Dakota Blues

by Lynne Spreen

  “I am fine, of course.” Mae pulled away.

  “If you ever need–” Karen began, but Wallace marched toward them, posture erect, arms held firmly at his sides. She hurried Frieda into the passenger seat and closed the door, wanting to avoid another dose of Wallace’s smug advice. After one last hug for Mae, she started the van and shifted into gear. The gas pedal stuck momentarily, and when it released, Karen accidentally floored it. Wallace stepped back in horror as the van accelerated sharply, bouncing hard over a rock.

  “You don’t have to kill him,” said Frieda.

  Karen steered out of the parking space and onto the dirt lane that curved through the campground. Mae stood in the road, waving.

  “So sad,” said Frieda, watching in her side mirror. “She’s going through the motions, acting like if she stays busy, she won’t feel bad. There’s something you might think about.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Karen glanced in the rearview mirror. Wallace was walking back to the campground, with Mae hurrying to catch up with him.

  Frieda saw it, too. “The one who cares the most always loses.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Within thirty minutes, the van was tearing down the highway. The unfinished monument to Crazy Horse emerged out of the east, pointing them toward Wyoming. Karen began to feel lighter, and her impatience gave way to excitement. By this time tomorrow, she’d be heading home in glorious solitude.

  The grasses had been getting shorter and dryer ever since they left Dickinson. The simple two-lane highway cut through miles of plainsland, strewn with rocks and carved by gullies. It was uninhabited but for small bands of cattle or antelope, and punctuated by the occasional windmill. Karen tried to photograph in her mind the wild openness of it all, saving it for those afternoons when she would be stuck in traffic on the 405.

  Frieda sipped from a water bottle and watched the country roll by. “Some people call it desolate, but I always liked this emptiness. If you live here, you get used to it.”

  When Karen first moved to California, she had been surprised by the crowding. Unlike Dickinson, long chains of cars stretched up and down the freeways. Over the years, she adjusted, even though lately it had gotten so bad that a short trip to the grocery store had become as much of a drudge as her daily commute. The traffic guys on the radio had a term for it. TMC, Too Many Cars, each one occupied by exactly one human being, said human busy with electronic toys, food, and makeup while driving.

  And heaven forbid if you got a little careless toward a guy with an attitude–say for example, accidentally cutting off a couple of gang members or a crackhead or a pissed-off drunk. You might end up dead just running out for a carton of milk.

  During her short visit to North Dakota, Karen had reverted back, accustomed once again to a slower pace and what seemed like a kinder populace. She knew she would adjust back again, that in time a person could get used to just about anything, whether it was having too much money or living in prison. It was a survival skill, something primordial that let humans adapt and thrive.

  Bloom where you’re planted. She’d heard it and even repeated it to her employees. Make the most of it. Stay positive. But could that adaptation go too far, making you numb to your circumstances, good or bad? Could that numbness stretch out and expand, taking over your whole life so you ended up sleepwalking through the length and breadth of it?

  She held the van steady in the wind. All day the road climbed in elevation, from the fields of sweet yellow clover around Newcastle to the Rawhide Buttes near the hill town of Lusk, and farther south through farm fields dotted with giant hay bales that resembled jelly rolls.

  Frieda read the travel guide, dog-earing dozens of pages as if planning a grand vacation. “It’s so flat here. Reminds me of Oklahoma. Did I tell you that’s where I’m from?”

  Karen squinted at highway sign. “Amazing. We’re at four thousand feet.”

  “Still flat.”

  Karen had seen the map. Once you climbed down off this high plateau, you had to go all the way east to Appalachia to find land of any real altitude. Between here and the Great Smoky Mountains, the Mississippi River in prehistoric times had carved a valley through almost one-third of the United States, but if all a person ever saw was this road, right here at the top of the plateau, that person might decide the entire world was flat and windblown, and for the most part, lacked trees.

  Frieda closed her book and looked out the window. “Can you imagine living out here a hundred years ago? How many months you would go without seeing another person?”

  “A lot of them had big families, though. So they’d have people around.”

  “They had big families because so many of the children died. The mothers, too. You didn’t have babies in hospitals back then. Some of Mother’s family went crazy from the hardship.”

  “Sounds horrible.” Karen floored the gas pedal and passed a slow-moving semi.

  “They took a little time off, now and then. On the holy days you’d pile in the wagon and gather at the church for food and weddings and celebration. It was miles away so everybody’d sleep there, under their wagons, mostly. This went on for days. You had to come or it was a sin. But really it was to keep the farmers from working themselves to death.”

  Karen rolled her head around on her neck, trying to dissipate the stiffness. The wind had battered the van for the last three hours and the need for constant vigilance was wearing her out. Plus she had a headache and cramping in her abdomen, like her period was about to make an appearance for the first time in months. Naturally, she hadn’t packed any gear for it, assuming the one benefit of menopause had finally arrived. On top of everything, the RV had been making a low ticking noise for the past sixty miles.

  “It says here, the only American ever convicted of cannibalism was caught right around this area. Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Fascinating.” A highway sign informed them that Cheyenne lay one hundred miles away. Even though Cheyenne and Denver were only an hour apart, they would camp again tonight. Karen had promised. Anyway, she didn’t have the energy to deal with Denver’s traffic or freeways, nor to meet Frieda’s daughter. Grimacing, she flicked on the blinker and took the southwest fork in the road toward their night’s rest.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In the early evening they checked in at the Hi Plains RV Park, a dirt-and-blacktop affair devoid of vegetation except for a few determined cottonwoods around each campsite. They paid the scowling manager who barely tore his eyes away from the wrestling match on TV, and pulled into their spot, a pitted concrete pad. The RV park was deserted except for a giant-sized motor coach a few rows over.

  “Back in a sec.” Karen hurried to the restroom, a bleak cinderblock with sheet metal mirrors. In the stall she was relieved to find the cramps were a false alarm.

  Frieda sat at the picnic table, frowning. “You find this place on your internets?”

  “Sorry. It looked nicer online.” After hooking up the water and electric supply, Karen opened a kitchen cabinet. “Cheese and crackers before dinner?”

  “Fine with me.”

  Karen opened the tiny refrigerator and jerked back at the overpowering stench. The coolant had stopped working, and the milk and other perishables had been cooking all day. She found a trashbag in the cabinet and began emptying.

  “There was a café a few miles back,” said Frieda. “We could eat there.”

  “Let me think.” Karen pinched the bridge of her nose. “I could open a can of tuna and make sandwiches without mayo. Or how about macaroni and cheese cooked with water, and we could have these brownies for dessert?”

  “You decide. I’m going to stretch my legs,” Frieda said.

  Karen stepped outside and watched the old woman limp off toward the restroom. Even though it was summer, at six thousand feet, Cheyenne was already cooling off. She unrolled the carpet and set up two chairs.

  A door slammed, followed by footsteps crunching through the gravel. Karen turned to
see a barrel-shaped woman with stick legs and a bleached-out buzz cut.

  “Hey, neighbor.” The woman’s voice was raspy from booze or cigarettes, or both. “Helluva place for a vacation, ain’t it?”

  Karen smiled. “I think we’re too tired to care.”

  The woman crushed Karen’s hand. “I’m Barb. You’re probably dehydrated. It’s the altitude. You gotta drink your liquids. Where you headed?”

  “Southern California.”

  Barb grinned, exposing a chipped tooth. “At least you can stop in Vegas. Do a little gambling, maybe take in a show. Who’s this, your mother?”

  “Do I look that old?” said Frieda, returning from the bathroom.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” said Barb. “You both could.”

  “Actually, we’re–” Karen began, but their neighbor was already walking back to her campsite.

  “This place is as ugly as a cow’s rear end. Where’re my flamingoes?” Frieda eased into a chair. “Is dinner ready?”

  “I’ll get started in a minute.” Karen finished leveling the van just as Barb returned with a pitcher of strawberry margaritas. She sloshed the icy liquid into plastic cups and handed them out, then placed the pitcher on the dirt and plopped into a chair. “Salud,” she said, the cheap aluminum creaking under her weight.

  Karen sat on the cold cement picnic bench and took a sip. The bright tang of strawberry margarita mix barely dented the smoky tequila. Her stomach warmed and her cramps subsided. Barb had brought the perfect medicine. Karen lifted her chin toward the silver motor coach, as long as a city bus and boasting multiple slideouts. “Nice rig.”

  Barb grinned. “You betcha. She is my pride and joy.”

  “Is there a husband in there?” Frieda asked.

  “He’s been dead two years. Nah, don’t worry about it.” Barb fended off their condolences. “I’m happier’n I’ve ever been in my life. How about you gals? You married?”

  “I’m a widow,” said Frieda, “and my friend here wishes she was.”

  Barb downed the remainder of the pink slush in one swig. “Lord, I know what you mean.” A trickle of the sugary liquid ran down a crevasse at the side of her mouth.

  Karen looked away. The color of the distant landscape changed rapidly from brown to gold as the sun dipped toward the horizon. When Frieda shivered, Karen stood. “Thanks for the drinks, Barb, but I need to start dinner.”

  Frieda made a face. “With what?”

  “You folks hungry? Come on. I’ve got all the grub you need back in the coach. Let’s go over and get warm. I’ll give you a tour.”

  While Karen locked up, Frieda and Barb started across the windy expanse to the land yacht. Over the door, custom lettering spelled out Bit o’Tuscany.

  “I called her that because I always wanted to go live in Itlee,” said Barb.

  “Have you been there?”

  “Nah, only what I seen in pictures.” Barb held the door open.

  Frieda drew in a breath. “This place is huge.”

  “She’s a Monaco Dynasty Squire IV. Forty three foot, stem to stern.” Barb headed into the galley.

  Frieda followed her. “Are these granite counter tops? And you’ve even got a sofa and a big TV. This is some kind of motor home.”

  “No kidding,” said Karen from the doorway.

  “Go on, look around. I’ll make some more maggies.”

  The blender rumbled behind them as Karen and Frieda tiptoed down the long hallway. On the left was a bathroom, almost as large as the guest bath in Karen’s home in Newport. “Look at this,” she marveled. “The shower doors are made of glass.”

  “Lot of weight to haul around. Lots more fuel,” said Frieda. “Holy moly, look here.” The bedroom was equipped with a queen bed, a closet, another television, and two nightstands with reading lamps affixed to the wall.

  “You gals ready?” Barb brandished a pitcher from the kitchen.

  Karen accepted a refill. “This thing is as big as a house. I can’t believe you drive it.”

  “This is nothing. I used to drive a school bus, a ninety-passenger Crown, back in the hell days.” Barb slurped from her glass. “That’s three classrooms’ worth of kids in case you don’t know, and you gotta turn your back on ‘em to drive.”

  “And what’s this, a desk and a computer?” Karen sat down in front of the screen. “You can work from anywhere.”

  “Pretty much. I got a booster up on the roof so the reception’s always good. I can get email and keep up with my Facebook. And see here? I got my own website.” The homepage featured Barb in leopard print leggings, boots and a cowboy hat standing in front of Bit o’ Tuscany. The picture was taken in the parking lot of a casino. “You wanna use it, you’re welcome.”

  Karen sat down at the computer and tapped the keyboard. “Frieda, didn’t you tell me you used to work in an office?”

  “Ran the whole thing.”

  “Did you do any typing?”

  “That and everything else under the sun.”

  “Come over here a minute.”

  “But I just got comfortable.” Frieda sat half-buried in a bank of pillows on the sofa.

  “Come on, I’ll help ya.” Barb went over and pulled Frieda up. By the time she reached the desk, Karen had created a free email account for her.

  Frieda stared at her name on the screen. “Is this me? What do I do?”

  “All you do is start typing, and we can send a message.” Karen gave her the chair. “Let’s send one to my email address for practice.”

  “Who’s ready for another drink?”

  “We’re good.” Karen took a sip from her still-full glass. “Do you have any crackers or anything?”

  “I have all kinds of stuff.” Barb found a bag of potato chips in a cabinet and tore it open, spilling a third on the floor. She kicked them toward the sofa, pulled out a fistful for herself and handed the bag to Karen.

  Frieda tapped the keys, tentatively at first and then with more confidence. “This is easy. Now how do we mail it?”

  “Push here.”

  “That’s it? Holy mackerel. Who else do we know?”

  Fifteen minutes and another margarita later, Barb hoisted herself off the sofa. “My turn. Lemme show you my grandkids.”

  “You can get pictures off this thing?” Frieda moved out of the way.

  “Yup. Lookey here. Look how cute they are.”

  Karen leaned in. “They’re beautiful, almost like little fashion models, Barb. You must be really proud.”

  Barb started laughing, her great bosom heaving a guffaw that turned into a lung-ripping cough. She grabbed a towel, blew her nose, and wiped her eyes. When she could speak, she said, “Are you kidding? Those kids are so homely I hafta Photoshop ‘em.”

  “What is she saying?”

  “She alters the pictures to make them look better.”

  Frieda stared at Barb. “How do the parents feel about that?”

  “Hell if I know.” Barb shuffled over to the bar and drained the rest of the pitcher straight into her mouth. “Last time I saw ‘em they bitched me out. For no reason. Really pissed me off. I don’t have to take that. So I got in Bit o’ Tuscany and adios.” She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “That’s one of the great things about livin’ in a motor home. Somebody rubs you the wrong way, you just pull up the mat and get the hell outta Dodge.”

  “I guess that would be one advantage.” Karen’s headache had started up again. She glanced at her watch. Time to get Frieda back to the Roadtrek and figure out some kind of meal.

  “I never coulda afforded it on my own,” said Barb, sinking into the sofa next to Karen. “If it wasn’t for life insurance.”

  Karen inched away. “How long were you married?”

  “Which time?” Barb lit a cigarette. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, picking a piece of tobacco from her tongue. “Coupla years. I used to do charter runs to Vegas on the weekends. Make a little extra money, you know? Tommy was one of my riders. Lonely,
dried up, little old man.” Barb squinted through the smoke. “When he died, I sold the house and bought this baby. His kids hated me for it, but hell with ‘em. The old man had a shitload of money. Figure I earned it.” A length of ash dangled from her cigarette. “But you know it’s true what they say. You marry a man for money, you’ll work hard every day for it, and I did.”

  Karen glanced at Frieda, who gave a little shrug.

  Barb leaned back, eyes closed. “When he got sick, he didn’t want me to hire a nurse, so I did it all. Gave him his meds, cleaned up his puke, and wiped his ass. I can’t get the smell of shit off my hands.”

  Barb’s head began to loll against the back of the sofa. When her cigarette fell to the floor, Karen doused it in the sink and helped Frieda out the door, holding her arm as they crossed the uneven ground through the cold wind. Reaching the van, Karen jabbed the key into the lock, her fingers almost numb. Inside, they bumped into each other in the narrow space, shivering as they wrapped in blankets and waited for the heater to work. Karen got some water going for tea, and while it was steeping, opened a box of granola bars.

  “I wouldn’t want to be around when she wakes up,” Frieda said, sipping her tea as Karen converted the dinette to a bed.

  “That won’t be for a long time.”

  “Things have really changed. When Russell and I used to travel, people were nicer.” Frieda chewed, staring into the middle distance. “I’m almost glad he’s not around to see this.”

  “It was just bad luck. Last night was good, most of it anyway. Mae was nice.” Karen forced a smile. She felt bloated and headachey, and her cramps were back.

  Frieda brushed her teeth in the tiny bathroom and climbed into bed. “Heck of a last night.”

  “I know. I’m sorry it worked out this way.” Karen put another blanket atop the older woman.

  “You did your best.” Frieda burrowed under the covers while Karen assembled her own bed, layering a couple of blankets over the sleeping bag and carefully climbing in. She switched off the light and closed her eyes, wishing she had driven into town and found a café instead of subjecting them to Barb. She double-rolled a thin pillow, trying to ease the tension in her neck. “Frieda? Are you warm enough?”