Dakota Blues

by Lynne Spreen

  “You trust that thing?”

  Karen pulled out into traffic. No sense trying to teach a ninety-year-old about the greatest tool to come along since the Model-T. A couple of miles up the tree-lined highway, she found the turnoff, a dirt road that jounced the innards of the RV no matter how hard she worked to maneuver around potholes and rocks. When the van hit a bump and one of the overloaded cabinets popped open, she pulled over to check out the mess. Two cardboard boxes had toppled over, spilling their contents all over the floor. It would have to wait.

  Frieda chuckled. “That’ll teach you to close ‘em properly.”

  “I thought I had.” The cabinets locked automatically to prevent this kind of problem, but Karen must have missed one of them. The sight of the mess in back made her want to open the bottle of Riesling she’d bought at the market. Up ahead, a park employee in a khaki uniform waved them toward the entry kiosk.

  “One night,” Karen said, handing the young man a twenty.

  Frieda leaned closer. “Probably two.”

  They drove through the campground on a meandering lane to their campsite. A large boulder squeezed their narrow parking space.

  “You better line it up perfect or you’ll scrape the side,” said Frieda.

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “It’s going to be tight.”

  Karen inched the van forward, almost touching the huge rock.

  “Too close.” Frieda leaned forward, peering into her side mirror and blocking Karen’s view. “This’ll never work. You need to turn around and back it in.”

  “Please sit back. I can’t see anything with your head in the way.” The fatigue of a full day of driving began to hit her.

  “I’ll guide you.” Frieda got out and left the door open. Karen had to unbuckle, get out of her seat, and lean way over to close it. Denver couldn’t come soon enough. As soon as she got rid of Frieda, she’d find a luxury hotel for the night. She rested her head against the seat back, eyes closed. What would she give right now for valet parking? She pictured an ice cold lemon drop martini, a hot bath, quiet solitude…tomorrow night, by God.

  She heard voices and opened her eyes. A man stood behind the van, speaking with Frieda, who nodded. He pointed at a path into the forest, and Frieda took off.

  “What the hell?” Karen rubbed the base of her skull where a headache was blooming. The man approached her window. His heavy cologne scorched her nostrils, and his thick mustache showed white at the roots. “May I help you?”

  “I need to back up without hitting that rock.”

  “Watch my signals.” He turned and marched toward the back of the van. He wore belted grey dress slacks, and his thin hair was dyed a harsh black and combed over his bald spot. He positioned himself in her side mirror and guided her with military precision.

  When Karen felt the back tires nudge up against a fallen log, she gave the man a wave and turned off the motor. From the glove box she reached for the manual, which included an arrival checklist. As she recalled, there were plugs and hoses and all kinds of things she needed to extract from their compartments. At the back of the van she found her helper waiting by the locked equipment cabinet.

  He rapped one knuckle against its door. “You should have a level in here. If it isn’t level, your refrigerator won’t work.”

  “I think it’s in the galley.” Karen opened the double doors and stepped into the van, rustling through a couple of drawers and the cabinet over the sink, where she found the level.

  The man peered into the vehicle at the mess that had spilled from the cabinets.

  Karen followed his glance. Shoving aside photo albums and cutlery, plastic bowls and a scattered pile of embroidered cloth napkins, she cleared a path to the door and handed him the level.

  Unsmiling, the man stepped into the galley and centered the level on a countertop, then a wall. When the bubble lined up between the two black lines, he grunted and handed it back to her. “Very good. I’ll connect the electrical. I suggest you secure the freshwater intake. Be sure to bleach the spigot.” At her blank look, he explained. “You don’t know if a dog used it last.”

  She dug around under the sink and found a small bottle of bleach.

  “Good. Dilute it by half and saturate the spigot, then rinse.” He saw her thumbing through the user manual and frowned. “The white hose.”

  “Right.” She lugged it out of the compartment and attached it to the clean spigot while the man attached the cord for shore power. He showed her how to lock the fresh water hose to prevent tampering and chocked the tires with rocks. “You wouldn’t want your vehicle rolling downhill in the middle of the night.”

  “I really appreciate your help. By the way, I’m Karen.”

  “Wallace Franklin.” His handshake was firm and icy. “Are you and your mother traveling alone?”

  “She’s not my mother. Thanks again for the help.”

  Just then Frieda limped out of the forest leading a slender, elegant woman. “Hey Karen, look who I found. This is Mae. She’s from next door.”

  The woman smiled, her blue eyes lighting up a pale, delicate face. Her white-blond hair was swept up into a graceful chignon, and she wore light wool slacks and a silk blouse. “I see you found my husband. Frieda tells me you have no plans for dinner,” said Mae. “Please join us this evening. We would love to have your company.” She glanced at Wallace. “Isn’t that right, Wall?”

  Wallace stared at his wife, who dropped her eyes.

  “We don’t want to inconvenience–” Karen began.

  “Dinner sounds lovely,” said Frieda. “What time?”

  “We eat at six.” He turned and disappeared into the trees. Mae gave a little wave and trotted after him.

  “Great,” Karen muttered.

  “What’s bugging you?” Frieda sat on the edge of the picnic table bench, her cane planted in front of her.

  “I’m tired. I was looking forward to an early night.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll have dinner, visit a little, and come back.”

  “Wallace doesn’t want us there,” said Karen.

  “Who cares? He’s the entertainment.”

  Karen unlocked a storage compartment and withdrew a roll of outdoor carpet and two camp chairs. She unfurled the carpet just outside the double doors of the van, arranged the chairs, and opened the awning. Then she went back inside to finish straightening.

  “This is the life,” said Frieda. “Smell that fresh air?”

  Inside, Karen sat down on the dinette bench to take stock of the project. The van was strewn with housewares, clothing and collectibles. She’d have to figure out a better way to store everything.

  “Russell and I had a rule,” said Frieda. “You only bring it if you can’t live without it. We limited ourselves to a few clothes, food, and a book. I don’t know what he’d say if he saw your mess.”

  “Can I get you a book or something? Magazine?”

  “I can take a hint. You go ahead and clean up. I’ll watch the birds.”

  Karen slid a photo album into a box under the dinette and bent down to pick up her mother’s wooden poppy seed grinder. Luckily it was undamaged. She rewrapped it in one of the old towels Marie had donated and tucked it into a cabinet underneath a big frying pan. As she worked she found that most of the small antiques were intact, but the counter top had been chipped by a flying potato ricer. The cups and silverware went into the sink for another cleaning. Clothes were tossed on the dinette table for further processing.

  Karen straightened up, her lower back aching. The place was looking a lot better already and her mood began to improve until her stomach growled and she remembered where they’d be having dinner. At least somebody else would be doing the cooking.

  While she debated her next move, her cell phone rang. Karen slid into the dinette. “Hey, Stacey, how the heck are you?”

  “So are you having a mid-life crisis and never coming back?”

  “I’m wandering around South Dakota
with a crazy old lady. How are things in the real world? Did they fill my old job yet?”

  “They’re not even advertising,” said Stacey.

  “Who’s doing the work? You and Peggy?”

  “Peggy quit.”

  “What? What happened?” A blue jay hopped into the van through the open doors. When it saw Karen, it raised its wings in warning.

  “She was in the break room when Wes came in and started being all condescending and everything. You know how he does, making you look bad in front of everybody. And Peggy flipped out. She threw her coffee at him. You should have seen it.”

  “Was it hot?”

  “Hell yeah! I think he screamed. Then Peggy went back to her office, threw her stuff in a box, and walked out. She smiled and waved all the way out to the parking lot.”

  “I have to call her.”

  “Tell her hi from all of us. Peggy’s our new hero.” Stacey covered the phone to speak with a coworker, then came back, her voice lowered. “Hey, listen. Atlas over in Costa Mesa is looking for an HR person. It would be perfect for you and the money’s good.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll look into it. Let’s have lunch in a couple weeks.” Karen hung up and dialed Peggy. “So, you’re free, huh?”

  “As a bird.”

  “You’re not depressed or anything?”

  “If I ever get depressed I’ll call up the look on Wes’ face when he saw that coffee coming at him,” said Peggy. “I should have quit years ago, but I thought I was so all-fired important. What a joke. Wes and the rest of that bunch took advantage of me.”

  Karen heard ice clinking in a glass.

  “I’m just sorry I didn’t act sooner,” Peggy said. “I stopped by a travel agency on the way home and picked up a shitload of cruise brochures. Did you know there’s a line that goes around the world continuously? I’m getting a full suite with a balcony. Butler, evening cocktails delivered to your room, the works.”

  Karen sighed. “I have to say, I’m a little jealous.”

  “You’re still young, but don’t wait too long.”

  After they hung up, Karen called her housekeeper. Jean got right to the point. “When I got to the house this morning there was an overnight envelope on the porch. It’s from a law firm.”

  “Would you open it?” Karen heard paper tearing, and Jean began to read. The lawyer’s wording was clear. Steve wanted the divorce expedited, and the house put on the market immediately. Karen was surprised at the sudden warlike tone. Stupid of her to think it would go easily. “Set it aside. I’ll be home in a couple days.” She hung up, feeling light-headed. Maybe it was the altitude.

  “It’s getting on toward dinner time,” said Frieda. “We should get going.”

  In the fading light, a bit of yellow-gold winked at Karen from under the driver’s seat. She got down on her knees and gently extracted the rosary Father Engel had given her at the funeral. The last few rays of sunset illuminated the amber beads, lovely but pointless. She zipped the rosary into a pocket of her purse. Dickinson seemed very far away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When they stepped out of the trees, Mae jumped up from her seat by the campfire. Behind her, a motor coach occupied every inch of the lengthy driveway. A chandelier glittered within. The camp table had been set for three.

  “Who’s not eating?” asked Karen.

  “Wall prefers his meals inside.” Mae glanced at her watch. “In fact, he should be about ready. Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” She went into the coach to serve her husband.

  “What a pansy,” said Frieda.

  “Shhh. They’ll hear you,” said Karen. “Mae has an accent. I wonder where she’s from?”

  Mae returned holding a glass casserole between two oven mitts.

  “You set a nice table.” Frieda tapped a finger on the china plate in front of her. “Is this Royal Doulton?”

  “It’s an old set we use for camping.”

  “Mine are more like leftovers from the Chisholm Trail.”

  Mae placed the casserole in the middle of the table, lifted the lid, and stood back proudly as the aroma of hot stew wafted on the breeze. “Coq au vin.”

  Frieda glanced at Karen. “Bet you’re glad now.”

  Mae began to ladle the steaming casserole onto their plates. “I’ll tell you the secret to this dish. The older the bird, the richer the flavor.”

  Frieda nodded. “Many things improve with age. There’s your proof. Boy, it feels good to be camping again.”

  “If this is what you call camping, I could get used to it.” Her stomach rumbling, Karen watched Mae pour wine from a decanter into three glasses. “Thanks again for inviting us.”

  “It is my pleasure.”

  Frieda raised her glass. “To the journey.”

  Mae swirled the wine around in the glass and sniffed. She looked up at Karen, beaming. “I’m glad I saved this bottle. The vineyard of origin is five centuries old, and very small, near Lyon, France,” she said. “I think you’ll find–”

  “Mae,” Wallace called from the motor coach.

  “Excuse me.” She picked up the casserole dish and hurried inside.

  “I wouldn’t put up with that,” said Frieda.

  “Every marriage is different. You can’t tell from here.”

  A few minutes later, Mae returned. “Don’t let your food get cold because of me. Eat.”

  With her first taste of the savory chicken, Karen was transported back to Girard’s in Laguna Beach, and a dinner celebrating one of Steve’s first big promotions. The diamond earrings he’d given her reflected the candlelight as they held hands in the darkened booth.

  But that was very long ago. She reached for her wine, the campfire blurring.

  “Mae, you’re not eating,” Frieda said.

  “Really, I am.” Mae pushed her food around on her plate. When she saw Karen watching, she shrugged. “Well. I admit, he is anxious that I’m not in there with him. We have forgotten how to entertain.”

  “Nothing wrong with your entertaining,” said Frieda. “This casserole is delicious. You must have gone to some fancy cooking school.”

  “It’s a simple dish.”

  “Sometimes simple is better.”

  “Mae.”

  “Excuse me.” She stood and hurried inside again.

  “This is beginning to annoy me,” said Frieda.

  “Maybe it’s her tradition. You know, old country.”

  “Old country, my rear end. Old man, you mean.”

  Mae returned. “My husband is not himself lately. His back has been bothering him more than usual.”

  Karen remembered how nimbly Wallace had moved around that afternoon, climbing in and out of her van and hunkering down to chock the wheels.

  Frieda wiped up the last of her gravy with a piece of bread and sat back, hands over her stomach. “You two’ve been married a long time, looks like.”

  “Yes. Twenty-seven years.”

  “How did you meet?” asked Karen.

  “I am originally from Sweden. One summer Wallace visited my workplace with an American delegation of engineers. I was asked to show them around and explain how our plant operated.”

  “Because your English is so good?”

  “Yes, and also because I had designed the energy system at the plant. I have a degree in thermodynamics with a minor in hydrology.” An owl screeched, and they all looked to the forest. “Of course, I have not worked in that field since I married. Except to raise my family.” She grinned. “I could always fix the plumbing.”

  Karen busied herself with the last bite of chicken.

  “Raising kids is work, too,” said Frieda. “You have two?”

  “Yes, both girls.” Mae’s face shone in the firelight.

  “You must be very proud. I myself have a daughter and a granddaughter and a great-granddaughter. That’s where we’re going now, to Denver, to see them.”

  “How wonderful for you. Mine are grown, too, wit
h families of their own. It is more difficult to see them now. Everyone is busy, and there is the distance–one lives in Boston, the other in Texas.” Mae stood. “Would anyone care for dessert?”

  “That would be lovely.” As Mae walked away, Karen snuck a look at her Rolex. The chill she felt wasn’t entirely due to nightfall.

  “Look there.” Frieda pointed at the window. Inside they could see Wallace shaking his head, while Mae’s delicate features wore the hint of a frown. “Bet she’d like to whack him with that spatula.”

  “She must be used to him. Otherwise, she would have left him a long time ago, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. She’s so smart, and he’s such a jerk. It always surprises me, what people put up with.”

  When Mae returned carrying a tray of glasses, Wallace followed behind with a bottle of cognac. Karen shivered. The camp fire had burned down.

  While Mae poured, Wallace put more logs on the fire. When he had the flame blazing, he held a snifter up to the light, turned the glass to and fro, and swirled the cognac before sipping. He rolled the liquid around in his mouth, frowned, and set the glass on the table. “My wife tells me you’re going all the way to California.”

  Karen wrapped her glass in both hands, warming the coppery liquid. “I am, but Frieda is only going as far as Denver.”

  His thin eyebrows rose. “You’ll be traveling alone? Do you think that’s wise?”

  “Wise or not, she’s going, and good luck talking her out of it. She’s in a big fat hurry to get back,” said Frieda.

  “I’ll be fine,” said Karen.

  Wallace scowled. “It’s very risky in such an old vehicle.”

  “Now, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Frieda. “That’s a Roadtrek 190, built to last, and my Russell took care of it like nobody’s business.”

  Karen agreed. “The van runs beautifully, and I’m planning to take it around the Divide, through Albuquerque so I can avoid the higher elevations. It’s a bit farther, but safer.”

  “Always play it safe, that’s our Karen,” said Frieda.

  Wallace cleared his throat, but Mae placed her hand atop his. “It sounds like fun.”