The Mor Road

by Jennifer AlLee

  When we reach Kingman twenty-eight miles later, the pain in my ankle has subsided to a dull throb. I turn down the radio volume to get Lindsay's attention. "Let's park somewhere and get out for a while."

  Originally, I'd planned to spend the night here, but Ben's appearance is a good reason not to. In fact, I decide we need to veer off 66 for a bit to put as much distance as possible between us and him.

  We stay in town long enough to use a restroom, take some quick shots of interesting sights, and replenish our water and junk food supply.

  "How's your foot?" Lindsay asks as we walk down the sidewalk to the car.

  "Much better. I think it will be back to normal by tomorrow."

  "Good." She pauses. "I can keep driving, though. If you want to rest it. Just to be on the safe side."

  Seems my unexpected injury has given her an excuse to become a more active participant in this trip. I wish she'd just admit she's having a good time, but at least she's not still griping about every little thing. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smiling. "You sure you don't mind?"

  "Naw."

  "Okay. Thanks."

  I stow our purchases in the backseat and jump into the car as Lindsay revs the engine. "Top up or down?" she asks.

  There are all kinds of practical reasons to put it up. It would keep the bugs out, for one, and it makes sense we'd have better gas mileage. But the simple fact that she asked my opinion pushes me to give the answer I think she wants to hear.

  "Down."

  She smiles. "Cool."

  As we near the end of town, I pull one of Alice's maps out of the glove compartment. "Veer right here," I tell Lindsay.

  "But that's Interstate 40."

  "I know. We're getting off 66."

  "What? Why?"

  She's so incensed I don't know how to take it. Is she upset because I changed plans without asking her? Or because now it will be harder for Ben to follow us?

  "It's just for a little while. I want to get to Seligman before dark, and 40 is the fastest way there."

  This explanation seems to work for Lindsay. She follows my directions without further argument.

  Interstate 40 is a long, fairly uninteresting stretch of road. With no signs proclaiming the next tourist trap or rickety buildings and roadside art to catch my eye, my mind starts to wander. It meanders back through the sights we've seen so far, glosses over the possible threat of Ben—I do not want to think about him right now—and lands squarely back at the other irritating male in my life: Tony.

  What is he doing now? Is he picking out nursery furniture with his girlfriend? Are they debating the safety features on different car seats? Or is he alone, maybe in his own car, taking a drive through the foothills and wondering if he made the biggest mistake of his life?

  "What are you thinking about?"

  Lindsay's question surprises me. Since when does she care about my thoughts? I'm tempted to brush off her question with a breezy, Oh, nothing . . . but then I reconsider. This opening may never come again. She's reaching out. The least I can do is reach back.

  "Tony," I say, trying not to sound too wistful.

  She makes an affirmative noise in response, but nothing further. Until about a mile later when she says, "So. What happened with you two?"

  "It's a long story."

  "It's a long road."

  I laugh. "True. Well . . . he had an affair. And he left me." Guess it's not such a long story, after all.

  "That's it?"

  "Isn't that enough?"

  "Is it? You tell me. You're the marriage expert." The way she says the word expert makes it clear just how little she thinks of my expertise. "I mean, sure, it sucks. But you just let him go?"

  "What was I supposed to do? Chain him to me?"

  "Put up a fight at least. I mean you've been married for what . . . seventeen years?"

  "Eighteen."

  "Eighteen years. Seems like you'd fight to save that."

  "She's pregnant."

  This little bit of information finally shuts my sister up. I think she gets it now, but it's not enough for me. I want her to truly understand the depths of my suffering. "Tony and I tried to have a baby for years. I went through hormone shots, special diets, everything. I even stood on my head. Literally." A memory that is both comic and tragic. "But we couldn't conceive. Or should I say, I couldn't conceive. Turns out the problem's all mine, because he's obviously fertile."

  She glances over at me, and for the first time I see a new emotion on her face. Guilt. Her hand goes to her stomach, and I know I've made my point.

  I turn on the radio, but neither of us sings. We spend the rest of the drive to Seligman ignoring each other.

  22

  There are a few different hotels to pick from when we get to Seligman, so I leave the choice up to Lindsay. When she pulls into the parking lot of the Supai, I give her a questioning look.

  She removes the key from the ignition and drops it in my hand. "It has the best sign."

  I'm not sure exactly what makes it the best—its cool, retroneon design or the word WI-FI. Either way, I'm glad she made the decision. Now, if she doesn't like it, she has no one to blame but herself.

  Our room is simple but clean. Like most inexpensive hotels, there's a separate room with the toilet and bathtub, leaving the sink in the main room with the beds. While Lindsay goes straight to the bathroom, I make my customary mattress inspection for bedbugs or suspicious sheet stains. She comes out while I'm straightening the spread on the bed nearest the AC unit. She pauses with her hand on the water faucet and looks at me over her shoulder.

  "How do they look?"

  "All clear."

  "Cool."

  One thing Lindsay and I both agree on is cleanliness. It may not be next to godliness, but it's right up there in the top ten. This gives me hope that maybe she and I can find common ground in other areas too.

  Lindsay points at the bed I'm standing next to. "Can I have that one?"

  "Sure." This is another thing that's worked out surprisingly well. Lindsay likes to be close to the air-conditioning, while I can't stand having it blow on me in the middle of the night. Most of these motels have wall units, so I let her take the bed closest to them. If there was a way to sleep through this trip, we'd be in great shape.

  A few minutes later, we head out of the motel and onto the streets of Seligman for some exploring. There are a lot of the usual touristy things. Vintage cars sit here and there along the road. Some even have eyes painted on the windshields and mouths on their grills, as though they're ready to have a conversation with you at any moment. A mannequin dressed like Elvis in a red, white, and blue jumpsuit sits on the rear bumper of a pink Cadillac. The way he's positioned, he seems to be flirting with the mannequin seated beside him, who vaguely resembles Marilyn Monroe. Seligman's version of a mini-strip mall sports a second-story balcony lined with mannequins. Dressed in clothes from the fifties and sixties, they look like they're ready for an anachronistic sock hop.

  I take some scenic shots with the video camera then hand it to Lindsay. "Want to indulge your inner Spielberg for a while?"

  A faint blush colors her cheeks. Maybe it's from the walking. Maybe she remembers insulting me a few towns back. Regardless, the blush is followed by a smile. "Thanks."

  I've found that the more things I let Lindsay control, the happier she is. And the happier Lindsay is, the more peaceful my experience is.

  She takes in our surroundings, looking for interesting subject matter. "This is kind of how Spielberg got his start, you know."

  "Strolling the streets of the Mother Road?"

  "No. Making amateur movies when he was a kid. Only he did it with an eight-millimeter camera and sold tickets to his family and friends at a quarter a pop."

  I laugh and shake my head. "He sure has come a long way."

  "He had a dream and he never wavered. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life."

  Her tone is determined and wistful at the
same time. Like she has a dream of her own, but it's been crushed. "Lindsay—"

  "Come on." She cuts me off and walks away, waving for me to follow her. "We're losing daylight."

  As we head down the street, she starts giving me directions: stand next to that car, pretend like you're reading that sign, put your arm around the cardboard figure of James Dean. I'm a little self-conscious at first, until I realize that no one is paying any attention to us. All the tourists are in their own little worlds, doing their own touristy things. So I ignore everyone else, and when Lindsay tells me to kiss James Dean on his gritty cheek, I do.

  Then I make a face and pretend to blow dust from my lips. "Yeesh, James needs a bath. And I need a drink."

  Lindsay lowers the camera. "I could use some food. Want to grab dinner?"

  "Sure. Have you seen any place that looks good?"

  Shading her eyes with one hand, she almost turns in a complete circle before coming to a stop. She points down the street. "We've got to go there."

  I squint and read the sign on the building. "The Road Kill Café." I look back at her. "Seriously?"

  "Absolutely. Talk about local flavor."

  There are some flavors best left alone. Especially at a diner whose motto is "You kill it, we grill it." But in the spirit of adventure, I'll give it a try. Besides, she's already halfway there. For a pregnant woman, she sure can hustle when she wants to. I have to hurry down the street to catch up with her.

  The clientele inside the cafe seems to be an even mix of locals and tourists. I figure this is a good thing, since the local folks wouldn't frequent a place with bad food. A waitress leads us to an open table, and hands us menus as soon as we sit down.

  "What can I get you gals to drink?"

  "An ice tea," I say. "No lemon."

  "Just ice water." Lindsay looks over the choices. "So, what do you recommend here?"

  The gal points down at the menu with her pen. "The Tire Tread Teriyaki. Comes with a side salad, vegetables, and loaded baked potato."

  Tire tread? From the look on Lindsay's face, she got stuck on the name of the dish too. "It's good, huh?" I ask.

  She gives me a wink and a nod. "It'll make you want to slap your grandma. I'll be right back with your drinks."

  As soon as our waitress is gone, I lean across the table and whisper to Lindsay. "It's not too late to leave."

  "Come on. This is an adventure, right? Let's find the least lethal-looking thing on the menu."

  Turns out, the scary names are just a clever cover for basic roadside café fare. Tire Tread Teriyaki is, in fact, grilled shrimp skewers. After debating between two other options, I decide to go with the petite steak.

  The waitress comes back, sets our glasses on the table, and takes her order pad from her apron pocket. "Have you ladies decided?"

  "I'll have the Long Gone Fawn," I say. "Medium rare, please. And a house salad."

  Lindsay hands over her menu. "And I'll have the Chicken that Almost Crossed the Road."

  "How do you want your potato? Mashed, baked, or fried?"

  "Mashed. And ranch on my salad. Thanks."

  "Great. I'll be right back with your salads and some rolls."

  I take a moment to peruse the taxidermied heads on the walls. There's a buffalo, an elk, and several types of deer. Mounted on a shelf in the corner is some kind of small, spotted wildcat, ready to pounce. I pity the stuffed mouse who might wander by.

  "Here you go." Lindsay gives me the camera. "You'd better record this place."

  I take pictures of all the animals I can, pivoting in my seat. As I turn back to the table, a black leather vest over a light gray T-shirt fills the viewfinder. Lowering the camera, I see the shirt belongs to an older fellow who stands by Lindsay's chair. His weathered face has more lines than the road map in my purse, and his long, gray hair is pulled back into a ponytail. I bet there's a Harley out in the parking lot with his name on it.

  "Hi," I say.

  "You ladies want an interesting story for your video?" That's it. No "hi" back, no "let me introduce myself." Just the offer of a story. How can I turn that down? If it's bad, I can always erase it later.

  "Sure." I train the camera on him and start recording. "Go ahead."

  "See those dollar bills hanging up in the bar?"

  I follow his pointing finger with the camera and Lindsay looks over her shoulder. "Hey, just like in Oatman," she says.

  "Yep," Harley Man answers. "Do you know how it started?"

  "No," Lindsay and I say together.

  Harley Man grins. "Back when this was still the Wild West, it was ranch country. Folks only got paid once a month then, so before the cowpokes rode the herd out to market, they'd stop by the saloon, write their name on a dollar, and nail it to the wall. That way, they knew when they got back, they'd at least have enough money for beer."

  "No kidding," Lindsay says.

  "It's the honest truth. You could call it frontier money management." He nods to us. "Enjoy your stay."

  As he walks away the waitress scurries up with our salads and a breadbasket. "I hope Lou wasn't bugging you."

  "Oh, no," I say. "He told us about the money on the walls. Fascinating history."

  She laughs. "Lou does like to enlighten our guests. Lucky for you he wasn't in a talkative mood today or else you'd never get to eat your dinner." She gives the table a once-over. "If you need anything, just holler." Then she rushes to the next customer, pen and pad in hand.

  The food smells great, but before I eat, I point the camera right at Lindsay. "Is there anything you'd like to say?"

  "Yes." She picks up a roll and tears it in half. "Even though Natalie basically kidnapped me and then someone stole all my stuff—"

  "And my car."

  "And your car. Even though this trip got off to a pretty lousy start, it's getting better. I'm glad I came along."

  A warm rush of emotion flows through me and I look at her over the top of the camera. "Do you really mean that?"

  "Sure." She takes a bite out of her roll and talks around her half-full mouth. "Now I can honestly say I've eaten road kill. And I have you to thank for it."

  23

  The next morning starts off with a bang. Literally.

  As soon as I turn the water off in the shower, I hear a voice in the next room. Hopefully, Lindsay turned on the TV. I strain to listen closer, and my heart sinks. That's no TV show.

  "I told you, it's me and the baby or nothing. You can't have one without the other!"

  Then something slams. And something else slams. I grab a towel off the top of the toilet tank and hurry into the other room before Lindsay can destroy anything. "What are you doing?"

  Her face is red, her breath coming in short, hard bursts. "Making sure we don't leave anything behind in the dresser." She opens a drawer and then bangs it shut without even looking inside.

  "We didn't put anything in the drawers," I remind her.

  "Well . . . good. Then we can't forget anything." She opens one more drawer, bangs it for good measure, then throws herself on the bed. "Men are slime!"

  I can't argue with her there. What puzzles me is why she was talking to Ben again.

  "Did you call him or did he call you?"

  "I called him." With her face pressed against the pillow, I can barely make out her words.

  "Oh, Lindsay. You didn't tell him where we are, did you?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Then why did you call him?" I pull the pillow away from her, and she sits up.

  "I wanted to know why he followed me. If you hadn't hustled us out of there in such a hurry, I could have asked him yesterday."

  I wondered how long it would take before her troubles became my fault again. "Well, what did he say? Why did he follow you?"

  "He misses me." Lindsay's eyes are shiny, like two big, blue, wet marbles. Her eyelids flutter and she looks down at the bedspread. "He said he's been miserable since I left, and he wants me to come home. But—" The rest of the sentence is choked
off by a sob.

  I give her a moment before encouraging her to continue. "But?"

  "But he still doesn't want the baby. He wants me, but no baby."

  "He wants you to terminate the pregnancy?" It's a terrible thought to put into words.

  "He never came out and said so, but what else could he mean?"

  "Maybe he wants you to give the baby up for adoption." An image pops into my mind: me holding a chubby, squirming infant. It could be the perfect solution. For me, at least. Maybe not for Lindsay. Without the baby, there'd be nothing to keep her from going back to Ben. And how would she deal with watching her sister raise the child she gave away?

  "He doesn't understand. I want this baby. I know we messed up, I know we did things out of order, but that's not the baby's fault."

  That answers my question.

  She falls over on her side, recovers the pillow, and curls her body around it. "It's not like I got pregnant all by myself. He's responsible too."

  I wish I could help her. I wish I could tell her that everything will be all right. That one day, she'll meet the perfect man, the man God's been saving just for her, a man who will love her and her baby. I wish I could tell her not to give up on happily ever after.

  But I can't. Because I don't believe in it anymore myself.

  So I do the only useful thing I can think of: I pack up our stuff. I gather our pajamas and dirty clothes, our toothbrushes and toothpaste, Lindsay's contact lens solution. I pick up travel-size shampoo bottles and soaps. I zip up suitcases, turn off lights, and grab our purses, all while Lindsay pours her heart into a borrowed pillow on a borrowed bed in a borrowed room.

  After leaving the hotel, we stop at a gas station to fill up the car. When I go in to pay, Lindsay follows me. "I need sugar."

  One more thing we have in common.

  There's a short line at the counter. By the time it's my turn, Lindsay is standing next to me, her arms loaded with candy bars, a bag of cheddar-flavored kettle chips, a bottle of Dr Pepper, and a bottle of water.

  I point at her haul. "Are you planning to share any of that, or should I buy my own?"