lot, she stuck the gun in her holster and ran.
I could not believe how fast this girl could run. I couldn’t possibly hope to keep up. I didn’t want to admit it, but a pack a day of Camels had really cut my lung capacity. We ran on the soft shoulder, the cross-country trucks blasting by us. Petty held out a thumb as she ran.
It seemed like hours had gone by, but I knew it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes or so. I couldn’t keep going, in any case. I had a stitch in my side and my ankle was throbbing, so I sat down well back from the shoulder in the soggy, shallow ditch. It was another ten minutes before Petty came running back.
“Why are you sitting? Let’s go.”
“I can’t keep up with you,” I said.
“We can’t stay here,” she said.
“Can we walk?”
“All right.”
We walked the shoulder.
“Petty,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “You can’t just pull your gun on someone because he pisses you off.”
“I was defending myself. I was defending us.”
“From what?”
“He was trying to take our picture.” She stopped walking.
I stopped too. We stood facing each other.
“But he didn’t threaten you. And Ray thought you were a prostitute, but he didn’t do anything. He’s a moron being an asshole. You don’t shoot people for being stupid assholes, or the human race would be extinct.”
Petty didn’t say anything for a moment. “Well, you just stood there and didn’t do anything.”
“Right,” I said. “There was nothing for me to do. If he’d threatened you physically, I would have—”
“You’d have what? Run away? Slowly?”
“We’re trying to keep a low profile,” I said, stung and defensive. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was the weak link in this partnership, but she was right. I wouldn’t have done anything. At least I had a grip on how the real world worked and didn’t think I was living inside of a cop show where pulling your piece had no actual consequences. “And Ray was harmless and pathetic. But he and that other fat fuck will never forget you. They’ll tell their buddies, and sooner or later one of them’s going to decide he wants that Crimestopper reward, and I hope to God we’re off this road by then. In the meantime, you need to stop acting like Sarah Connor or you’re going to get us caught—if you don’t kill someone first. Like me.” My voice rose throughout my tirade until I was shouting that last bit.
“Fine,” she shouted back.
I followed several yards behind her in silence. I was tired. I was pissed at getting roped into this. Then rain began falling. Perfect.
To distract myself, I ran through Disregard the 9’s set list in my mind, playing my part on imaginary drums in front of me. I needed some rehearsal time and badly. I could not screw this up. I had to be on time, I had to be easy to work with this time and not roll my eyes when Chad wanted to play songs I hated.
Not a single vehicle even slowed as they went by. We walked so long I wondered if we’d have to walk the entire way to Denver. We walked so long I began to wish for a cop car to stop and take us to a nice dry jail.
“Petty,” I called.
She trudged on.
“Come on, Petty. I’m sorry, okay?”
She didn’t stop.
“Come on. You’ve got to forgive me.”
She slowed but continued on.
Just before sunrise, taillights pulled to the shoulder ahead of us. Petty slogged resolutely on past it, giving the car a wide berth. But I heard a woman’s voice calling out of the open window. “What in the hell are you two doing? You’re going to get killed, walking on the shoulder of the interstate!”
I stopped and looked in the open window of the Chevy sedan. The dashboard lit up the driver’s face. She was in her sixties at least, with glasses and graying hair in a ponytail.
“You get in this car right now,” she said.
I stood straight and shouted, “Jenny!” Petty kept walking. She obviously didn’t remember the fake name I’d given her earlier. “Jenny!”
She stopped and turned.
“We’ve got a ride.”
Petty put a hand on her hip.
“Come on, it’s raining. This nice lady wants to give us a ride.”
Petty stood thinking for a moment then walked back. She whispered, “If she takes us to one of those shops, I’m pulling weapons again. I’m just saying.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
I got in the front seat and Petty got in back.
“Where y’all headed?” the driver asked.
“Denver,” I told her.
“Me too,” she said. “Going out to sit with my grandbabies while their folks go on a cruise. You can ride all the way if you want.”
She pulled back out on the highway.
“Car break down?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m Ted and that’s Jenny.”
“Debbie,” she said.
“Where are we?”
“Just past WaKeeney,” she said. “About three hundred miles from Denver.”
Wednesday
I WOKE UP in the backseat of Debbie’s Chevy, thinking about Detective Deirdre Walsh and how I’d never gone more than a day without watching an episode of one of the Offender shows. I felt the way I imagined normal people felt when they were away from family for a period of time—disoriented, detached, homesick. Then I saw something that made me shout.
“Dekker!”
The car swerved. “My word,” Debbie said, her hand over her mouth. “What did you say, Jenny? Are you all right?”
Dekker turned in his seat to look back at me. “Yeah, Jenny. What did you say?”
I couldn’t say anything then, because I realized I’d used Dekker’s real name. Luckily, Debbie didn’t know what I was talking about.
“Did you have a bad dream?” Debbie said.
“No,” I said. I pointed between the front seats at the windshield.
“What is it?” Dekker said.
“The mountains! The mountains! There they are!”
“Give us some warning before you freak out next time, will you?” Dekker had his hand on his chest as if he were trying to keep his heart from popping out.
“I’m sorry, but . . . the mountains!” They really were purple, and the tops of them really were frosted in snow, though it was late April. I’d never seen anything so beautiful, not in real life.
“Yes. Mountains. Shit. You’re going to get us killed.”
I was so excited I couldn’t stop bouncing in my seat, and Dekker finally started to smile. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Let’s stop in Limon,” Debbie said. “We can get food and use the restroom. Then it’s another hour and a half to Denver.”
AT THE TRUCK stop there were dozens of semi rigs, and I was afraid Ray might be there and get us in trouble. Dekker looked worried too. But then in the parking lot he pointed at a white Buick with a FOR SALE sign in the window. It said $900 and See manager inside.
A half hour later the manager signed over the title for just $800, and we gave Debbie fifty dollars for gas and said goodbye to her. Then we spent another $125 in the convenience store. We bought some
fruit, toiletries, a couple of T-shirts, a new zip-up hoodie for me, and a map of Denver. We had $2500 left between the two of us, but I had no intention of letting Dekker spend any of his share.
The truck stop had showers, so we both paid to use them. I didn’t want us to show up at my maybe-grandmother’s house looking like drowned rats. I felt much fresher as I exited the shower room with my dirty clothes in a plastic sack.
“I need to find a pay phone and call Uncle Curt and let him know we survived the tornado.” He tossed me the keys. “You can wait in the car, if you want.”
I carried our purchases out to the Buick and put everything in the backseat then got in the front. The seats were deep and comfortable, not like any of the other vehicles I’d been in. It was like riding on a sofa. Maybe Dekker could teach me to drive once we got to Denver.
He startled me by opening the driver’s side door and getting in.
“Boy, Uncle Curt was pissed,” he said.
“Why?”
“Said he’s been out of his mind with worry. Didn’t know if we were alive or dead. He actually said we should turn around and come home and hide in his basement. I said this was the first time we’ve been anywhere near a phone. He told me call him when we get to Denver.”
I pulled the folded paper out of my pocket, the one with Mrs. Bart I. Davis’s address on it, and read it over again. Was this actually kin of mine, and if so, what was she like? Dekker’s grandma popped into my mind, her and her casserole and the way she put Dekker in his place, and I hoped that mine was like her.
Dekker unfolded the map. “Can you navigate?”
“Yes,” I said. “Dad taught me how to read maps almost as soon as I could read.”
Every time I used that word—Dad—it hit me in the chest. Charlie Moshen, Michael Rhones—who had he really been? He was obviously much more disturbed than I could ever have imagined, taking me away from Mom and my real dad.
Dekker handed me the map. I looked at the address Curt had written for us and found where it was located on the map within a few minutes.
Dekker started up the car and drove us to I-70.
An hour and a half later we pulled up in front of Mrs. Bart I. Davis’s address, which looked like a run-down hotel. The paint was faded and peeling, the lawn in front sparse. It was called the Village at Xanthia.
And now that we were here, I was suddenly immobilized by fear. What if Mrs. Bart I. Davis didn’t want anything to do with me? What if she was a mean old lady?
What if she wasn’t my grandma at all?
I FOLLOWED PETTY up to the building and through the front door to a desk. My heart sank. I’d been expecting an apartment complex, but this was a nursing home. The place seemed cheery enough, but there were several old folks in bathrobes sitting in wheelchairs, staring at nothing. Underneath the floral air-freshener scent, I smelled urine. The clock, to my surprise, said three P.M. No wonder I was so tired and hungry. I’d been driving nonstop since breakfast.
A fleshy woman in scrubs sat behind the reception desk, talking on the phone. She held up a finger to us.
We waited until she hung up and turned to us. “How can I help you?”
Petty opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I came to her rescue.
“We’re here to see Mrs. Bart I. Davis.”
She consulted a notebook. “Jeannie Davis?”
“Yes,” I said with authority.
“And who are you?”
Petty and I glanced at each other. We couldn’t give our real names, of course.
“We’re her grandniece and nephew,” I said.
The nurse looked suspicious. Or maybe I only thought she did.
“Is Mrs. Davis expecting you?”
“No,” I said. “She definitely is not expecting us. We’re in town from Nebraska. We promised our mom we’d visit.”
“You’ll need to sign in and print your license plate number here.” She pushed a clipboard with a sign-in sheet on it toward us.
“We took the bus,” I said.
But she’d already turned away to attend to other business.
I wrote on the sign-in sheet: Bill and Melinda Gates.
“Where can we find Mrs.—Aunt Jeannie?” I asked the back of the nurse’s head.
“She’s in room 3B.”
I led the way down the hall. Petty avoided eye contact with the old people. Most of them were like droopy statues, and the rest moved with painful slowness. Petty probably didn’t have any experience with old people, where I’d had a lifetime of it. After I went to live with Oma, I accompanied her Meals on Wheels runs and her weekly visits to the Sunset Nursing Home in Niobe. Every Thursday, Oma baked cookies and other goodies for the old folks.
“Here it is,” I said, pointing to an open door. Many televisions up and down the hall competed with each other, most of them death-metal loud, and one of them was in the room we were about to enter. “I’ll go in first, okay?”
Petty nodded, her face ashen
Inside were two old ladies. One sat up in bed, the other in a chair. Only the lady in the chair turned when Petty and I entered.
“Hello,” I said.
“Good morning!” the lady in the chair said cheerfully. “Are you here for my bath?”
“No, we’re here to visit. Are you Mrs. Jeannie Davis?”
“Oh, no, honey. I’m Zelda Krantz. I’m her new roommate.” She whispered, “Her last one passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
I glanced at Petty, who couldn’t take her eyes off the lady in the bed, her possible grandma, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the TV.
“We’re some relatives in from Nebraska,” I said. Then I said to Jeannie, “Hello, Mrs. Davis.”
Her head turned slowly, and her eyes traveled from my belt buckle to my face before her eyes narrowed in what might have been confusion or suspicion. She didn’t answer.
“How are you today?”
She kept staring at me.
“She’s having an off day, I think,” Mrs. Krantz whispered. “She has the Alzheimer’s, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” I said, deflated. This was a major setback. Would Mrs. Davis be able to provide any information? Would she even be able to talk to us?
Petty backed up against the wall.
“She was very lively this morning,” Mrs. Krantz said, looking at the TV. “Very talkative.”
“What did she talk about?” I asked Mrs. Krantz.
“About when her children were little, mostly,” she said. “She has her good days and her bad days. You should go ahead and talk to her anyway. Even if she doesn’t answer, you can talk to her.”
I tried to catch Petty’s eye, but she was frozen in place. I imagined she’d even stopped breathing. I got as close to her as I dared and whispered, “Talk to your grandma, Petty.”
“What do I say?”
“Just . . . say hello.” I thought I could see some resemblance to the lady in the photo album, but maybe I just hoped I could. I turned back to Petty. “Don’t make her strain to see you,” I whispered. “Go over by the bed, look her in the eye and talk to her.”
Petty detached herself from the wall with some effort and walked to the bed. Mrs. Davis’s eyes were still on me. Petty cleared her throat, and the old lady’s watery eyes slowly tracked over to Petty’s face.
“Hello,” Petty said.
Mrs. Davis’s cloudy old eyes gazed into Petty’s, and I could actually see her pupils dilate. She must recognize Petty! A low growly noise came out of Mrs. Davis’s mouth. “Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma.”
“Is she saying ‘Mama’?” I said.
Mrs. Davis’s veiny old hand came up off the blankets and wavered, but it looked like a shooing motion to me. She kept her eyes on Petty’s face, her eyeb
rows drawn together. “Ma. Ma. Ma.” It was creepy, the way she drew the syllables out, how her voice was pitched so low. I knew this voice would haunt my dreams.
“She must be way back in her childhood now,” Mrs. Krantz said. “I feel for her, I do. I hope it’s not contagious. Not a thing wrong with my mind, not a thing. Sharp as a razor!”
Petty shocked me by reaching out and taking Mrs. Davis’s hand. Once contact was made, Mrs. Davis stopped making any noise at all. She continued staring at Petty until her eyelids got heavy. Then they closed and she snored softly. Petty set her hand back on the blanket.
“Does she ever have any visitors?” I asked Mrs. Krantz.
“I’ve only been her roommate for about a week now, and she hasn’t had any in that time. I’ve had two, though.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“Do you want to try again tomorrow?” Mrs. Krantz asked. “She might be a little clearer. Then again, she might not.”
“But you’ll be here, won’t you?” I said. “We can talk to you then, can’t we?”
“Of course you can!” Mrs. Krantz’s dried apple-doll face lit up, and I could see that she’d once been very pretty.
“Is there a special treat we can bring when we come back tomorrow?”
“Can you bring me some chocolate-covered cherries?”
“We can,” I said, “and we will.”
Chapter 20
“WE DROVE BY a motel for twenty-nine dollars a night,” I said. “That’s probably as good as it’s going to get.”
What I didn’t say was that it was called Motel 9, which I took as a good omen because it was so close to Disregard the 9. I didn’t want her to think I was superstitious.
When I snapped out of my mini-daydream, Petty was staring at me. “We’re going to a motel?”
“We need a place to sleep,” I said. “What were you thinking we should do?”
“I didn’t think about it,” Petty said. “I guess I thought we’d come to town, we’d find my grandma, she’d tell us who my real dad is and we’d go there. I didn’t think about . . . nights.”