“Oh, that’s right.” Bridget paused. “Wait... I thought her surgery was next month.”
“Nah. Opal’s doctor moved it up. Something about her ball joint…” He bit his tongue to keep from laughing. Too much information. Just shut up.
His daughter sighed. “Okay, well… I certainly don’t want to bother Aunt Opal right now. I’ll wait and call mom later. When will she be back home?”
“Um… you know, I’m not sure.” How about never? Harold cringed, but forced his voice to remain calm. “Is there anything I can help you with since your mom’s… indisposed at the moment? I was planning on going out of town for a few days… you know, to do a little sightseeing. Just to get away, since she’s not here. But if you need something--”
“Oh, no. Thanks, Daddy.” Bridget’s voice carried a smile. “Have a great trip and be careful. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Sure thing, honey.” He hung up the phone and slumped back against the counter. This was going to be harder than he’d thought.
Max’s bark just outside the kitchen door startled him back to life. With a sharp curse, he pushed himself away from the counter and let the animal back inside. The dog gave the kitchen another swift once over, then trotted into the living room and curled up in the recliner.
“Good dog,” Harold muttered, hoping the animal would stay put. He let out a sigh and slipped back out into the garage.
Evelyn was right where he’d left her, a swollen headless mummy in a crackling shroud of white paper. A chill rippled down his spine. He opened the freezer and looked inside. Should be room now, since he’d moved the vegetables.
Harold walked over to the truck and hefted her onto his shoulder.
“Whoa,” he murmured, wincing from the strain. “She is heavy.”
He swayed, panting like Max, trying to keep his feet under him. Finally he stumbled forward, lurched across the oil-soaked floor, and dumped Evelyn head -- well, neck -- first into the big white box. Icy fog swirled around him as he dropped her legs.
“Son of a gun.” He arched his aching back. “She just might have to stay in there.”
Once he got his breathing under control, he shoved his wife’s top half against the side of the freezer and stepped back. Her legs stuck out on the other end a good six inches.
“You’ve got the upper hand now,” he muttered. “But you won’t get the best of me.”
He paused and studied her for another long moment before twisting her onto her back and pulling up on her lower legs until a sharp crack from the vicinity of her knees sent another chill down his spine. He bent her legs and rolled her sideways.
She fit.
He grinned, pulled a bag of ice from behind her back, and shut the freezer. His heart thrummed from the recent exertion, and he welcomed the rush of adrenaline-laced blood to his body. He hadn’t felt this exhilarated since… well, ever.
Max looked up from his throne in the living room when Harold re-entered the kitchen carrying the bag of ice, but didn’t leap down from his perch. Thankful for the animal’s disinterest, Harold reverently picked up Evelyn’s head and stuffed it into an extra-large zipper bag. Then he washed out the bucket with bleach, dumped half of the ice into another plastic sack, and dropped one of the ice packs into the large white container. The head went in next, then the other bag of ice. Evelyn was effectively sandwiched and couldn’t open her big fat mouth.
Harold laughed at his own sick joke. Kept laughing, and couldn’t stop.
Finally, he pulled out a beer and sucked it down. The cold brew calmed him and allowed him to get a grip on his wild imagination. He carried the bottle with him into the bedroom, where he packed a bag and unearthed his road atlas.
Once he swallowed the last of his beer, he took the book and his suitcase into the kitchen and sat at the table to plan his trip.
Max hopped out of the recliner and trotted into the kitchen.
Harold grinned at him. “Howdy, boy. Ready to hit the road?”
The wiry little dog woofed in response and crossed the worn linoleum to his food bowl.
“Good boy,” Harold said, feeling a strong kinship with the animal. “You and I are taking Evelyn to see Mt. Rushmore. I was gonna leave in the morning, but now’s as good a time as any to start out. We’ll miss the rush hour traffic and will be way up the highway before dawn.”
While the dog ate, he threw some sandwich meat, cheese, and beer into a cooler, iced it down, and snagged a loaf of bread and a bag of chips out of the pantry. He took those three items and the bucket containing Evelyn’s head out to the truck, found a fresh bag of dog food, several bottles of water, and a bowl for Max, and tossed those in as well. Next on his list were a canvas backpack, his full-sized olive drab tent, a sleeping bag, a battery powered radio, four of his favorite cigars, the ones Evelyn hated most -- and Max. Once he grabbed the bag containing his soiled clothes and dropped the pooch onto the seat beside him, they were all set.
Just a couple of old pals hitting the open road, with Evelyn along for the ride.
Heads up!
Harold laughed at his own corny joke and threw the truck into reverse. The lights from the house winked at him as he left the driveway of the home where he’d lived for twenty-eight years and made his way through Jackson to I-55 North. Only fourteen hundred miles to their destination. Mt. Rushmore. The one place Evelyn had most wanted to see but never got to go.
“She’ll see it now, by gum,” Harold muttered, switching on the cruise control. His old Chevy pickup still ran like a top. He had a full tank of gas, the truck had a fresh lube job, and Max, his best friend, was a helluva wingman.
He peeked in the rearview mirror and tracked the position of the bucket by the light of the moon. His wife’s noggin was right where he’d left it, inside the bucket jammed between the tent and the cooler. A wicked grin curved his lips. Evelyn was definitely riding in style.
Max curled up on the seat and slept as the miles clicked away. Harold reached Memphis by two a.m., and St. Louis by seven. He didn’t stop to sleep, not even for an hour or two -- he was too high on adrenaline. By the time the sun was well above the horizon, however, he grew hungry. So he stopped at a fast food joint west of town on I-70 and bought coffee and two steak biscuits, one for him and one for the dog. No point in making the pup exist solely on dog food.
Then he tossed the bag of soiled clothes into a trash bin, bought gas and more ice for the cooler and Evelyn’s head, and took Max for a walk. The animal whizzed on everything in sight, dragging out their pit stop for much longer than he’d anticipated.
Soon enough, though, they were back on the road.
He finally stopped for a real break in Kansas City, once the unrelenting sun sent fuzzy waves of heat dancing across the highway, and he blinked his eyes in response. He found a Motel Six, rented a non-descript room, and crashed until the next day.
“On to Mt. Rushmore,” he told Max early the next morning, while he walked the dog on a leash under cloudy skies. Heat already radiated from the motel’s asphalt parking lot, and sweat dripped down his spine. He worried about the ice melting in the bucket, even though he’d kept it inside the room near the air conditioner overnight.
Harold walked the dog back to their room, loaded the truck, and raided the ice machine. Only after he’d loaded the bucket with a fresh batch of ice was he satisfied Evelyn would survive another day -- as long as she rode up front with him in the cab. The heat from the previous day in the truck bed had done a number on her complexion.
“George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln,” he chanted aloud once they were on their way. His eyes fell on the bucket. “Those were your favorite presidents, my dear. After Ronald Reagan, of course -- the ex-film star you lusted after. Maybe one day they’ll add him up there, too, in your honor. On Washington’s right, where they
first started carving Jefferson. That didn’t work out, so they blasted him off with dynamite.”
Max cocked his head and looked at him.
“Boom!” Harold said with a laugh. “He disappeared in a tumble of rock.”
The dog yapped.
Harold scratched Max between his ears. “They have two pet trails in part of the park, boy, but I can’t take you to the monument. We’ll have to move quick no matter where we go, though, ‘cause of Evelyn. Can’t let the National Park Service folks catch us. I might get in big trouble.”
He stopped at another Motel Six that night, so he and Max would be well rested the next day. Later, after his shower, he called home to check his messages.
“Daddy...” Bridget’s agitated voice carried over the line. “I talked with Aunt Opal, and she says her hip surgery isn’t scheduled until July. So… where is Mom? Neither of you are answering the phone, and I’m getting worried.”
Holy moly. Harold ran a hand through his thinning hair, stared at the muted generic TV, and allowed his voice mail to go on to the next message.
“Daddy? Where are you?” His daughter’s voice wavered. “You said you were taking a trip but didn’t tell me where you’re going. Mom’s still not answering the phone.”
He dropped his head into his hands. His daughter had always been curious, and he had admired the trait. Not so much now. Max loped over and nudged his knee. The dog’s soulful stare gave him an odd sense of peace. He steeled himself and cued up message number three.
“Daddy, this is getting ridiculous.” Bridget’s tone bristled with anger. “Where in hell are you? I’m heading over to the house. If Mom’s not there, I’m calling the police.”
Harold rubbed the back of his neck and then looked down at the dog. “My plan’s about to come unraveled, boy.” He sighed. “Guess it don’t really matter, though. Nobody knows where we are, and tomorrow’s our big day. We’re gonna have fun in spite of ourselves.”
He went to sleep dreaming of Evelyn in the freezer and her head on ice. At least now, she was quiet.
The following morning dawned clear and bright. Harold walked Max, fed him, and then went after more ice. Once Evelyn was properly chilled, he stuck the bucket on the floor of the cab, propped a couple of soft drinks on top of the ice, and dropped Max onto the passenger seat.
Then he struck out for the nearest fast food haven. He winked at Max as the dog finished his steak biscuit. “Time to go, boy. Evelyn’s waited a long time to see them presidents.”
A park ranger stopped them at the entrance to Mt. Rushmore and gave Harold, his truck, the bucket, and the Jack Russell Terrier curled up on the seat beside him a thorough once over. His gaze returned to Harold. “What do you have in that bucket?”
“Drinks,” Harold said quickly, hoping like hell the man wouldn’t dig beneath the top layer of ice. “It’s hot today.”
“Uh-huh.” The man cocked his head. “You know you can’t take that dog on the trail leading to the base of the monument.”
“Yes, sir,” Harold said with a grave nod. “I’m aware of that. I read the rules before starting this trip.” Only, they didn’t say anything about not bringing heads.
“Just so you understand.”
“I do.”
The man smiled, took his money, and motioned for him to pass through the gate.
Harold grinned. “We did it, Max. We’re taking Evelyn to Mt. Rushmore.”
The park had just opened and today was Wednesday, so the place wasn’t crowded. Harold sent up a prayer of thanks and parked where he had a nice view of the monument.
Max stood up on his hind legs and put his paws on the side glass.
“See it, boy?” Harold asked. “Cool, huh?”
He walked around the truck and surveyed the area. No one was parked close by. So he leaned into the truck, pulled Evelyn’s head out of the ice, and quickly stuffed her, helmet hair and all, into his brown canvas backpack.
“Ow,” he muttered, wincing as he slung the bag onto his shoulder. “Even her damned head is heavy.”
He rolled down both windows a smidgen so Max wouldn’t suffocate, grabbed a soft drink out of the bucket, and closed the door. The pooch barked for him to come back, but he shook his head and marched resolutely toward the monument. He had to do this alone; Max wasn’t allowed on the grounds in this part of the park.
Harold left the truck, sucked in a long, cleansing breath, and wound his way to the viewing area. The sky was a deep cerulean blue, forming the perfect backdrop for the regal monument. He smiled.
Right below the mountain of presidents stood a formidable line of two-foot high concrete posts painted bright yellow, designed to keep visitors from getting too close. As he eyed them, a plan formed in his mind.
He sat on a bench and looked around. Two groups of tourists presently occupied the area, taking turns snapping pictures of each other in front of George Washington’s solemn face. He waited until they were done before rising and approaching the posts along the perimeter.
A park ranger lounged in front of the visitor’s center across the way, eyeing the group trooping toward him with a jaundiced eye. Harold counted on them distracting the guard long enough for him to put Evelyn in place.
“You’ll love it here, my dear,” he crooned, pulling his wife’s head out of his backpack and thumbing her eyes open. He positioned her on the middle post and grinned. “See? They’ve carved all your favorites. Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln. The only one missing is Reagan, like I told you before. Yet I’m sure you’ll get over it.”
He stepped back and surveyed the odd scene. Evelyn’s helmet-shaped head looked almost as large as those of the four men up on the mountain. He laughed. What a sight.
Five tall heads, moldering in the hot June sun.
“Gotta go, sweetheart,” he said softly, knowing he had to make tracks if he wanted to stay under the radar. He kissed his wife goodbye, stared at her a long moment, and then meandered back to the truck and climbed inside with Max.
Harold sneaked one last peek at Evelyn before pulling from the lot and spotted her sitting solemnly on top of that brilliant yellow concrete post giving George Washington the evil eye. He waited for her to start nagging the poor man, but she didn’t open her big mouth.
Not once.
“Well, I’ll be hog-tied and blow dried,” he said to Max. “She’s in awe and can’t get a word out. I should’ve brought her here years ago.”
He threw the truck in gear and took off. Leaving behind his wife, his past, and his memories. Let her gawk at the four presidents all she wanted.
He and Max were free to roam.
About the Author
Melanie Atkins a multi-published author of romantic suspense, a fan of crime dramas, and an avid reader. Writing is more than an escape for her -- it’s a way of life. She grew up in the Deep South listening to tall tales and penning stories about her cats. Now she writes gripping stories of love, suspense, and mystery with the help of her furry little feline muses.
Website: http://www.melanieatkins.com
Blog: http://melanieatkins.wordpress.com
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