Dakota Blues Box Set

by Lynne M Spreen

  Karen remembered then that it was Saturday, and felt a reflexive sense of joy. She had worked enough years that weekends always felt special, even if she was currently out of a job. There was always hope she and Steve might be able to spend a little time together, maybe work around the garden or see a movie. In reality, when Saturday morning dawned, he slept in while she rose early to tackle the leftover work in her briefcase. She envied his casual approach, raking in both cash and clients without even trying. If he awoke before she finished working, he’d lean against the sink and watch her, his eyes clear and bright from untroubled sleep. Holding his coffee cup in one hand, he’d run the other through his hair, incredulous. “Why don’t you hire somebody to do that?”

  “No money.”

  “There’s always money. They’re taking advantage of you.” He slurped his coffee. “I know you hate hearing this, but you’re afraid to delegate.”

  “If something goes wrong, it reflects on me.”

  “So you apologize and move on. Tony Robbins says you should make a new mistake every day.”

  “Tony Robbins is his own boss.”

  “You could be too.” Tiring of watching her, Steve would stretch, shower and head for the gym or golf course. Even now, the memory of his amusement rankled until she remembered he was gone. She tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t quit staring into the black hole of her former life.

  He had wanted more of her time and attention, and over the years she tried to find a middle ground between working like a maniac and being a good wife, but the phone always rang, the emails and texts and instant messaging never stopped. That was the way of work in the twenty-first century. Years ago, a person could go home, put her feet up, and forget about work until the next morning. Now with new technology, the employer’s leash reached all the way to your nightstand.

  Steve used to say he was proud of her, and he enjoyed showing her off at corporate events. My wife, the executive, he’d say. She’s my copilot. The sky’s the limit.

  Was that an act?

  She rolled over, trying not to fall out onto the floor.

  They were at lunch during a workday, at a fancy restaurant in Laguna Beach, when he told her he was leaving. He mentioned it quietly, when she was halfway through her salad. In order not to scream she had reached for the sweating glass of iced tea and taken too large a swallow, inciting both a severe coughing fit and brain freeze. When she stopped choking she caught him looking at his watch.

  Now he was about to start his life over again with a woman half his age and soon, a baby. He’d be in his sixties, kicking a soccer ball around; in his seventies when the child would graduate high school. Karen wondered if the reality of it all had hit him yet.

  Not like she cared.

  Frieda coughed, and Karen waited, hoping the old women would sleep for another half-hour or so. Karen wasn’t ready to start working, not just yet. When silence returned, her mind wandered again, surveying the desolate landscape of her future. She roved back and forth, from welcoming her new independence to fearing it, from wanting to be left alone to a fear she would be completely alone for the rest of her life.

  Except there was Curt, and she smiled in the half-light. If nothing else, he had shown her that her body still worked. More than worked. It excelled. For that, she would always be grateful. She wondered whether he was up, and if she should call him, but she’d only just left and didn’t want to appear clingy. But maybe he’d be happy to hear from her.

  Why default to the negative, if you don’t know the truth?

  Karen wondered if she’d made a mistake in leaving so soon after connecting with him. The guy had so much to offer, but on the other hand, she wasn’t even single yet. She had never lived alone. What would it feel like, to have all your free time for yourself, never feeling guilty about neglecting your other? How cool would that be?

  The downside, of course, was loneliness. In the right proportion, they called it solitude. But what if she got lonely? To whom would she go to fill that void? She had no real friends outside of her job.

  Her ex-job.

  She rubbed her eyes. Thinking too much, as usual. Frieda was still asleep. Maybe Karen could sneak out and get a quick shower before they hit the road and headed for a campground in Wyoming, three hundred miles southwest. Tomorrow morning she would drop Frieda in Denver and point the van toward California.

  The thought of home invigorated her. She found her sneakers and coat, grabbed a towel and slipped out of the van, quietly locking the door behind her. The sun had not yet touched the tips of the pines, but already the tang of wood smoke scented the air. All around the sounds of an awakening camp echoed through the trees: the chop and rip of wood splitting into kindling, the clank of pot against stove, a car door slamming in the distance.

  At the shower building, she removed her clothes and, shivering, stepped into the stall. She ducked under the hot water, letting it stream over her face. The steam enveloped her in a cloud of warmth as the minutes ticked by and the fog built an opaque white wall between her and the rest of the world. Here she could stop thinking, aware only of the heat and the sound of splashing water. No pain hammered against her heart; no ideas permeated her brain. Nothing compelled her to move, to comply with obligations, to assess her guilt or victimhood. She leaned into the stinging droplets, eyes closed, bracing herself against the fiberglass wall of the shower, wishing she could stay under forever.

  When the door creaked and another woman entered the building, Karen turned off the faucets, toweled off, and dressed. Outside, her breath fogged in the cold air, but the sun had finally crested the pines and the campground glowed in the morning light. The smell of coffee and bacon made her stomach rumble.

  When she opened the door of the van, Frieda sat at the table, munching a cold Pop-Tart. “Good, you’re dressed. Mae invited us to go see Mt. Rushmore this morning.”

  “We agreed to leave early. Remember? We talked about this.”

  Frieda got up and threw the wrapper in the trash. “Your phone rang.”

  Karen played the new messages from Steve, each one more demanding than the last. She knew him well enough to read stress in his tone. No doubt his girlfriend was applying pressure. “Be reasonable,” his message said. “I’m trying to make this easy for both of us.” She shoved the phone back in her purse and went outside to roll up their sleeping bags on the picnic table. Frieda pulled on a jacket and sat in the sun while Karen organized and packed.

  “Watch your head.” Karen unsnapped the van’s canvas awning from its metal poles and rolled it up, shaking the fabric slightly to dislodge pine needles and tree droppings without raining woodland detritus on Frieda. When the awning was fastened in its holder, she folded and stowed the poles, cursing when she pinched her finger in a hinge.

  Mae appeared. “Good morning. Are you ready?”

  “Turns out we can’t go,” said Frieda. “My friend here is in a big fat hurry.”

  “You’re leaving so soon? That is a shame.”

  Karen gave a little wave but kept working. She was getting tired of explaining herself.

  Mae shrugged. “I was hoping we could spend more time together, but in any case, I have something for you.” She disappeared back into the trees.

  Karen had been working around Frieda, but now she was down to the chair in which Frieda was sitting, and the rug beneath it. The old lady simply licked a thumb and turned the page in her magazine. “I’m not done yet.”

  Karen shook her head and went inside for one last look, but she could find nothing else to clean, pack, or store. Giving up, she went back outside and plopped in the chair next to Frieda. “You’re dragging your feet on purpose.”

  “I’m trying to enjoy my story. Did you know that people forget ninety percent of their dreams?”

  “Very interesting. Ready?”

  “You’ve got such a burr under your saddle.” Frieda looked up, her eyes magnified behind her glasses. “We’re free as the breeze right now, nobody telling
us what to do or where to go. Why do you want to mess with that?”

  Karen stood. “At the rate we’re going, the sun will set before we get to Cheyenne. I don’t want to be out looking for our campsite in the dark.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Frieda closed her magazine and looked around the camp, absorbing in one slow sweep the thieving jays, racing squirrels, and swaying pine branches. She held out her hand and let Karen pull her up out of her chair. Mae reappeared carrying two pink flamingoes.

  “I never used them. Wallace feels they project a lower-class image, but I think they are cute.” Mae handed them to Karen to pack.

  “Adorable,” said Frieda. “We’ll set them up tonight.”

  Karen put her hand on Mae’s arm. “I can’t stop thinking about the painting. How are you doing?”

  “I am fine, of course.” Mae pulled away.

  “If you ever need–” Karen began, but Wallace marched toward them, posture erect, arms held firmly at his sides. She hurried Frieda into the passenger seat and closed the door, wanting to avoid another dose of Wallace’s smug advice. After one last hug for Mae, she started the van and shifted into gear. The gas pedal stuck momentarily, and when it released, Karen accidentally floored it. Wallace stepped back in horror as the van accelerated sharply, bouncing hard over a rock.

  “You don’t have to kill him,” said Frieda.

  Karen steered out of the parking space and onto the dirt lane that curved through the campground. Mae stood in the road, waving.

  “So sad,” said Frieda, watching in her side mirror. “She’s going through the motions, acting like if she stays busy, she won’t feel bad. There’s something you might think about.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Karen glanced in the rearview mirror. Wallace was walking back to the campground, with Mae hurrying to catch up with him.

  Frieda saw it, too. “The one who cares the most always loses.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  WITHIN THIRTY MINUTES, the van was tearing down the highway.

  The unfinished monument to Crazy Horse emerged out of the east, pointing them toward Wyoming. Karen began to feel lighter, and her impatience gave way to excitement. By this time tomorrow, she’d be heading home in glorious solitude.

  The grasses had been getting shorter and dryer ever since they left Dickinson. The simple two-lane highway cut through miles of plainsland, strewn with rocks and carved by gullies. It was uninhabited but for small bands of cattle or antelope, and punctuated by the occasional windmill. Karen tried to photograph in her mind the wild openness of it all, saving it for those afternoons when she would be stuck in traffic on the 405.

  Frieda sipped from a water bottle and watched the country roll by. “Some people call it desolate, but I always liked this emptiness. If you live here, you get used to it.”

  When Karen first moved to California, she had been surprised by the crowding. Unlike Dickinson, long chains of cars stretched up and down the freeways. Over the years, she adjusted, even though lately it had gotten so bad that a short trip to the grocery store had become as much of a drudge as her daily commute. The traffic guys on the radio had a term for it. TMC, Too Many Cars, each one occupied by exactly one human being, said human busy with electronic toys, food, and makeup while driving.

  And heaven forbid if you got a little careless toward a guy with an attitude–say for example, accidentally cutting off a couple of gang members or a crackhead or a pissed off drunk. You might end up dead just running out for a carton of milk.

  During her short visit to North Dakota, Karen had reverted back, accustomed once again to a slower pace and what seemed like a kinder populace. She knew she would adjust back again, that in time a person could get used to just about anything, whether it was having too much money or living in prison. It was a survival skill, something primordial that let humans adapt and thrive.

  Bloom where you’re planted. She’d heard it and even repeated it to her employees. Make the most of it. Stay positive. But could that adaptation go too far, making you numb to your circumstances, good or bad? Could that numbness stretch out and expand, taking over your whole life so you ended up sleepwalking through the length and breadth of it?

  She held the van steady in the wind. All day the road climbed in elevation, from the fields of sweet yellow clover around Newcastle to the Rawhide Buttes near the hill town of Lusk, and farther south through farm fields dotted with giant hay bales that resembled jelly rolls.

  Frieda read the travel guide, dog-earing dozens of pages as if planning a grand vacation. “It’s so flat here. Reminds me of Oklahoma. Did I tell you that’s where I’m from?”

  Karen squinted at highway sign. “Amazing. We’re at four thousand feet.”

  “Still flat.”

  Karen had seen the map. Once you climbed down off this high plateau, you had to go all the way east to Appalachia to find land of any real altitude. Between here and the Great Smoky Mountains, the Mississippi River in prehistoric times had carved a valley through almost one-third of the United States, but if all a person ever saw was this road, right here at the top of the plateau, that person might decide the entire world was flat and windblown, and for the most part, lacked trees.

  Frieda closed her book and looked out the window. “Can you imagine living out here a hundred years ago? How many months you would go without seeing another person?”

  “A lot of them had big families, though. So they’d have people around.”

  “They had big families because so many of the children died. The mothers, too. You didn’t have babies in hospitals back then. Some of Mother’s family went crazy from the hardship.”

  “Sounds horrible.” Karen floored the gas pedal and passed a slow-moving semi.

  “They took a little time off, now and then. On the holy days you’d pile in the wagon and gather at the church for food and weddings and celebration. It was miles away so everybody’d sleep there, under their wagons, mostly. This went on for days. You had to come or it was a sin. But really it was to keep the farmers from working themselves to death.”

  Karen rolled her head around on her neck, trying to dissipate the stiffness. The wind had battered the van for the last three hours and the need for constant vigilance was wearing her out. Plus she had a headache and cramping in her abdomen, like her period was about to make an appearance for the first time in months. Naturally, she hadn’t packed any gear for it, assuming the one benefit of menopause had finally arrived. On top of everything, the RV had been making a low ticking noise for the past sixty miles.

  “It says here, the only American ever convicted of cannibalism was caught right around this area. Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Fascinating.” A highway sign informed them that Cheyenne lay one hundred miles away. Even though Cheyenne and Denver were only an hour apart, they would camp again tonight. Karen had promised. Anyway, she didn’t have the energy to deal with Denver’s traffic or freeways, nor to meet Frieda’s daughter. Grimacing, she flicked on the blinker and took the southwest fork in the road toward their night’s rest.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  IN THE EARLY EVENING they checked in at the Hi Plains RV Park, a dirt-and-blacktop affair devoid of vegetation except for a few determined cottonwoods around each campsite. They paid the scowling manager who barely tore his eyes away from the wrestling match on TV, and pulled into their spot, a pitted concrete pad. The RV park was deserted except for a giant-sized motor coach a few rows over.

  “Back in a sec.” Karen hurried to the restroom, a bleak cinderblock with sheet metal mirrors. In the stall she was relieved to find the cramps were a false alarm.

  Frieda sat at the picnic table, frowning. “You find this place on your internets?”

  “Sorry. It looked nicer online.” After hooking up the water and electric supply, Karen opened a kitchen cabinet. “Cheese and crackers before dinner?”

  “Fine with me.”

  Karen opened the tiny refrigerator and jerked
back at the overpowering stench. The coolant had stopped working, and the milk and other perishables had been cooking all day. She found a trashbag in the cabinet and began emptying.

  “There was a café a few miles back,” said Frieda. “We could eat there.”

  “Let me think.” Karen pinched the bridge of her nose. “I could open a can of tuna and make sandwiches without mayo. Or how about macaroni and cheese cooked with water, and we could have these brownies for dessert?”

  “You decide. I’m going to stretch my legs,” Frieda said.

  Karen stepped outside and watched the old woman limp off toward the restroom. Even though it was summer, at six thousand feet, Cheyenne was already cooling off. She unrolled the carpet and set up two chairs.

  A door slammed, followed by footsteps crunching through the gravel. Karen turned to see a barrel-shaped woman with stick legs and a bleached-out buzz cut.

  “Hey, neighbor.” The woman’s voice was raspy from booze or cigarettes, or both. “Helluva place for a vacation, ain’t it?”

  Karen smiled. “I think we’re too tired to care.”

  The woman crushed Karen’s hand. “I’m Barb. You’re probably dehydrated. It’s the altitude. You gotta drink your liquids. Where you headed?”

  “Southern California.”

  Barb grinned, exposing a chipped tooth. “At least you can stop in Vegas. Do a little gambling, maybe take in a show. Who’s this, your mother?”

  “Do I look that old?” said Frieda, returning from the bathroom.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” said Barb. “You both could.”

  “Actually, we’re–” Karen began, but their neighbor was already walking back to her campsite.

  “This place is as ugly as a cow’s rear end. Where’re my flamingoes?” Frieda eased into a chair. “Is dinner ready?”

  “I’ll get started in a minute.” Karen finished leveling the van just as Barb returned with a pitcher of strawberry margaritas. She sloshed the icy liquid into plastic cups and handed them out, then placed the pitcher on the dirt and plopped into a chair.