We turn a corner through this deserted burg and pass down Main Street. That’s when I remember what’s in Holbrook and it ain’t the dinosaurs. Before long, I can see the neon blazing green against the desert horizon.
WIGWAM MOTEL
Have you slept in a wigwam lately?
Behind the sign and the office, there is a glowing half circle of shiny white teepees, each ringed with crimson rickrack, a single spotlight bright at the crown.
“John. Do you remember staying here on our first trip to Disneyland?”
“We never stayed there,” says John.
“Yes, we did. It was small inside, but it was comfy. The kids loved it.”
It crosses my mind to pull in there, knock off for the night and sleep in one of those concrete wigwams again for old times’ sake, but we are getting so far into Arizona, making steady time, that I don’t want to stop. Besides, I remember our slides of the inside of our wigwam, the dinky log furniture, the cramped bathroom. It was tiny. We might as well just sleep in the van.
Down the street, we stop for gas, use the credit card, slide in and out of the restrooms. We don’t speak to a soul.
A dozen miles in the velvet darkness. Briefly on 66, we pass a place with a giant jackrabbit standing sentry in the parking lot. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. The dinosaurs were much more friendly looking.
Later, back on I-40 near Winslow, a roadrunner zips across our path. I remember these little birds from previous trips. Frankly, I remember them being faster than this one. John never even saw it as it crossed the beam of our headlights. I saw it only for an instant. When we hit the poor thing, there was barely a noise to speak of, just a thup, as if we had run over a milk carton.
“What was that?” said John.
“I think we hit a bird,” I say, my voice splintering. “A roadrunner.”
“A what?”
“A roadrunner. You know, like what Wile E. Coyote used to chase?” I feel bad for the little creature. It all happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to make a peep. This seems like a bad omen. Suddenly, I feel like one of those sailors who must wear an albatross around his neck after killing it. I try to think about something else.
The frantic part of my discomfort is gone now, and I feel less in a panic to get to Disneyland. A quick check of my books tells me that we have another six hundred miles to the end of the road, then another fifty to Anaheim. I was a fool to think we could make it there tonight.
It’s almost 10:30. John keeps yawning and rubbing his face.
“John, do you want a Pepsi?” I say. “I think we have one somewhere.”
He shakes his head. “Not thirsty.”
John could drink tea, coffee, and pop all day long, but here in the middle of the desert, he’s not thirsty.
“John, do you want to stop for the night?”
He says nothing.
“You want to drive a little more?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t we head for Flagstaff and get something to eat?” I say, not knowing if anything will be open this late, but we’ll try.
We get to Wendy’s just as it’s about to close for the night. The voice of the woman at the drive-thru is the first that we’ve heard all night besides our own. We sit in the parking lot and watch the sky and mountains grow brighter as they switch the signs off, then moments later, the dining room lights. The moon and a nearby streetlamp allow us just enough light to see each other inside the van.
John chews his hamburger intently. I suck hard at the straw in my Frosty, but nothing happens. Through the windshield, the world tonight feels to me like an alien place. I haven’t been out driving at this time of night in many years, much less in an unfamiliar area. These are the things that scare you as you get older. You understand night all too well, all its attendant meanings. You try to avoid it, work around it, keep it from entering your house. Your weary, but ornery body tells you to stay up late, sleep less, keep the lights on, don’t go into the bedroom—if you have to sleep, sleep in your chair, at the table. Everything is about avoiding the night. Because of that, I suppose that I should be scared out here in the dark, but I am finally past that, I think.
John clears this throat as he finishes off his single with cheese. He licks catsup off his finger and glances at my burger on the console, only two bites taken out of it.
“Go ahead,” I say.
John picks up the burger and digs in. I pop the top of my Frosty and go at it with a plastic spoon. The ice cream cools my parched throat and calms my stomach.
Every once in a while a car hisses past.
John stops chewing. He puts my hamburger down, wipes his lips with a napkin, places his hand on my thigh. “Hi lover,” he says to me, completely forgetting what happened before.
He knows who I am. He knows that I am the one person who he loves, has always loved. No disease, no person can take that away.
The lobby of the Flagstaff Radisson is lovely. I wonder if they’ve just recently renovated the place as I wheel on up to the check-in counter. Tonight I have broken out the You-Go, my rolling walker. It’s got lockable hand brakes, a basket for my purse, and a seat in case I get tired, all with a jazzy “candy apple red” (as Kevin calls it) paint job. We’re at that point where I need more support to keep me steady on my feet. We cannot afford any more falls.
“What kind of rooms do you have? Do you have something nice?” I ask the desk clerk. This is not like me. I’m more likely to ask, “What’s the cheapest room in the joint?”
The clerk, a Mexican fellow with a receding hairline and a postage stamp of hair under his lip, looks up from his book and stares dolefully at me. According to his nametag, his name is “Jaime.”
“I’ve got a standard double, nonsmoking, and a suite, also nonsmoking,” he says. The accent gives his words a roundness that’s pleasant to my ear.
“We’ll take the suite,” I say, tired of scrimping.
“It’s one-twenty-five a night, plus tax,” he says.
I gasp. “Jesus, I don’t want to buy the place, I just want to sleep here.”
Jaime shrugs at me.
“I’m sorry.” I hand him our Visa. I decide that we’re going to give that little bugger a workout in the next few days. But being a spendthrift is going to take some getting used to. I’ve never paid that much for a hotel room in my life.
As he runs our card through the machine, there’s a long uncomfortable silence.
“Excuse me,” I say. “How do you pronounce your name?”
He eyeballs me for a moment, then he says, “Hi-Meh.”
“Oh, like the Jewish pronunciation?”
“Not really, ma’am.”
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t call you Jamie.”
There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Me, too.”
We leave our van in the handicapped space. Jaime gets our overnight bags (packed special for when we stay in hotels) and takes us on up to our room. I’m pleased. It’s done in shades of gold and beige, all looking very new. There’s a living room and a bedroom and I try not to think about all this space that we don’t need. I try not to kick myself for my extravagance. I tell myself to hell with it, stop worrying, live a little.
“That’s the minibar,” says Jaime, walking around, pointing at things. “You’ve also got a DVD player and a stereo. Over here’s the kitchenette area. There’s the coffeepot and a snack basket. All the prices are listed on that sheet.”
“This is a nice room,” says John. “Can we afford it?”
I turn to him. “Hush, John. Of course we can.” I smile at Jaime, then I look in my purse for a tip.
He holds his hand up as if to say it’s not necessary. “Enjoy your stay,” he says as he exits.
I wheel the You-Go over to the stereo, turn it on, and look for a station that doesn’t make my head hurt. I’m still craving noise to keep the thoughts at bay. I find one of those smooth saxophone stations and leave it there. Then I steer over to the minibar. “Let’s have a cocktai
l, John. It’ll help us to sleep.”
“All right.”
The minibar has tiny bottles of Crown Royal, but no sweet vermouth, so we have to improvise. After I pour out our drinks, I get a packet of Sweet’n Low from my purse and sprinkle half in each drink, stir it with my finger. Some considerate soul has also filled the tiny ice cube tray so we’re all set. I don’t once look at the price sheet. Maybe being a wastrel will be easier than I thought.
John and I sit down at the little table in the living room to enjoy our cocktails. He looks around at the room and whistles. “Wow, what is this place?”
“It’s our fancy hotel room. Pretty classy, huh?”
“I’ll say,” he says as he raises his glass to me. “This is the life.”
“What’s left of it,” I say, raising my glass to meet his.
Two manhattans later, John is on the bed in the other room, in his clothes, snoring like a buzz saw. I’m hoping he won’t have another accident. I’m sitting here, thinking about putting the TV on, but I just can’t seem to get myself to do it. My head is swimming, maybe low blood sugar, but most likely booze and pills. I finally understand that expression feeling no pain. That’s okay. That’s how we dope fiends operate.
I wake up with my husband for the second morning in a row. Instead of sleeping in the comfy chair, as I would normally do, at the last moment I wheeled myself into the bedroom to sleep with John. There are no bladder accidents as far as I can see or feel or smell, and when I open my eyes after a few furtive hours of what might be called sleep, but is really more like switching through a thousand different channels of cable TV all of which are devoted to moments in one’s life, I am rewarded.
“Good morning, Ella,” says John to me, his eyes clear and glistening.
“Hi, John.”
“You sleep good?” He plucks his glasses from the nightstand and puts them on.
“Not really. How about you?”
“I slept like a rock. I feel swell.”
“I’m glad.”
He looks around the room, eyes wide. “Jeez, the place looks great. You clean up?”
I’m amazed. For once in John’s mind, home isn’t some run-down trailer park or crummy motor lodge. Finally, home is a four-star hotel. That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.
“Yes, I did clean up,” I say, touching his cheek. “John, do you remember when we went to Lake George in New York?”
“Did the kids go along?”
“Not that time. Cindy was married by then and Kevin was old enough to stay home alone. We went on our own.”
John grins. “I remember one thing about Lake George. We had the room with the hot tub? And we skinny-dipped.”
I smile, too. “We were both a lot skinnier then.”
John looks in my eyes. The old John looks in my eyes, cocks his head, then he kisses me. He kisses me harder than I can remember him kissing me for a long time. We kiss like a man and woman kiss, not like two old people who call each other Mom and Dad. But when he kisses me, there is a sourness to his mouth that makes my stomach flutter and rotate and I can feel the booze from last night churning, along with all the dope, wrenching those bites of hamburger from my guts up into my throat. Up it comes, a brief gusher of acid. Not much really, but it burns like hell. I pull myself from John just in time to vomit on the floor next to the bed.
“Ella. What’s wrong?” says John.
I have to wait to turn back to him, just to make sure that I don’t have another geyser coming. I am panting now, trying not to do it too loudly, so as not to alarm John. I’m not doing a very good job.
“Ella!” He gets up to go to the bathroom. “I’m going to get you a glass of water.” After a breath, I turn around to watch where he goes. He finds the bathroom right away, no problem. I suppose if you think a place is home, you probably know where the bathroom is. He comes back with a glass of water.
“Drink this. See if it makes you feel any better.”
“Is it cold?”
“Lukewarm. It’s okay. Drink it.”
I drink the warm water. At first, I think I’m going to puke it back up, but it stays down. The nausea passes.
“Feel better?”
I nod. I like having him be so concerned and worried about me like this. It’s been so long since he’s taken care of me and not the other way around.
“What do you think made you sick?”
“Just last night’s dinner,” I say. “I guess it upset my stomach.”
He doesn’t remember last night or what we ate or anything about it. He lies down next to me again and we don’t speak for a few minutes.
Still a bit shaky, I get up, fill the ice bucket with warm water, grab the little spray can of Lysol I carry in my overnight bag, gather our remaining towels, and try to clean up my mess.
Though I could’ve easily stayed in that beautiful hotel another day, I knew that we needed to keep going. I called the front desk to get help with our bags. Checkout was at 11:00 A.M., but I laid on the old lady charm (“Oh, I’m so sorry. We just plain forgot. It happens when you get to our age.”) and got us out of there without paying for another night. I was tempted to tell them to use a little something extra on the carpeting next to the bed, but I decided we should just get while the getting was good.
We reconnect with 66 in Flagstaff’s “Historic Railroad District.” Before long, it turns into the frontage road for the freeway. Last night, I was frantic about getting to Disneyland, thinking that we should take the fast road all the way, but today I’ve decided that we’ll be all right, at least for a while. I’m feeling better after some sleep, such as it was. We won’t be visiting the Grand Canyon, though, I’m afraid.
So instead of turning right on Highway 64, which would take us to the canyon, we turn left for a quick jaunt though the town of Williams, just for old times’ sake. It’s a bit down at the heels these days, but I’m happy to see that Rod’s Steak House is still around. We stopped for a steak there once on our way to the canyon. Their jumbo brown-and-white steer statue is still on the sidewalk in front. That’s their trademark. Even their menus are shaped like a big cow. Mentally, I add this to the list of giants that have revealed themselves to us here on the Mother Road.
About twenty miles down the road, we pass through a small town called Ash Fork, where I see—ta-dah!—a restaurant called the Route 66 Diner. We also spot a beauty salon called Desoto’s with an old purple-and-white car on the roof. Why it’s there, I do not know. Mostly we see long sunbaked lots filled with cut stone. We pass acre upon dusty acre of it—textured fieldstone, bleached fawn and silver, rough-hewn and chiseled flat. It’s piled on skids, on the ground, even stacked vertically, its irregular shapes jutting upward like the skyline of a dozen cities crushed together. One of my books says that Ash Fork holds the dubious title of “Flagstone Capital of the World.” One lot has nothing but huge, oversized steles. Two huge blank slabs in particular catch the glare of the sun, almost absorbing it, but not quite. The brightness is too much for my eyes, even with my sungoggles. I have to turn away.
John is quiet and I am thankful for it. I pick up the cellular phone and dial Kevin’s number. He should be just getting home from work by this time.
“Hello?”
“Kevin. It’s your mother.”
“Mom. Thank God. Are you okay?”
He sounds so worried. I feel a jolt of guilt for making him suffer like this, but there’s no choice. “We’re fine, honey,” I say, putting on an extra-cheery voice. “Everything’s great.”
God, am I a big fat liar.
Kevin’s voice, usually a solid baritone, rises as he speaks. “Mom, Dr. Tomaszewski thinks you should come home immediately.”
“Oh, does he?” I say. “Well, tell Dr. Tom to mind his own damn business.”
“Mom, please,” says Kevin, frantically. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“Kevin, I am tired of doing what everyone else thinks I should do.”
Kevin takes a long
breath. “Dr. Tom says if you don’t come home, you’re not going to last—”
“Damn it, Kevin, stop it.” I’m screeching into the phone by this time. I did not call to get all upset. I take a breath myself, try to calm down. “Honey, this vacation is a good thing, it really is. We’re having a real nice time.”
“No, you guys are coming home. I mean it.”
I’m surprised to hear this attitude from Kevin. He’s usually not this way, especially with me. “No, Kevin. And I don’t appreciate your tone.”
“I don’t care. We spoke to the State Police.”
I am not pleased with my son. “Kevin Charles Robina, why would you go and do something like that?”
“We didn’t know what else to do, Mom. That’s why.”
I can’t see it, but I know he’s got that mad, pouty look that he gets on his face when he defies me.
“Well, there’s nothing they can do,” I say brightly. “We haven’t broken any laws. Your father has a legal driver’s license.”
Kevin says nothing. The police probably said the same thing to him. Being old is not against the law. Not yet, at least.
“Mom, we tracked your credit card. I know approximately where you are. I’m coming to get you guys.”
“Don’t you dare, Kevin. I mean it.” I say this with all the maternal authority I can muster. “Now I want you to stop worrying. We’re both just fine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I can hear his voice starting to crack. He’s trying to be strong. John would always tell Kevin not to cry, not to be a big baby, but he couldn’t help it. I would always say, Stop yelling at him, John. He can’t help it. He’s just sensitive.
“Sweetie, it doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.”
“If you come back, Mom, maybe you can get better.” His voice is quivering and damp with tears now, a voice that’s all too familiar to me.
“Dear,” I say, suddenly exhausted, “now you’re talking crazy.”
The line cracks and I almost think I’m going to lose the connection, but then it comes back.
The Leisure Seeker Page 16