Memories of a Dirt Road Town

by Stephen Bly

  2

  Develyn decided that the tune the highway plucked on the tread of her new Goodyear tires changed with the surface and season, but the rhythm of the road remained always constant. There was one tune for dry blacktop, sort of a “Boston Pops Plays the Best of Frank Sinatra” sound. The smooth concrete interstate came across like the London Philharmonic playing Mozart in a dentist’s office. However, concrete highways with rough seal joints every thirty feet beat a constant count like the hearty fellow at Jacobs Field who pounds the drum during Cleveland Indians baseball games.

  Gravel roads had an early Creedence Clearwater Revival sound, the kind that wakes you up and keeps your hand tapping on the steering wheel. In the winter time, her studded tires gave the impression of a cheap military march in front of a third-world dictator. And a dirt road? Smooth dirt roads reminded Develyn of the melancholy instrumental prelude to the Eagles’s “Hotel California.”

  But no matter what the tune, the basic rhythm of the road never changed.

  “Keep going—keep driving–keep awake–keep running, they are gaining on you.”

  She kept driving.

  And driving.

  And driving.

  At 10:00 p.m. she bought gas, a stale bran muffin, and a bottle of water in Newton, Iowa.

  Develyn concluded that every town in Iowa looked the same, especially from the interstate after dark. DeSoto, Wiscotta, Dexter, Stuart, Menlo … she read the names aloud, so she could hear the sound of a voice. It was almost 3:00 a.m. when she took exit 60 into Lorah, Iowa. The only lit building in the tiny town read “Thelma Lou’s 24-Hour Café.” The gravel parking lot was empty.

  The night air chilled her arms as she stepped out of the Cherokee. She retrieved a gray hooded sweatshirt. She ran her fingers through her short hair as she peered into the side mirror on the Jeep, felt in her jeans pocket for her wallet and her keys, then plodded to the front door of the café. The stainless steel door handle felt cold. She glanced down at her short, ringless fingers.

  A warm aroma of fried meat, burnt toast, and ammonia greeted her as she pushed her way inside. A woman in a pink apron with a long auburn braid down her back scrubbed the vinyl stools at the counter. She looked about Develyn’s age.

  “Welcome, honey, sit anywhere you want to. Except the counter here. I’m giving it a disinfectant scrub.”

  Develyn slipped into the first booth and slid over next to the window.

  “Girl, you want coffee? Water?” It was a gentler voice than Develyn expected at that time of the morning. She glanced over at the waitress who wore her white blouse buttoned to the top, and an easy, relaxed smile. “Both, please.”

  The waitress dried her hands on her apron. “I’ll bring you a menu.”

  “Coffee and water are all I need. Ice water would be nice.”

  The woman brought the water and two cups of coffee.

  “Mind if I join you?” the waitress asked. “I need a break. The cleaning solvent is kind of strong.”

  “Sit down.” Dev motioned to the seat across from her. “Do you work here alone?”

  The waitress slid into the booth, then flipped her long auburn bangs off her forehead. She had a small mole, like a jewel, between her eyebrows. “Yeah. Isn’t this something? Nine at night to five in the morning, six days a week, with a two-week vacation and a honey-glazed ham for a Christmas bonus. What a life.”

  Develyn stirred the ice in her water with her finger. “Sounds a bit lonely.”

  The woman dumped two packets of sweetener into her coffee. “Yeah, that’s why I took the job. Sometimes you want to be alone. You know what I mean?”

  The coffee steamed Develyn’s small, upturned nose as she sipped. “Yes, I do know what you mean. I take it you are not Thelma Lou?”

  The woman laughed. “There hasn’t been a Thelma Lou in this café since 1954. It’s just a name. The present owner is Mildred Muygn. She’s Vietnamese.”

  Dev glanced at the wall above the window at a faded poster of a Sioux City Patsy Cline concert from 1961. “And this is Lorah, Iowa?”

  The waitress leaned back in the booth and rested her head on green plastic upholstery. “This is it, honey. It’s strictly a halfway town.”

  “A halfway town?” Dev quizzed.

  “Halfway between Omaha and Des Moines, halfway between Clarinda and Carroll. You name it. We aren’t anyone’s destination. Some even say we’re halfway between heaven and hell, but it’s closer to one than the other, if you want my opinion.”

  Develyn sipped the coffee slow and let it trickle down her throat. “Have you worked here long?”

  “Eight years. Can you believe that? But I’m not going to stay. As soon as I get things straightened out, I’m going on to Denver.”

  “Why Denver?”

  “Because it’s not a halfway town. By the way, my name’s Stef.” She stuck a slightly damp, ammonia-tinted hand across the table. She had a very firm grip.

  “I’m Develyn, but most call me Dev.”

  “Dev? I never knew anyone with that name. I like it. It fits you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stef sat up and leaned across the table, head in hand. “Dev, you got me puzzled.”

  Develyn tugged on the drawstrings of her hooded sweatshirt. “How’s that?”

  “You’re not local, so you must have come off the interstate. A woman alone on the road at 3:00 a.m. is puzzling, especially a classy looking lady. At this time of the night there are only two types of gals that stop in here alone. College girls trying to hurry back to the university. I don’t think that fits you.”

  “My college days ended twenty-four years ago.”

  “Twenty-four? You’re older than I thought.”

  “How old did you think I was?” Develyn questioned.

  “Mid-thirties.”

  Develyn grinned. “Stef, you make me feel wonderful for 3:00 a.m. Actually, I’m forty-five.”

  “No fooling? You are five years older than me.”

  “Well, if it’s any encouragement, you don’t look forty.”

  “Thank you, Dev. I knew we were going to be friends when you walked in. Shoot, we should just sit here all night telling each other lies and feeling good. By the way, your short haircut is totally cute and perfect for your face shape.”

  “Why thank you, Stef. And your long auburn braid is to die for. I am completely jealous.”

  Both women laughed.

  “Say, this is fun. I like you, Stef. I don’t laugh enough. But you said only two types of women stop in here alone in the middle of the night. Who are the other ones?”

  “The ones who have black eyes and bruises after leaving the jerk. I didn’t see any scars on you.”

  “Yes, well, no physical wife abuse.”

  Stef glanced down at Develyn’s hands. “Are you married?”

  “Divorced … well it’s a little more complicated than that. My ex had a heart attack and died a few weeks ago.”

  “That tends to make it final, doesn’t it?”

  “To say the least,” Develyn nodded. “How about you?”

  Stef puffed her red bangs back off her forehead then glanced out at the dark night. “Yeah, I’m sort of divorced.”

  “Sort of?”

  “I wasn’t actually married. We had been making plans to get married. We even went house shopping once or twice. Anyway, I had this steady guy for three years. He left about eight weeks ago. So it feels like a divorce.”

  “Sorry about that. It makes the nights lonely, doesn’t it?”

  “In my case, lonely days. Sometimes they’re unbearable. But I need to work. Gives me time to think. Not often anyone but truckers stop by. Hey, is that your Jeep Cherokee out there?”

  “Yes.” Develyn glanced out at the gravel parking lot, lit by two orange-tinted halogen yard lights.

  “How do you like it?”

  “I love it. It’s the first car I ever bought for myself.”

  “Ol’ hubby always bought the cars?”
/>   “That’s about it. I just didn’t feel like another minivan, if you know what I mean.”

  “I drive an old Chevy pickup. What year is it?” Stef pressed.

  “2002.”

  Stef continued to stare out at the cloudless Iowa night. “Oh, it’s one of those with a cute butt.”

  Develyn almost spilled her ice water when she exploded with a laugh. “A what?”

  “Truck drivers tell me the newer Jeep Cherokees have the cutest rear ends of any vehicle on the road.”

  Develyn shook her head. “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “I suppose when you don’t do anything but drive a truck 24/7, you have time to play games with what you see. Now, what’s your story?”

  “I’m going west.”

  “Montana?”

  “Wyoming.”

  “By yourself?”

  Develyn stared at the younger woman’s green eyes. “Yes.”

  “Are you running to someone or away from someone?” Stef asked.

  Develyn stared out the window. “Not to or from anyone. But it’s a good question. I’ve been mulling that over since I left. I think I’m running from someplace … to someplace else. Anyway, I wasn’t tired this evening, so I just kept driving.”

  “Now you are getting sleepy, and you figure it’s too late to rent a room. So you’ll bulk up on coffee and No-Doz and keep driving?”

  “I suppose.”

  Stef took Develyn’s water, purposely spilled a little on the table, then wiped the table with the white paper napkin. “How long ago was the divorce?”

  “I left him three years ago. The divorce has been final two years.”

  “How long were you married to him?”

  “Twenty-two years.”

  “Wow.” The waitress stopped cleaning. Her eyes widened. “What happened?”

  Develyn hesitated and sipped the coffee.

  “Sorry, honey. I know I’m prying. You don’t have to answer, really. I’m just sort of hurting myself. Trying to figure how I could have been so stupid with Ray.”

  “That was your guy?”

  “Yeah, I thought he was my guy.”

  Develyn raised her thin, light brown eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “He said he and his wife were finished. I thought that meant he was divorced or getting a divorce.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  Stef stared down into her brown coffee cup. “No, as it turns out, he was living with her and dating me.”

  “You finally caught on?”

  The waitress glanced up. “Yeah, the hard way.”

  “Oh?”

  “I live in a singlewide across the street and down a block. About 1:00 a.m. on my night off, me and Ray were … ah … we were …” Stef studied her eyes.

  “Dancing?” Develyn blushed.

  Stef grinned, then stared down at the table. “Yeah, we were dancing, so to speak, when his wife bursts in screaming and yelling and busting up my place. I was scared that she was going to kill me.”

  “Oh, my.” Develyn leaned forward, resting her chin in the palms of her hands. “Then what happened?”

  “She threatened to take the kids to California that night and never return if he didn’t leave ‘that woman,’ come home, and stop seeing me.”

  “And?” Develyn pressed.

  “He put on his clothes and went home. I haven’t seen him since.” Stef stared back out the window at the dark gravel parking lot. “I hear she’s telling a bunch of lies about me now.”

  “She blames you for it all?”

  The waitress yanked out a paper napkin and dabbed her eyes. “Dev, I don’t sleep around with every man who comes along. I don’t know why she says that. I didn’t try to ruin her life. I loved him. I really thought he loved me. He treated me so nice. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to feel loved. I just needed a man to really care about me, that’s all. I’m not a bad woman. Really.”

  “I believe you.”

  The waitress rubbed the creases next to her narrow green eyes and avoided looking at Develyn. “I’ve been needing to tell someone that for weeks. But there’s no one around here for me to talk to. Thanks for listening.”

  “Stef, I know about needing to talk.”

  “Max Knowlton,” the waitress blurted out.

  “Who?”

  “See that truck pulling up?”

  “I can only see headlights.”

  “Well, it’s Max Knowlton from Tacoma. He had a long haul to Greensboro, North Carolina, and is on his way home. He’ll order chicken fried steak and an extra biscuit.”

  Develyn shook her head. “Stef, you are amazing. How can you know all that from headlights?”

  “Like I said, there’s not much to do on this shift but clean up and visit with truck drivers.” She pointed out to the parking lot to a tall man wearing a denim jacket. “Yep, that’s Max. I better go take care of him. Can you stick around so we can visit some more?”

  “I suppose. I’m in no hurry.” Develyn sat up and jammed her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt. “But I will need another cup of coffee.”

  The front door of the café swung open. “Hi, Sweetness!” the deep-voiced driver shouted.

  “Max, Honey … how was your trip?”

  “About as routine as an Iowa corn harvest. Have you been a good girl?” He strolled up next to their table and hugged her shoulder.

  “Now, Max … you know I’m always good.” He tipped his baseball cap at Develyn. “Now, who’s this purdy lady? I ain’t used to Thelma Lou’s bein’ crowded like this.”

  “This is my younger sis, Dev.”

  “Dev? Like in Devil?” he hooted.

  “Dev, like in Develyn,” Stef insisted.

  “Mind if I join you two?” he grinned.

  “Yes, we do. You go sit over there.” Stef pointed to a booth on the far side of the small café. “We’ve got some girl talk to finish, and I’m not about to let you listen in. Now, go back and wash up and I’ll get you the biggest chicken fried steak in Iowa.”

  “You spoil me, sweetie.” His teeth were white, but crooked.

  “And you love it.”

  “I reckon I do.” He tipped his hat. “Nice to meet you, little sis. Are you a waitress too?”

  “I’m a school teacher,” Develyn admitted.

  “Shucks, with a teacher as purdy as you, all the little boys must have crushes.”

  Stef took him by the arm and led him away. “Max, don’t you dare start hitting on my sis. And right in front of me too? What’s a girl to think?” Stef winked back at Develyn.

  With her coffee cup refilled, Develyn Gail Upton Worrell stared out at the black Iowa night.

  This is as depressing as my situation. I can’t imagine working night shift by myself at some remote diner. When does she sleep? Do you wake up at 3:00 in the afternoon thinking, “Oh boy, I get to go to work today?” It’s sort of like teaching the fifth grade in February, I suppose.

  Why can’t there be contentment with who I am?

  Peace with those around me?

  Satisfaction in what I do with my life?

  I suppose a person can have those anywhere. And that’s what I have to have. I don’t need fame … or fortune … or power. Just give me contentment, Lord, some measure of peace and satisfaction.

  You are a liar, Ms. Worrell.

  You need someone to love you. Someone to care for you. Stef’s right. When it’s not there, when no man cares, it hurts. It really hurts.

  She and I are sisters … in pain.

  Develyn glanced across the café and watched the friendly waitress chat with the trucker.

  Maybe I should learn how to drive a big rig. Dev Worrell: trucker. She grinned and took a sip of ice water. Then I could run away all the time. Is that what I’m doing? Am I just running away?

  Maybe.

  Lord, I don’t have a clue what I should do, if I stayed home.

  That decision has been made. I’m on the road. Not very relaxed, yet. I
should have stopped at a motel. At least I could shower and rest a bit even if I didn’t sleep. And I could have called Lily.

  Develyn glanced at her watch.

  3:30 a.m.? I don’t think I’ve stayed up all night since college days. The night I graduated from Purdue. Spencer had that black ’72 Trans Am. We ditched the party and spent most of the night down by Sugar Creek. We snuck into Turkey Run State Park and sat on that bench until the sun came up.

  Life had so much potential then.

  Love. Marriage. Children. Career.

  Everything was fresh, new, vital.

  Now it’s all worn out, tired, like the blacktop on an abandoned street.

  “Hey, Sis … how about some company?” Stef slid in next to her until their hips touched.

  “What about Max?”

  “I got him all fixed up. Even scooped him up some apple pie. I thought if I sat next to you, you could tell me your story without talking too loud.”

  “My story?”

  “Here’s all I know so far. You were married twenty-two years, then divorced him and now you are running from home and running to someplace … but not to someone. OK, fill me in.”

  Develyn studied Stef’s tired eyes. They seemed to be expecting great wisdom. She took a deep sigh, then sipped the ice water and bit her lip. Her sigh seemed to last for minutes.

  Develyn’s voice was so low, the waitress leaned closer.

  “Stef … I was the other woman in your scene.”

  “You caught him with another woman?”

  Develyn bit her lips and nodded.

  “Were they … eh … ‘dancing’?”

  Develyn nodded again.

  “Oh, wow … I’m sorry, honey,” Stef blurted out. “It just dawned on me the pain I must have given Ray’s wife. What happened? Did he divorce you, run off and marry her?”

  “No.”

  “Did he apologize, promise to never do it again, and beg to be taken back?”

  “Not until two years after the divorce.”

  Stef leaned close and whispered, “Who was she, Dev? Tell me she wasn’t a waitress.”

  Develyn let her head sink into her hands. Her eyes closed. “This is hard to talk about.”

  Stef’s arm slipped across Develyn’s shoulder and began to rub. “It’s all right, honey. I have no business prying. You don’t have to tell me.”