Dakota Blues Box Set

by Lynne M Spreen

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “I’m in a good mood. Rita called.” She started cracking eggs on the edge of a bowl. “She’s picking up a load in Indio and hauling it to Salinas.”

  “So?”

  “So obviously I’m riding up north with her. Lucky you. You’re free. You can go home.”

  I hadn’t slept well, and my brain was foggy, but I got the gist. “You’re going to see Belle.”

  “I sure am. She needs to hear me out.” Fern chopped onions, the white bits flying off the cutting board. “I keep thinking of all the things I should have said. Sometimes I’m like that. I get so mad I can’t remember my arguments until after the fact. Now I can have one more shot.”

  “Fern, she’s not going to listen. She’s gone.”

  “I can get her back.”

  I ducked my head so she couldn’t see the look on my face. What a bad idea. This would put the final nail in the coffin. It wasn’t feasible, anyway. “You can’t ride in the tractor. That seat must be ten feet off the ground. How will you even get in?”

  “Rita has a step stool. She uses it for cleaning the windshield and stuff. It’ll be no problem.” Fern leaned against the counter. “What do you think?”

  Holding my mug, I stared down into the dark brew. I think it’s a terrible idea, I wanted to say. I think it’ll be World War III. I think Belle’s going to slam the door in your face, and I think you’re going to die from the pain.

  I took a gulp of hot coffee, swallowed hard, and set the cup down.

  Fern crossed her arms. “Karen, what do you think?”

  I turned the cup around and around in front of me. It made a scratching sound on the laminate like someone had spilled sugar underneath it.

  “Well?”

  “I think—”

  “What? Cat got your tongue?”

  I sighed. “I think I’m coming with you.”

  Fern’s mouth fell open. “Why in the hell would you want to do that?”

  I shrugged. “Because I like road trips?”

  “You’re weird.” Fern aimed the spatula at me. “I mean that in a good way.”

  I clutched the mug with both hands, thinking of all the reasons not to go, the first of which was that Curt was expecting me home, and besides that, Fern didn’t need me. Well, she wouldn’t need me if everything went well. Which it probably wouldn’t. And then what? How would she get home, with a busted ankle and a broken heart?

  On the other hand, it was such a wild idea, so crazy, it might just work. It could even be fun. I could dip my toe into Rita’s world. See California from a new perspective.

  “What’s that husband of yours going to say?”

  “It’s only a few more days. He’ll be fine.”

  “You ever been in a semi?” she asked. “It’s slow and boring.”

  “It’ll be harder for you.”

  “It’s the only shot I have.” Fern walk/hopped over to the table and set an omelet with bacon in front of me. “I still don’t get why you’re going.”

  I picked up a fork and took a bite. Contrary to what I’d believed about Fern’s cooking abilities, it was delicious. “Like you said, I’ve never ridden in a semi, and it’ll be a chance to spend time with Rita. Plus, I love that area. Carmel, Pebble Beach, Monterey. I haven’t been there since I lost my job.”

  “Bullshit. You just want a front-row seat to the apocalypse.” Fern put another plate down and sat across from me. Her eyes were bright, her skin pink. She seemed to have recovered overnight.

  I speared a forkful of potatoes. “Even if it is the end of the world for you, I’ll have a good time.”

  “It’s all about the road, isn’t it? Maybe you should have been a trucker.”

  “Maybe.” I cleared my dishes. On the way out of the kitchen, I came up behind Fern and gave her a hug.

  “You’re okay, Karen.” She patted my arm. “No matter what anybody says.”

  I went to my room and called Curt. When I told him my plans, there was silence. I heard him exhale. “How long will you be doing that?”

  “Probably just—” I heard the phone hit something, and my husband cursed and laughed at the same time. A horse blew raspberries in my ear. “Curt?”

  The phone jostled again. “Yeah, I’m here. Your mare wanted to talk to you. Knocked the phone out of my hand.”

  “Aww.” I grinned, thinking of my bad girl, Looney Tunes. “How is the foal?”

  “He’s a handful, but she keeps him in line. Aunt Marie keeps asking about you.”

  “I promise I’ll call her.” She would celebrate her ninetieth birthday in a month, a fact that brought home again the precious nature of time. “I miss you, honey.”

  “Then get your sweet ass home.”

  “Soon.”

  “How long?”

  “A few days, once we get on the road.”

  He sighed. “Our bed’s too big for one person.”

  “I know.” We said we loved each other and hung up. I felt a little guilty to be away, but there was something freeing about being our age. Curt knew I loved him, and even though we missed each other, this was an odd and wonderful opportunity.

  Plus he knew I’d have good stories when I got back home.

  Three days later, Fern and I had gained a few pounds, the fridge was empty, the beds were stripped, laundry done, and we were ready to go. In the predawn darkness, we loaded up the rental car and drove to the warehouse terminal where Rita said to meet her. The rig stood idling, its trailer already attached. I parked beside the tractor and started handing up suitcases, which Rita stowed in the sleeper. She did a double-take when she saw my clubs. “I guess we can jam them in the corner,” she said. “Watch your step.”

  In short order, we were loaded. “Did everybody go to the bathroom?” asked Rita. “We won’t be stopping until the other side of the Grapevine.”

  Fern and I nodded. Rita placed the step stool near the passenger door and shoved the crutches into the cab. Fern grabbed onto the handholds and hauled herself up the steps and into the seat, which Rita had lowered as far as it would go.

  “You’ll have to wait for me to get a shuttle back from the rental car place.” I tapped my phone’s ride service app.

  “I know, but hurry,” said Rita. “We’ll be in the morning rush as it is.”

  Twenty minutes later, I climbed up into the cab, stepped around Fern, and slipped between the seats to a jump-seat in the sleeper compartment. Rita released the brakes and the tractor juddered forward, falling in line behind other trucks exiting the terminal gates. I couldn’t see much, so I knelt between the two front seats to watch as we picked up speed. I couldn’t believe how high up we were. I was so excited, I felt like waving at people we passed on the street. Eventually, my knees couldn’t take it anymore and I buckled into the jump-seat. Except for the side window and the long view out the windshield, I felt like I was riding in a box.

  “Eight hours to Salinas,” shouted Rita. “Want some music?”

  “Not me,” I said, but Beyoncé’ shouted me down.

  Chapter 9

  RITA STEERED ONTO THE westbound freeway, turned down the music, and merged into fast-moving traffic. I couldn’t believe what she had to deal with. Cars sped past and around each other like frightened minnows in a pond, except with less coordination.

  “Jesus Christ!” Fern cursed as a van loaded with children cut in front of our semi.

  Rita pumped the brakes.

  “How would you even know if somebody rear-ended you?” I yelled from the back, but she either didn’t hear me or couldn’t answer because it was a Roman chariot race out there. We were in the heart of morning traffic, and caffeinated commuters darted maniacally around the truck as if they had no idea we could run right over the top of them. Several times we only avoided a pile-up because Rita managed to see them in time. Also, we were out in the desert, where theoretically it wasn’t as congested. We still had to drive into the Inland Empire, into L.A., and over th
e Grapevine. My respect for Rita, and for all truck drivers, grew.

  After a while, I couldn’t watch anymore. It was too much pressure. At a certain speed, the ride was too noisy to talk anyway, so we three settled into our respective corners. Rita drove, communicating now and then with other truckers on the CB. Fern looked out the window. I flipped open my e-reader and returned to a novel I’d been reading.

  Traffic was stop-and-go for the next two hours, slowing our drive time to such an extent that I was ready to pee in a cup. Lucky for me, Fern had been bitching about the same thing. In Santa Clarita, Rita turned into a truck stop at the foot of the Grapevine. It seemed everybody else had the same idea. The parking lot was jammed with semis, RVs, trucks, and cars. One narrow space opened up in semi parking just as we pulled in. Rita managed to swing wide and slip all seventy feet of rig in between two others. I exhaled with relief when she hit the brake and shut off the engine.

  Rita unhooked the step stool from behind the tractor, and the two of us hustled Fern down from the cab as fast as we could. A couple of male truckers gawked at the sight of three older ladies climbing out of the eighteen-wheeler, but we didn’t care. We were hell-bent for the bathroom.

  When we came out, a bald man in a windbreaker, jeans, and cowboy boots stood by our truck, studying the Rosie the Riveter logo on the door. Rita walked over to him, dwarfed by his height. “Can I help you?”

  He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and peered down at her through round rimless glasses. “You the driver, little lady?”

  Fern hobbled toward the man. “Who wants to know?”

  He took off his glasses, cleaned them with a white handkerchief, put them back on and stared at Fern. “Do you mind if I speak with the driver?”

  Rita smiled at Fern to get her to stand down. She peg-legged back a step while the man walked with Rita around to the front of the tractor and stood looking at it and talking. A few minutes later they shook hands, and he took off.

  “Who was that?” asked Fern.

  “His name is Charles. He owns a short-haul trucking firm in Escondido. He gave me his card and said to look him up.” Rita held the card in both hands, bending it in half and opening it, over and over again.

  “Don’t give him another thought,” said Fern. “He saw a cute chick, and he was trolling.”

  “Short-haul means you could go home at night, right?” I asked.

  “It’s not that simple.” Rita straightened the card and stuck it in her pocket. “We need to get going.”

  Before we took off, she pulled out her logbook and made a notation. She started the engine and began to roll forward. A man wandered in front of us, looking at his telephone. She hit the brakes. The man continued walking, never even realizing the danger.

  “What an idiot,” I said.

  “Happens constantly.” Rita eased the truck forward, almost touching the rig parked in front of her, and cut the wheels sharply to the left. The tractor crept behind a row of trucks with only inches to spare. I watched out my window as our trailer squeezed out of the space without hitting anything. Rita straightened it out, and we headed for the freeway.

  The Grapevine was everything I’d feared, and worse. Hordes of Southlanders were fighting to leave L.A., and since the right lanes were bumper to bumper with slow-moving trucks, the cars had only the left lanes in which to travel. I’d spent thirty years in southern California, so I was used to the suicidal tendencies of other drivers, but I’d never paid much attention to the way they acted around trucks. When a jacked-up 4x4 mini truck went flying up the shoulder on our right, I couldn’t believe Rita was driving a truck by choice. Even if she was afraid to go back to teaching, she could have found an easier way to earn a living. Or she could marry Grady and live in a mansion overlooking the ocean.

  But she’d already made it clear that settling down in normal civilization wasn’t for her. I closed my side-window curtain, put in some earbuds, turned up the soundtrack to Road to Perdition, and closed my eyes.

  An hour later, the music ended, and we were still alive. We were coming down the last grade, slipping under the smog blanket of the San Joaquin Valley. After a last flurry of congestion, the freeway divided into two, and we continued north on the 5, which consisted of two lanes. One for trucks, which was potholed and bumpy, and one for cars, which was jammed with tailgaters. The faster drivers couldn’t pass until there was an opening between semis, and the slower drivers tended not to get over to the right. A couple times we almost got clipped, which would have been bad for us but worse for the car.

  The rest of the time, it was flat-out boring. Rita kept it at sixty-five as rows and rows of dormant vineyards spoked past. The cab rattled with every pothole. It was too noisy to talk.

  We turned off the freeway onto the 46 toward Paso Robles and stopped for lunch. After that ride, our bodies were creaky and stiff.

  Fern grabbed the only empty table that wasn’t littered with left-behind trash.

  Rita ordered a double cheeseburger, fries, a chocolate shake and a slice of apple pie. She caught me ogling her tray full of food. “When I’m on the road I eat one meal a day,” she said. “This is it.”

  I passed around the hand sanitizer. Fern unwrapped a burrito. “How much farther?”

  “About four hours.”

  Fern and I groaned in unison. Rita chuckled. “So, what do you think about the trip?”

  “Long stretches of boredom punctuated by sheer terror,” I said.

  “You saw the worst of it. Not all trips are the same.”

  We climbed back in the rig and headed west through an arid and impoverished landscape of inactive oil well pumps, dormant and bare orchards, and unfarmed dirt. The area was so bleak that one of the cross-streets was named Brown Material Road. Rita kept the rig at sixty miles per hour, and on we rolled.

  Getting into Paso Robles, we ran into rain coming in off the Pacific, thirty miles west. We turned onto the 101 and continued north, past millions of rows of lettuce and strawberry plants. Dark clouds clumped overhead, and the occasional drizzle splattered the windshield, although the truck was warm enough.

  At Gonzales, I checked the GPS on my phone. Twenty minutes later, Salinas came into view.

  I was happy to see the industrial clutter of the city because it meant I would soon be done with the truck. Rita navigated off the freeway, turned left, drove up and over the bridge, and followed an access road to a rental car office. We climbed down from the truck, groaning and stretching our legs.

  Rita cleaned out the cab while Fern and I went inside to see what was available. They gave us a scruffy domestic sedan into which I dumped our suitcases and my golf clubs. We stood on the curb, hugging goodbye and pretending the next leg of the trip was no big deal.

  The Peterbilt eased back into traffic, and I felt a sense of regret, watching Rita go. In Key Largo, she’d felt like an old friend, even though we just met and weren’t able to spend much time together. Her easy laugh was contagious. If one of the CRS Ladies said something unintentionally crazy, I knew I could glance over at Rita and be rewarded with a knowing smile. Her face was so expressive, even a covertly raised eyebrow would start me laughing. The chemistry was instantaneous. I’d hoped this run would allow us to spend some time together, but instead, it was just a bus ride north.

  Rita’s life seemed dangerous and lonely, and I didn’t understand what she was after, or why she resisted Grady’s perpetual offer of a lovely home and stability. We all knew she loved him, his shy humor and comfortable ways. Somehow, she needed to be out on the road, alone.

  I didn’t know when I’d see her again. Or, for that matter, any of the CRS Ladies. The thought bothered me. Sure, we all had our lives, and each of us was busy, but we’d been through too much together to let each other drift away. Right then, I decided I’d organize a summer camping rendezvous at Mt. Rushmore, although without Fern and Belle, it might be a morose group.

  “You gonna sit there all day?” Fern sounded tough but looked pale. She had
to be even more tired than I was.

  After eight hours in the semi, riding in a car felt like lying on a skateboard. We’d caught the late-afternoon rush hour, but all the traffic was going the other direction, so we made good time into Monterey. I located our motel, checked us in, and rolled our suitcases to the room.

  Fern went into the bathroom while I unpacked. I heard the shower and the blow dryer. She came out dressed in a blue silk blouse and dress slacks. Her face was pink, eyes clear, hair done. There was even a hint of gloss on her lips.

  She scowled at me. “What are you looking at?”

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “I gotta see Belle, or I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” Fern paced around the room on her booted foot.

  “Should I step outside while you call her?”

  Fern shook her head. “Not calling. Let’s just go.”

  I opened my mouth to offer advice, but Fern didn’t want it. If I tried to talk her into waiting until morning, she’d just call a cab and see Belle without me. I picked up my purse and keys. “Let’s go.”

  The car’s wipers slapped and dragged as I drove through the gathering fog and darkness. Fern, peering at her phone, gave directions.

  I loved Monterey for its coastline, its tall, silent forests, and its arts scene. What I didn’t love were the cold, the damp, and the traffic. Monterey’s highways were packed, and I got flustered and made a few wrong turns. We missed our turnoff a couple times. Finally, we drove into a quiet old neighborhood in the community of Pacific Grove.

  All the streets followed a logical grid. The address belonged to a gray-and-white Cape Cod with double dormers and a white picket fence. We drove past in the evening gloom. I was afraid of being seen and of what we would see. The porch light was on. A sleek BMW stood at the curb.

  Fern stared out the window, focusing like a laser on the house. I turned around at the end of the street and went by again. The third time, Fern told me to stop. I parked across the street from the house and turned off the motor. Silence fell.