“Your cousin, huh?” Rich commented, watching Emory climb into his shiny black Cadillac Seville. “I do see the family resemblance.”
“We don’t look that much alike,” I said.
“I didn’t mean your looks.”
At the truck he asked, “You ready for lunch now? I sure am.”
I turned the ignition. “I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll go out to the James Dean Memorial and try to figure out what that number 226 means, but I can drop you off first.”
“I could go with you,” he offered.
“Thanks, but you’ve wasted enough of your day. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
He closed the passenger door and turned to me, his forehead wrinkling. “Like what? Frankly, if I spend another day fishing or just wandering around Morro Bay I’m going to go crazy. I’m enjoying this.” He smiled sheepishly at me. “I mean, not Jake dying, but . . .”
I smiled back. I knew exactly what he meant. How to fill your days and weeks when you’d spent most of your life as a couple and now weren’t anymore. “Well, I certainly don’t mind the company, but first I have a quick errand in Paso Robles. Then we’re off to Cholame.”
At a local stationery store that advertised Federal Express, I paid the overnight price to send the Polaroid picture of Mr. Chandler to his sister in Lubbock, hoping it would give her some sort of closure to the pain of his desertion.
Heading out of Paso Robles on Highway 46, I gave Rich the tourist guide information about Cholame and the James Dean Memorial.
“Like Dove would say, Cholame is a ‘poke and clean’ town. Poke your head out of the window and you’re clean through it.”
Rich laughed. “So what is there?”
“A pretty decent cafe and the James Dean Memorial. It’s right before Highways 41 and 46 split off. One road goes to Fresno, the other Bakersfield.”
“We can have lunch at the cafe, then.”
I gazed out over the rolling green meadows, remembering how Jack and I and our friends used to come out here even before the memorial was built in 1977. We’d sprawl across the hoods of our trucks, throw rocks across the road, drink warm Cokes, and spit sunflower seeds at each other. Something wild in us drew us to that spot, the place where James Dean’s own explosive youth was ended so quickly, so irretrievably.
I came here a few times after Jack’s death, sitting in our truck and staring at the steel and concrete monument, trying to discover some answers about why he was taken from me so young. I never came to any great conclusions and eventually relegated this place, like so many others, to a back room in my mind labeled, “Jack.” Now, here it was again, placed before me for some other inexplicable reason.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Hi-Way Cafe. Without speaking, we stepped out of the truck and walked over to the memorial. At this time of day, during the middle of the week, we were the only visitors. Behind us, in the fields full of wild alfalfa, young bull calves playfully butted heads. Yellow-eyed blackbirds flitted through the thin leaves of the Tree of Heaven that grew in the middle of the monument. The sun beat down warm on our shoulders, glinting off the monument’s steel posts. During the hot summer months, this place was unbearable except after sunset. I knew ranchers who loved the desolate, sometimes forbidding Carrizo Plains of San Celina County where the San Andreas Fault meandered through the dry, cracked landscape, but it took a certain toughness to appreciate and tolerate this land’s isolated beauty.
Rich read out loud, “His name was James Byron Dean. He was an actor. He died just before sundown on 9/30/ 55 when his Porsche collided with another car at a fork in the road not 900 yards east of this tree, long known as the Tree of Heaven. He was twenty-four years old.”
He didn’t look up but continued staring at the plaque. “I remember when this happened. He was a year younger than me. I’d been a firefighter for a little over a year. Around the same time, a buddy of mine . . .” He looked at me, his face heavy with grief, but it wasn’t for James Dean. “We were booters in the academy. He died in a house fire. Roof collapsed on him. Left a wife and five-year-old son. The thing was, I couldn’t believe someone my age could die. It’s still hard to believe.”
“I know what you mean. My mom died when she was twenty-five.”
“That’s really rough on a kid. How old were you?”
“Six.”
He shook his head sympathetically. “My friend’s son grew up to be a pharmacist. A real nice kid. He was a big help when my wife needed so much medication that I couldn’t keep it all straight.” We both stared at the monument for a long, silent moment.
“Let’s have lunch,” I suggested, wanting to get off the subject of parents, spouses, and friends dying too young. “We can inspect the monument in detail afterwards and see if anything relates to the number 226.”
“Good idea.”
The cafe smelled of that wonderful flavor combination that could seduce just about any red-blooded American citizen no matter what their race, creed, or color—fresh baked pie and the intoxicating scent of grilling hamburgers. We took a seat in one of the green Naugahyde booths and ordered the hamburger, fries, and cherry pie special from our young, frizzy-headed waitress.
“I’m going to look around,” I told Rich. He nodded and went over to the old fifties jukebox to peruse the music selections.
“No rap,” I called over my shoulder.
“Don’t worry, kid. I’m more a Frank Sinatra kinda guy.”
Since we were the only customers, I wandered freely about the small room, inspecting the framed black-and-white photographs of James Dean over every booth showing him dressed in everything from Western clothes to a tuxedo to a plaid shirt and nerd glasses holding a white kitten. Different clothes altered his look entirely. They were costumes really—props—the ones he chose, or were chosen for him, determined how we saw him, how we judged him. Who was he really? That was a question that could be asked of any of us: How much of what we show the world truly reveals who we are?
Something about this Mr. Chandler bothered me. It was as if he was trying to reveal himself to me, but it was all so planned, so manipulated, that it seemed like all he was revealing was that he was an insensitive, controlling man who didn’t even remember his lover in his will.
At this point, I was pretty certain I wouldn’t have liked Jacob Chandler very much.
I looked through the James Dean T-shirts, hats, postcards, and key chains, not seeing anything that gave me a hint as to what the number 226 meant. I’d glanced quickly over the memorial when I was outside, though I knew most of it almost by heart and there was no 226 there, either. Was it some kind of latitude/longitude reference? Was there someplace 226 miles from this spot I should go? Was there something in James Dean’s life where that number was significant? If there was, it had to be here somewhere. If nothing else, it appeared that Mr. Chandler was methodical and logical—that number was there for a reason.
I went back to our table when the food arrived and ate my hamburger and fries absentmindedly. Rich, taking my cue, didn’t press me for conversation. We listened to his selections: “Fly Me to the Moon,” “A Hundred Pounds of Clay,” “Peggy Sue,” “Something to Talk About.”
“Bonnie Raitt?” I asked, putting more catsup on my fries. “Kinda wild. I’d never have guessed that about you, Rich.”
His chin jutted out slightly in defiance. “I have my cooler moments.” Then he softened his stance with a sheepish smile. “Besides, I’ve always had a weakness for redheads with attitude.”
We were halfway through our pie when the music ran out.
“My turn,” I said, scooting out of the booth. Leaning over the jukebox, I perused the selections—a combination of big band, fifties tunes, and country/western classics. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” I exclaimed.
The teenage waitress, coming by with a pot of coffee to refill Rich’s cup, asked, “What’s wrong?”
I turned to her. “Do these records get changed often?”
“Rich, get over here and look at this.”
He stood next to me and looked at where I was pointing.
Number 226. Carole King. “I Feel the Earth Move.”
Rich’s brown face clouded with confusion. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s because you’re not from around here. But he knew I would.”
“So, what does it mean?”
“Our next stop is Parkfield.”
“Where and what is Parkfield?”
“You think this is the boonies, wait’ll you see Parkfield.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Earthquake capital of the world,” our young waitress filled in. “The people who live out there are crazy. When the big one hits, they are moose meat.”
Rich turned to me and grinned. “Sounds like fun. Let’s go.”
8
“YOU WEREN’T KIDDING,” Rich said as we bumped along the gravel road toward Parkfield. It was open range, and I had to stop more than once for a lazy heifer or bull wandering across the road to where the alfalfa was undoubtedly greener. Above us, turkey vultures swooped low in the sweet-tasting air, so close we could almost count their wing feathers.
I laughed. “I guarantee that Parkfield isn’t a tourist trap on the level of Morro Bay and I doubt that it ever will be. In the summer, it can get up to 110 degrees out here. The people who live and ranch out here are tougher than me by a long shot. Tough as baked-in-the-sun bull hide.”
He looked out the window, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Somehow, I think you might give them a run for their money, Benni Harper.”
“You’re just being flattering ’cause I know the way back.”
“Could be,” he said with a chuckle.
In a half hour we pulled into the tiny town of Parkfield—population 34—with more earthquake-predicting gizmos than could be found even at Cal Tech. We parked in front of the Parkfield Inn, where, painted across a rusty old water tank, an advertisement welcomed visitors to the “Earthquake Capital of the World—Sleep Here When It Happens.” The inn was a pleasant, rustic building next to an old guntower-like structure colored a faded yellow with Shell Products still visible in weathered red. Across the street was a log cabin cafe and farther down a gift shop in a real caboose and freight car called appropriately the Parkfield Caboose.
We climbed out of the truck and looked around. A golden retriever trotted by, not giving us a second glance. The absence of human voices was so apparent, the chirping of the birds and hum of the insects so loud, it caused both of us to stand quietly for a moment, enjoying the peace.
“Not much here,” Rich finally said in a lower than normal voice. “Shouldn’t take us too long to question all thirty-four people.”
I hitched my purse over my shoulder. “Guess the cafe would be the logical place to start. How about something to drink?”
“Sounds great.”
After buying two Cokes from the woman behind the counter, Rich walked around the cafe, reading the framed newspaper articles about the town while I chatted casually with the waitress, finally getting up enough nerve to show her Jacob Chandler’s driver’s license and ask her if she knew him.
“He doesn’t look familiar,” she said, wiping down the counter with slow circles. “Why are you looking for him?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “He’s not a criminal or anything. Actually, he passed away last week. I’m just kind of trying to figure out who he was.”
She nodded in understanding. “Lots of people seeking their roots these days. Sorry I can’t help. You might try Risa or Marc over at the caboose. They might’ve known him.”
I didn’t correct her when she assumed I was looking for a long lost father or relative. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”
Out on the porch, Rich and I finished our drinks and walked the short block over to the gift shop. As we did, I told him about the two other times I’d been out to Parkfield. “They have an old-fashioned ranch rodeo every year. I rode barrels in it once. Jack—he was my first husband—he rode bareback broncs and roped.”
“You were married before?” Rich asked. On our walk over, I told him about Jack, how we’d known each other since high school, were married at nineteen, and how I found myself widowed at thirty-four.
“I kind of figured you and your husband hadn’t been married long,” he said when we reached the caboose.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Rhythm,” he said.
“What?”
“You haven’t worked one out yet. I was married forty-one years. You say you were married fifteen so you know what I mean.” His dark eyes were kind and a little sad. “Rhythm,” he repeated.
I did know what he meant. And he was right. Gabe and I hadn’t established one yet. My face must have showed my dismay.
“Don’t worry, kid,” he said, patting my shoulder. “You two are still young. Now at my age . . .” He gazed out over the soft green fields behind the caboose.
We climbed the metal steps of the caboose and walked single file down the narrow passageway. At the end of the caboose sat a man in Western clothes, including a pale gray cowboy hat that was stained in the right places for a working cowboy. He was filling out some kind of order form.
“Afternoon, folks,” he said, nodding.
We nodded back.
“There’s more out in the freight car in back,” he said in a pleasant, wind-graveled voice. “Ropes used by Blaine Santos himself—PRCA Champion. He sponsors the rodeo out here, you know.”
“Thanks,” Rich said. “We’ll check it out.”
The man went back to his work, and we poked around through the Western memorabilia, magazines, bandannas, and knickknacks. I picked up a mug shaped like a barrel with a curvy cowgirl-shaped handle. Her mouth opened to a red, surprised “Oh.”
“How much is this?” I asked the cowboy/store owner.
He studied it for a moment, then said, “Six bucks, okay?”
“Sure.” As I handed him the money, I said, “By the way, the lady over at the cafe said you might know this man.” I showed him Mr. Chandler’s driver’s license.
He put down his pen and looked at the license, then back up at me. “Benni Harper?”
I nodded.
“I have something for you. Come on back.” He stood up, squeezed past us, and climbed down the train steps. We followed him back to the freight car.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll bring it to you.” He climbed up into the freight train and called back to me, “Sure you don’t want a Blaine Santos rope to add to that mug?”
“No, but thanks anyway.”
In a few seconds he came back down and handed me a square, cardboard, teapot-sized box. “How is old Jake anyway?” he asked.
I hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry, M. . . . ?”
“Just Marc.”
“I’m sorry, Marc, but he passed away last Friday. He had a heart attack.”
He dropped his head and stared at his worn boots. His eyes were shiny when he looked back at me. “Hope he didn’t suffer. He used to come out here three, four times a year. We’d have lunch and talk about bumming around the country. We’ve both seen some road, that’s for sure. He was a good man.”
“His funeral was earlier today. I’m sorry—I would have told you, but he didn’t leave an address book or any list of his friends.”
He brushed my apology away with a sweep of his hand. “I’m not one for funerals. You his daughter? He never mentioned he had any family.”
“No,” I said, not wanting to explain my odd inheritance to yet another stranger. “Just a friend.” I
hugged the box to my chest. “Do you mind telling me when he gave you this?”
“Not at all. ’Bout six months back. We had lunch like usual, then right before he left, he gave me this box. Said you’d be coming for it. Didn’t know when, but me and Risa have been here quite a while and probably will be here till the big one drops the caboose in a crevice, so I’ve just held on to it until you came.” He grinned at me. “Didn’t even peek either, though I’m dying to know what’s in there.”
After that comment, I couldn’t bear to just walk away, so I opened the sealed box and dug through the tissue paper, pulling out a breathtaking glazed pot in deep blue and greens with an unusual red undertone.
“Beautiful,” Rich said.
“I’ll say,” Marc said.
Inside the pot was a folded piece of paper. I left it there. I wanted to read it alone. I turned the pot over and looked at the potter’s elaborate calligraphy initials on the bottom—A.N. Though I knew many ceramic artists in San Celina County, the style and initials didn’t strike a familiar chord.
“Well, thanks,” I said, holding out my hand.
“No problem,” Marc said, shaking it. “Sorry to hear about Jake. Risa will be, too. They really hit it off, both being from the South and all.”
“Texas?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Risa’s from Tennessee. I don’t know where Jake was from, but he sure wasn’t a Texan. We once had a big ole friendly argument about what true barbecue is. He said if it ain’t pork, it ain’t barbecue. And that ain’t no Texan, I’ll tell you that, ’cause I lived in Texas for ten years and I can spot one a mile away.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I don’t know who you are to him, but I feel like I have to tell someone this. When Risa was real sick and the gift shop wasn’t doing so well, he paid for her medicine. Went down to the pharmacy in Paso Robles and just put three hundred bucks on retainer there for us. We didn’t even know it until we went to go pay. This was a man I had just met like I did you two, by him coming into the gift shop. I’ve never had anyone do something so kind before. I’ll never forget that.” He touched his hat in farewell and walked back toward the caboose.
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