Her head and neck appeared almost too thin to support the weight of all that hair, but closer inspection revealed that while extraordinarily long, those gleaming blond tresses were thin and wispy, the ends trailing off to near invisibility.
"It’s not so very uncomfortable," she said in reply to Alicia’s observation. Her voice was high-pitched, ethereal. Not frail. Just soft and distant.
Quit staring, Frank told himself. She’s just a small-boned little gal. No pointed ears and no tendrils sprouting from her forehead. Not much to her at all. What was it Spencer Tracy had said about Katharine Hepburn? "Not much, but what there is is choice." He felt himself flush, turned back to face the dash.
"I really like your clothes." Diplomacy is an alien conception to sixteen-year-olds. "And, oh, wow, check out these nails, Mom!" Wendy’s eyes were wide, admiring.
The woman smiled and held up her right hand. Frank saw that each of her inch-long fingernails was painted a different iridescent hue. She raised her other hand, holding them side by side, the ends of her fingers forming a perfect rainbow from left thumb to right. Placed next to one another like that, the colors appeared to flow into each other. He wondered if her toenails were similarly decorated. Her feet were concealed by slipperlike shoes.
He was still trying to reconcile the Mediterranean coloring with that blond hair. Blondes were inordinately popular among his Hispanic employees. While her coloring it was a possibility, the pale golden hue looked natural to him. Somehow he doubted a woman wanting to dye her hair would take the color to such an extreme. He hunted in vain for buttons, zippers, hooks, saw not even a safety pin, and wondered how the loose assemblage of veils stayed in place.
Wendy hadn’t stopped talking. "Do you do your own makeup?"
"Makeup? Oh, you mean these." She held out one hand. Light exploded off the glittering, almost transparent polish. "I do most everything myself."
That’s when Frank took note of the lavender eye shadow and faintly purple lipstick. On this woman it looked right, though he’d never been big on makeup himself. Neither had Alicia, though Wendy was a real bear on the subject. Good thing the woman’s skin wasn’t as fair as her hair, caught out on a desert highway the way she’d been. It struck him that the thin silk would protect its wearer from the sun’s rays while still allowing any breezes to circulate.
She had backed up next to the couch. "May I sit?"
"Sure, sit anywhere," Frank told her expansively. "Don’t mind the kids. They spend most of their time on the floor anyway."
The couch was directly behind Alicia’s chair. Alicia swiveled around to face their guest, who extracted a tortoise-shell compact from the folds of her clothing and began to comb her hair.
"Could I do that?" asked Wendy eagerly.
"Thank you, but not now. Perhaps later." She was working on the ends, untangling them with the comb while the children gaped at her.
It dawned on Frank there was no reason to sit there idling in the middle of the desert with the air conditioner running on high. He checked the sideview mirror, pulled back out into the slow lane.
"Car break down?" The big Winnebago slowly crawled back toward cruising speed.
"No. I have been traveling with the helpful, as you found me, for quite a long time."
Alicia sounded disapproving. "You shouldn’t be doing that. Especially way out here, and without any luggage."
"I always like to travel light." Their guest shook her head. A simple necklace of purple beads flashed light from her throat. Frank struggled to remember his high school geology. Amethyst, most likely. Unfaceted, it would be very inexpensive. She wore a matching ring on the long finger of her right hand. Hardly a target for prospective muggers, he mused.
That’s when he realized she wasn’t even carrying a purse. That was more than just peculiar. He could rationalize the absence of baggage, but he’d never seen a woman without a purse. Not even a poor woman down on her luck.
Inquiring would have been impolite and, besides, he was sure Alicia would notice it eventually and ask.
"Neat outfit," Wendy was saying. "I’ll bet it’s comfortable."
"Comfortable enough." The woman looked past her. "Might you have something to drink? I am a little thirsty."
"Inconsiderate of me." Alicia was honestly upset with herself. "I should have asked you right away."
"I’ll get it." Wendy moved to the fridge. "What would you like? We’ve got Coke, cherry RC, kiwi soda, ginger ale, orange juice."
"Some cold water would be most welcome," said the woman gratefully.
"How 'bout some lemonade?" chirped Steven. "Hey, I’d like some lemonade."
"Get it yourself." Wendy made a face at him, replaced it with a wide smile as she looked back at their guest. "With ice?"
"Ice would be wonderful." The woman looked around, taking in her surroundings for the first time. "These odd vehicles and their luxuries. Quite extraordinary." Her voice trailed away, each word not so much ending as fading like a puff from a silver flute.
"You interested in cars?" Frank asked conversationally.
"I am interested in everything."
Frank set the cruise control and relaxed. In a little while they’d reach Baker, pull off, and find someplace to have lunch. By tilting the overhead rearview mirror down slightly he could watch as Wendy handed the woman a plastic glass full of cold water. Ice cubes clinked against the yellow acrylic. The hitchhiker sipped delicately instead of gulping. She reminded Frank of a doe lapping at a forest stream. He knew about deer drinking from streams because his chain of sporting goods stores sold a lot of hunting rifles. His gaze traveled down their visitor’s body, a petite enigma wrapped in rainbow silks.
Knock it off, he told himself. This isn’t a wholesalers' convention and your wife and kids are with you. You’re just giving a stranger a lift. That she happens to be uncommonly beautiful has nothing to do with it. Your thoughts were virtuous before you got a look at her. Keep 'em that way.
As the woman sipped ice water, Wendy reached out to finger a trailing flap of orange fantasy.
"Ow — hey!" She drew back her fingers, shaking her hand. "I got a shock."
"Static electricity." The woman lowered her glass and smiled reassuringly. "Touch again if you want."
Wendy looked uncertain. "You sure?"
"It’ll be okay. Go ahead."
This time Wendy was able to rub the thin material between thumb and forefinger. "It’s so soft. Where’d you find it? Rodeo Drive, I bet. Or maybe San Marino? There are some neat new shops in San Marino."
The woman shook her head. "Not on Rodeo Drive and not in San Marino."
Frank struggled to place their passenger. She didn’t look a day over twenty-six, but her manner of speaking suggested someone a lot older. Or non-American.
"It’s really rad. How many pieces in it?"
The hitchhiker glanced down at herself. "Just one piece."
"Aw, c’mon! Really? How does it stay in place, like, here?" Wendy tugged at the waistband of her jeans.
"Practice, and knowing what you’re doing." Abruptly she turned her head to look forward, straight at the rearview mirror that was providing Frank with his view.
There was a brief flash of light, as though the mirror had unexpectedly jerked around to catch the sun. Frank blinked. Reflection from something in the road, he told himself. She hadn’t moved.
"I want to thank you, Mr….?"
"Sonderberg. Frank Sonderberg. My wife Alicia, our daughter Wendy, son Steven."
"Hi," said the boy.
"Hello yourself, little man." Steven beamed.
"How long were you waiting before we picked you up?" Wendy wanted to know.
"Quite a while. I was beginning to think no one would stop for me, and my destination is too far to walk."
"Anywhere out here is too far to walk." Wendy shifted on the couch. "Couldn’t you have found some shade?"
"There is no shade out there." The woman’s voice was solemn. "No place to hi
de."
"You’re damn lucky we did stop." Frank glanced at his wife. "Told you we were doing a good deed. How far you going?" he called out.
"We’re going to Las Vegas," said Steven helpfully. "I’m gonna play video games all day and go swimming until I fall asleep!"
"You are not going to play video games all day, Steven." Alicia tried hard not to make it sound reproachful. "You need to get some exercise."
You need to get off your fat little butt once in a while, Frank murmured to himself.
"You wouldn’t be interested in where I’m going," the hitchhiker told him.
"I would!" said Steven.
The woman looked back down at him. "You might at that." She held her glass out to Wendy. "Perhaps I will have some of that lemonade."
"Sure. We have lots."
"What am I thinking of?" The woman rose from the couch in a single, flowing motion. "Let me help." She followed Wendy back into the compact kitchen. Alicia watched them dig the lemonade out of the refrigerator, turned her chair toward her husband.
"Frank, I wonder if we did the right thing."
"What …?" He lowered his voice. "What are you talking about? You saw her, standing out there all by herself. If we hadn’t picked her up she could be in serious trouble by tonight." He gestured at the road. "Rides look about as scarce as she said they were."
"Some trucker would have stopped for her," Alicia declared with conviction. "She’s pretty. I’m surprised one hadn’t picked her up already."
"You can’t tell she’s pretty until you see her up close," Frank pointed out, "and there haven’t been that many trucks, either. As soon as it starts getting hot like this they try running at night. What’s wrong with helping someone in trouble?"
"It’s not like you, Frank. You never stop for hitchhikers."
"So this is my trip for doing different things. Don’t tell me you’re worried about her? Look at her. She’s barely as big as Wendy."
"I don’t mean that. It’s the way she talks. So soft, you can hardly hear her."
"Kind of nice for a change, isn’t it? Maybe the kids’ll pick up on it."
"Those strange clothes she’s wearing, and not having any luggage, not even a purse."
"Yeah, I noticed. So she’s down on her luck or something. None of our business. We’re just giving her a lift. That doesn’t entitle us to know her life story."
Alicia turned her chair full around so she was facing forward once more. "Maybe she’s a hippie or something."
Frank almost laughed aloud. "You’ve been watching too much TV, sweetheart. Hippies are like dinosaurs. They’re both extinct."
"Then what if she’s a drug addict or like that?"
Her husband made a disgusted noise. Alicia folded her arms, refusing to back down.
"I’m just saying there’s something abnormal about her. You can tell just by looking at her."
"Poor kid probably hasn’t had a decent meal in no telling how long. Skinny as a rail."
"Not so skinny," said Alicia carefully, "though she is on the slim side. Doesn’t that go with taking drugs?"
"So I’ve heard. It also goes with exercise, dieting, and good genes. A few days out in this country would sweat poundage off anybody."
"Hush. She’s coming back." Alicia pretended to find something of interest in the unchanging scenery.
Frank shook his head. Funny gal, his Alicia. Calm, composed, charming, and ever ready to see a conspiracy in everything from a cluster of Libyans to a line of talkative nuns. A glance upward revealed that their guest had resumed her seat on the couch, holding her lemonade like a glass of rare wine. She was smiling and whispering to Wendy, who giggled and whispered back. He wondered what they were chatting about. As the thought left his mind, the hitchhiker looked toward him. Guiltily he dropped his eyes from the mirror.
"Since all of you have introduced yourselves I suppose the turn is mine. My name is Mohostosocia." Her tongue twisted around the syllables, adding at least two impossible inflections. Frank tried and failed to place the accent. No linguist he. Central European at a quick guess, possibly Slavic. Certainly not Spanish, which he had a nongrammatical but efficient grasp of. "Now that we are all friends, though, you may call me Mouse."
Wendy giggled. Steven grinned. "We’ve got some cheese, if you want."
"Steven!" His sister took a swipe at him and he was forced to duck.
"It is all right. As a matter of fact," she said, staring at the mesmerized boy out of strangely transparent eyes, "I do like cheese. Swiss, colby, longhorn, Brie, Gruyere, Gouda, shannon — "
"I like American!" said Steven proudly, interrupting before she could finish.
"Most little boys like you do, I understand."
"I’m not a little boy. I’m eleven."
"Ten," Alicia said patiently.
"I’ll be eleven in six months." Steven subsided, but only slightly.
"I stand corrected. You are not a little boy."
Steven looked mollified. Frank was straining to listen to the conversation. Though Mouse’s couch wasn’t far behind the front seats, her breathy voice tended to get lost in the motor home’s copious interior.
With a start he realized that their guest was far more interesting than anything else they’d encountered since commencing this ill-conceived journey. He wasn’t sure about Alicia, but he found her fascinating. So did his daughter. As for Steven, the boy was giving the woman the sort of attention he usually reserved only for fried foods and large desserts. It was easy to understand. That exquisite and mysterious face, the unknown figure enshrouded in yards of iridescent silk, the whispery, musical voice — those could hypnotize a ten-year-old boy as easily as they could a much older male.
"Frank, you’re drifting over the center line again."
"What? Sorry, hon." He conscientiously eased the motor home back into the slow lane. Steven could freely fall under Mouse’s spell. Frank had to drive.
Alicia looked back, made an effort to be pleasant. "Where are you from?"
Mouse turned slightly on the couch to wave indifferently at the rear of the motor home. "Back that way."
"Los Angeles?" It made sense, Frank knew. On Hollywood or Sunset boulevards her attire would be positively subdued.
"No. Farther than that. Farther" — she hesitated for a fraction of a second — "south."
He grinned to himself. Let her affect an air of mystery if that was her pleasure. "Where you headed?"
Once again Steven spoke before she had a chance to answer. "We’re on vacation already 'cause we go to private school, so we get out earlier than the other kids."
"That’s nice," said Mouse. "Myself hasn’t had a vacation in quite some time."
"What is it you do?" Alicia asked her.
"I help others out of their troubles."
Frank guffawed. "In Vegas? No wonder you don’t get any time off. That’s a town where just about everybody needs help."
"No, not in Las Vegas. I’m not going there. I am going to the Vanishing Point."
"Vanishing Point." His brows drew together in thought. "A lot of little towns up the interstate between Vegas and Salt Lake. Never gone that far north ourselves, but I see them on the map. Cedar City, St. George, Littlefield, even a place called Hurricane." He tried to see the fine detail on the map stuck to the dash. "Vanishing Point doesn’t ring any bells."
"It’s quite small and very big." Mouse wasn’t smiling and Frank couldn’t tell if she was making a joke or not. "I would not be surprised if your map omits it, though one never knows."
"What’s in Vanishing Point?" He drove with one hand resting easily on the wheel, the cruise control doing the drudge work.
"My task."
"Helping somebody with a problem?"
She nodded. "I must try to regulate the Spinner."
"You a psychologist of some kind?" He’d always envisioned psychologists, male or female, in severe business suits. Of course, there were all kinds of unorthodox philosophies of
mental health abroad in the land, especially if that land was Southern California. "Vanishing Point. Nevada or Utah?"
"Yes," she said, replying without answering. "I am afraid I am the only one practiced enough to do it."
"You wouldn’t expect to see a psychologist hitchhiking," said Alicia tartly.
"It is not my preferred mode of travel. In this instance circumstances compelled me to adopt this method of reaching my destination. I really cannot thank you enough for picking me up."
Her gratitude was so obvious and heartfelt that Alicia’s suspicions were dampened. Frank kept trying to read the small print on the map.
"I bet I’ve seen it on the Utah map."
"We’re only going as far as Las Vegas," Alicia informed their rider.
"I understand. I will travel with you as far as you will take me and go the rest of the way on my own. I am used to traveling on my own."
"Then the least we can do is take you all the way into Vegas." Frank gave Alicia a the-matter-is-settled look.
As her father concentrated on his driving, Wendy moved closer to their guest, lowering her voice to an anxious whisper. "C’mon, now, where’d you get all that great stuff?" She tentatively ran fingers over the material again. "I bet this is imported. Indian?"
"Not Indian." Mouse ran an index finger down the front of her dress. "My clothing is woven from the fabric of existence, which is very fine and light and quite stable." Her hand rose. Delicate dark fingers touched the single strand of purple beads that hung from her neck. "This is the blood of past transgressions. The past is always bleeding, I fear. At long intervals I have to add a new bead, so that my emotions keep pace with what has gone before. I remember when this necklace was but a bracelet." She extended a leg, revealing ankle and slipper.
"My shoes are very strong and very soft, so that my passing disturbs the earth as little as possible. I am careful not to touch it any more often than is necessary. Floating is easier than walking anyway." She smiled at the girl next to her. "Have you ever tried floating?"
"Not me, but some of my friends have. You know, you’re really weird. But I like you."
To the Vanishing Point Page 3