by Jill G. Hall
And then a sound came from outside. “Yip-yip-yip-yowl.”
Lucy jumped onto the bed beside Sylvia.
“Yip-yip.” And then again from outside, “Yip-yip.”
Lucy barked.
“Hush, girl.” Sylvia pulled Lucy to her, and they huddled together. “What big animals are out there?” Sylvia whispered. “Wolves? Bears?”
Then a cacophony of howls echoed off the trailer. Could whatever was out there pull open the door and get in? She had never been so frightened in her life. The lantern sputtered and blew out. She reached above her head and shook it. The oil canister seemed to be dry. She should have bought more in Tuba City. Sylvia turned the flashlight back on and pointed it at the ceiling, trying to get as much of a glow as possible.
The howling began again. “Yip, yip, yowl.” It sounded otherworldly, perhaps ghosts or maybe even creatures from outer space. Wasn’t there a recent Twilight Zone about a flying saucer landing in the desert? She could hear the show’s theme song now: Do, do, do, do.
The flashlight in her hand began to flicker. She shook it, and the ray steadied for a moment, then died. The trailer grew as dark and cold as obsidian.
35
Anne had decided not to call Sergio and stayed in the apartment to wait for Dottie, but she never showed up or even texted. Here Anne was in the arts capital of the country with no money and ditched by her ex-best friend. The freezing apartment and bumpy couch kept Anne from getting a good night’s rest. Her stomach grumbled, but she didn’t even have enough cash to buy breakfast. Dottie must have had money hidden in the loft somewhere.
Anne removed the couch cushions and found three quarters, a dime, and a magenta bra. Anne peeked under the magazines on the coffee table and then inside the stash box.
She thought she heard a noise and turned to the door. What would Dottie say if she caught her? It grew quiet. Anne looked in the sugar bowl, the freezer, and the top cupboards. Stuffed under the sink in the back, she discovered a collage she had made Dottie for college graduation: a photo transfer of the two of them, big smiles with arms around each other. Anne’s eyes filled with tears.
She rifled through Dottie’s lingerie drawer but still didn’t find any cash. She opened a box on the dresser. Voila! Five crisp hundred-dollar bills were folded inside. If she took some, it wouldn’t really be stealing. Dottie owed her about half that much anyway. Anne peeled two bills off, slipped them in the zipper part of her daypack, and returned the rest. The door opened, and she slammed the box shut.
Dottie lurched in, her Mohawk awry. “What a night.”
“Congratulations!” Anne returned the cushions to the couch and folded the blanket.
“Yeah. Three of my pieces sold.”
Anne pumped her arm. “Cha ching.”
Dottie rolled her eyes and kicked the radiator two times, and it whooshed on. Then she drifted to the couch.
Anne sat beside her. “I’ve been waiting for you to get back.”
“You have?”
“I helped myself to your box.” Anne nodded toward the dresser.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Let’s go! I can’t wait to see the Big Apple. I’ve got to change, then I’ll be ready.” Anne jumped up.
Dottie sighed and picked up her bong. “You go ahead. I’m beat.”
“You mean I came all this way, and you don’t even want to spend time with me?” Anne felt like she’d been socked in the stomach.
“I just can’t go out today.”
“Why did you invite me then?”
“I didn’t really think you’d come.” Dottie closed her eyes and laid her head on the top of the couch. “I have to rest up for a rave tonight.” Dottie pulled the blanket over her. “You can come with me if you want.”
“You think?” Anne ruffled through her suitcase and threw on jeans, a heavy sweater, and boots. Then she bundled up in winter gear, grabbed her daypack, and slammed the door on her way out. Snow covered the ground, and an overcast sky drooped with cold dark clouds. At the deli across the street, she found an inside café table, dried her eyes, and ravaged a jalapeño with cream cheese bagel.
New York had a whole different vibe than San Francisco that took some getting used to. There, you could get anywhere on foot, cable car, or bus within minutes, easy peasy. But here you could walk forever and never reach the end of it. The colors even seemed different—not as vivid—and fog didn’t float in from the water like in San Francisco, only chilled dampness.
Anne pulled Sergio’s number from her pocket and itched to call him. In the light of day though, she felt it probably wasn’t wise to pursue that relationship. Her hots for him might have just been a rebound attraction, and, after all, he was a GU, a geographical undesirable.
She pulled out her New York City day-by-day map and took notes as she planned her itinerary by bus and on foot. No way would she get back on that subway. Of course she’d go to the Met first, then the Frick, then The Plaza for tea, and then the Whitney. It might even have up their biannual show for emerging artists. She thought someday she might send them a submission.
Even though Anne had the right-of-way, as she crossed the street, a red Ferrari sped around the corner and slammed on its brakes just in time. The driver glared, flipped her off, and yelled, “Dumb broad.”
She mouthed, Sorry and backed up to the curb and found the bus to the Met.
The special Matisse collage exhibit awed her with its fabulous multicolored cutout shapes and textures. But when she reached the Egyptian temple, it was so crowded she could barely see a thing. She wanted to read the hieroglyphics at the Egyptian temple but didn’t want to squeeze in between bodies.
A walk through Central Park had been cold but invigorating. Bare trees stood guard along pathways that sparkled with softening snow. But at the Sheep Meadow, she must have turned right instead of left, because she ended all the way over on Central Park West and had to circle back to get to the Frick.
The intimate nature of the former mansion built in 1914 warmed and calmed her. She wandered the gallery spaces around a reflecting pool in a central courtyard. The Fragonard Room had four large rococo panels; the romantic series Progress of Love had actually been brought over from France. In a large salon, she sat and admired the marbled floors and paintings by Renoir and Gainsborough, two of her favorites.
An hour quickly passed by the time she exited the Frick and wandered toward The Plaza for tea. But when she arrived at the big hotel, the menu prices were so high and the other diners so dressed to the nines she considered skipping it; however, she took one look at the stained glass ceiling and knew she just had to sit under it. The child’s menu was only $30. She could order that even though she didn’t really like peanut butter and jelly.
In the ladies lounge, she pulled off her cap, grabbed a brush from her pack, and twisted her hair back into a scrunchie. She examined herself in the full-length mirror, flicked lint off her coat, and touched the snowflake pin. This would do; she’d fit right in. No one would guess her outfit was secondhand. On her way back to the restaurant, she stopped to admire the painting of Eloise, from her favorite childhood story about the girl who lived at The Plaza.
At The Palm Court’s entrance, Anne waited in line behind a velvet cord until the hostess escorted her to a small table next to a potted fern. The tallest bouquet of gladiolas she’d ever seen stood on a table in the center of the room, and huge arched glass doors surrounded the space. The stained glass from above reflected colors onto the white tablecloth as she studied the menu again: the Classic, the New Yorker, and Eloise. Then she saw the small print: the child’s menu was $50 dollars for adults. Should she slip out now before a waiter came to take her order?
“Ready, ma’am?” A dapper waiter stood beside her, a leather notepad in hand, his short hair gelled back to perfection and tuxedo neatly pressed.
Anne felt her face grow hot. She took a sip of water and smiled at him. “Can I have the Eloise at the child’s price?”
He tilted his nose toward the ceiling. “It’s against hotel policy.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Please? I’m a starving artist.”
“Really? So am I!” His snooty attitude evaporated.
“What type?”
“Starving too!”
She smiled. “What type?”
“I paint modern portraits. What about you?”
“Mixed media. I’m from San Francisco. I don’t think I’ll get to the Plaza ever again.”
He frowned. “I sure hope you do.”
“It’s so elegant. You must love working here.”
Pencil poised, he looked around, then smiled. “The Eloise. That’s a good choice.”
“Yes, if you please.”
The waiter left, and Anne people-watched. The other diners, mostly women, chatted with one another. One matron wore a hat with pheasant feathers that looked like it might have been from the early 1900s, when the hotel had first been built. Thank goodness Dottie wasn’t here. Anne grinned and imagined her in the Mohawk as she clutched a cucumber sandwich with black-polished fingernails. In fact, Anne was glad Dottie had been such a flake after all. If she’d been with her, Anne wouldn’t have had last evening’s magical time with Sergio. And then she’d gone ahead and found the money. If Dottie had been there, she might not have ever gotten reimbursed for the plane tickets. And this day had been absolutely wonderful. She’d been lucky. She felt in her pocket for the key, brought it out, and kissed it. “Thank you,” she whispered.
If Sylvia had ever been to New York, she certainly would have eaten here. Anne thought about how fun it would be to have the blonde sit across the table from her sipping tea from a lacy white cup. Things had been so hectic that Anne hadn’t had a chance to think of the series clearly. Since finding out the heiress might have been seen in Arizona, Anne had run out of clues. The series was dwindling to a close, just one more piece or two.
Toward the end of a series, Anne always felt a little disheartened, uncertain what would come next. She gazed around the restaurant again. The Plaza and New York in general would make a great series. Ideas bounced in her head, and she grabbed her journal from the daypack and jotted a few notes:
New York
Era? ’20s or ’30s (long time ago)
The Plaza
Frick
Central Park
Grand Central Station
She continued to write until the waiter returned with her meal. But instead of the Eloise, he brought her the Classic on a silver-tiered tray along with a glass of champagne. Anne devoured the little sandwiches: truffled quail egg, smoked salmon, and Maine lobster. She spread lemon curd on a still-warm scone and nibbled it up. The hazelnut napoleon had been her favorite of all five desserts, but it didn’t stop her from eating them all.
The check came for the most scrumptious meal she’d ever had and at the children’s menu price. She left a hefty tip, took a business card from her pack, and wrote on the back, Thanks! I owe you one if you visit California, and she slid it underneath the cash.
She made her way to the Whitney, but when she got there, it was closed for renovation. Clouds had begun to gather. She hopped a bus and decided to head back to Dottie’s. Fingering Sergio’s number in her pocket, she wondered what he had done that day.
36
Sylvia looked out the window to the east as the sun peeked over the horizon behind wispy clouds. On the earth, bands of rock changed colors from amethyst to topaz as the shifting light caught the different layers of sand. The landscape that had seemed so ominous the night before became flush with the glow of serene colors. Being in nature could be terrifying one moment and exhilarating the next. Even so, if they made it to Monument Valley today, she would check into a hotel.
Lucy jumped off the bed and scratched at the door. “No, girl.” Sylvia still felt afraid of what might be out there. Late into the night, she had listened to the mournful screeches, but when they finally ended, Sylvia still couldn’t get to sleep.
Now a horn honked and a Jeep headed their way. Sylvia slid on some jeans as a ranger in a Smokey the Bear uniform stepped out of his vehicle. In fact, he seemed about as big and tall as Smokey might be. “Mornin’,” he called.
She opened the door a smidgen and poked her head out. “Hello?”
Lucy flew past her with a bark and lunged at the big man.
He laughed, bent down, and revealed his palm for Lucy to lick. Then he stood up and took off his hat. A rugged but handsome face had been underneath. “Mornin’,” he said again, glancing in the trailer. “Who’s out here with you?”
“Lucy.” Sylvia walked down the stairs and picked her up.
“I see.” He nodded. “A big storm’s brewing. Could be a flash flood.”
She studied the white clouds collecting on the horizon. They seemed harmless. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll pull out now.”
He frowned. “Better stay here on this rise. It’ll be safer.” He put his hat back on and climbed into his Jeep.
“Sir. There were some dogs or wolves or something howling last night.”
He smiled as if he admired them. “Coyotes, ma’am. The tricksters throw their voices to sound like their prey.”
“They’re not really dangerous, are they?”
“Don’t usually bother people, but keep your wee dog close.”
“I will.” She swallowed. “They sounded pretty scary. I thought they might even be aliens from UFOs.”
“Maybe so.” He smiled at her from under his hat. “We do have craters nearby, and no one knows exactly how they got there.” He continued, “And don’t worry about our black bears—they only live in our mountains.”
Lucy squirmed, but Sylvia held tight. She felt relieved they hadn’t run into any of those when they were up there.
He kept going, his voice deep and low. “To avoid our scorpions, never reach into dark places or overhead ledges that you can’t see in. And make sure to shake out your shoes before putting them on.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
He wasn’t done yet. “And don’t worry about our diamondback rattlesnakes. They only strike when surprised.”
“Is that all?” She opened her eyes wide.
“There’s a lot more, but nothing to be concerned about.” His eyes drifted upward toward the clouds again. “Yep, a big storm’s coming. Better get back in the trailer and stay put.” The dust flew behind him as he drove out along the dirt road.
Sylvia leashed Lucy for a quick walk, then returned to the trailer and closed the door tight. She tried to read a Vogue but had already looked at it, and she tossed it on the floor. She picked up the poetry book and practiced her recitations, but her throat became dry. She grabbed a pen and paper to write Paul another note:
Dear Paul,
Sorry, I . . .
She sat back and tried to decide what to say. Her earlier dream floated to her mind, and her cheeks grew hot. How could she have that kind of dream about him? She put the paper aside and looked around the trailer.
The acrid smell of kerosene still lingered, and the space seemed to grow smaller. “I’m not afraid of a little rain. But I am afraid of snakes, scorpions, and space monsters. Let’s get out of here and go to Monument Valley.”
Sylvia lifted Lucy into the T-Bird. The trailer bobbed behind as they drove out the dirt road and turned east onto the quiet two-lane highway. Ahead stretched the white line, and yellow spiky bushes dotted the vast terrain that seemed to go on for miles.
Sylvia had never felt so free. She flipped on the radio, turned it up, and sang along, her voice full, on key, and high. “Love is a many-splendored thing.” Was true love splendored? She had thought her feelings for Ricardo had been true love, and at first, it had seemed splendored.
In the distance, white clouds turned to gray with bulging denim-colored undersides. Sylvia drove toward them, making good time. According to the map, they’d make it to Monument Valley within the next fe
w hours. She looked forward to a hot bath and a good night’s sleep in a decent hotel.
She sang again with the radio, Lucy her devoted audience. Sylvia felt elated as if she could drive like this forever. Within a few minutes, the billows turned to onyx, and the wind picked up. A tumbleweed flew in front of the T-Bird, and she swerved to miss it just in time. Reminded of the Wizard of Oz, she wondered if they would be pulled up into the sky too.
Far-off lightning flashed, and within a few seconds, thunder called. Lucy hunkered down in the seat. The radio started to cut out. Sylvia moved the dial back and forth but only heard static.
A few drops splashed on the windshield. She considered turning back but decided to keep going. “It’s nothing. Just a little wind and a few sprinkles.” She turned on the windshield wipers.
More lightning flashed, this time closer, and the thunder roared right after. Drops overflowed in puddles that floated down the glass, making it hard to see. All of a sudden, the rain turned to hail and banged on the T-Bird’s roof like ping-pong balls. Sylvia held tight to the steering wheel; her heart seemed to pound as loud as bongo drums.
Though invisible in the rearview mirror, the trailer could still be felt. Water seeped through the convertible’s roof. A windshield wiper bounced off the glass, and finally, unable to see more than a foot in front of her, Sylvia pulled to the side of the highway and turned off the motor. A quivering Lucy crawled into Sylvia’s lap. Soon a shallow stream rippled underneath the car, and then, as the rain continued to fall, the road filled with water, gushed, and became a river. The T-Bird hitched to the trailer felt like a kite on a string. Sylvia tried to open the car door, but the torrent’s force wouldn’t allow it. As the deluge deepened, the car began to rock and sway. She felt as if she were on a roller coaster ride.
With a deafening crunch and screech of metal, the T-Bird’s bumper separated from the trailer. Sylvia screamed as the car lifted and washed away in the current with them inside. She held her puppy tight and shouted the twenty-third Psalm into the torrential rain: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures. Help me God! He leads me beside still waters.”