by Jane Lotter
“Well, if you’re seventy-five,” I say, “you’ll be dead soon, won’t you?”
Her mouth makes a large O.
I’m an awful person, I know it. But there’s no stopping me now. I’m a loaded gun, and I’m going off. “You’ll be deader than the proverbial doornail,” I say. “Deader than the bleached bones of some long-deceased cow lying out in the desert. Deader than that lifeless pile of bacon sitting before you.”
She looks down at her side dish of bacon.
“And when that blessed moment comes,” I say, buttering a piece of toast, “why then—joy and jubilation!—the rest of us can enjoy our breakfast in peace.”
The waitress, who’s overheard all this, turns to her brightly. “More coffee?” she asks.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE WINDY CITY
After I finish breakfast, I’m anxious about meeting with Georgia. On the one hand, I should probably let Tully know what I’m up to. Then again, he made it clear that Georgia is furious with him. So perhaps the smart thing is to stick with our plan and make initial contact with her by myself.
Of course, I haven’t seen Georgia in years. And now, having spent last night breaking and entering her suite, I’m about to knock on her door and tell her . . . what? That I was passing by? That I was out taking a stroll on the second floor of La Vida Loca hotel?
Well, that’s ridiculous. I can’t pretend I’m here by accident.
I remind myself I’m in Charlotte’s employ, and I’m here to speak with Georgia on Charlotte’s behalf. There’s nothing for it but to approach the situation as a professional. I’ll rap on Georgia’s door; she’ll open it, and we’ll exchange a few pleasantries (“Auntie Margo! How young you look!”). Then, in the manner of an experienced gumshoe, I’ll lay out the facts in evidence. “You really should go home. Your mother wants her things back. Have you considered the Betty Ford Clinic?”
Minutes later, I’m walking along the second-floor hallway. There’s a high-pitched whine that gets louder the farther I go, and when I get to Georgia’s room, the sound is at full volume. I don’t rap on the door because it’s already wide-open. A maid is inside the room, vacuuming.
I double-check the room number. Sadly, I’m in the right place. I stand in the doorway and stare. The mess of last night has all been cleared away. The maid sees me and turns off the vacuum cleaner. The whining sound ceases.
“Yes, miss?” she says. Her face is as round as the moon.
“I’m looking for my niece,” I say. “She was here—in this room—last night.”
The maid puts a hand to her cheek. “Oh, my,” she says, her round face filled with sympathy. “Maybe ask the desk. Okay? They will know.” She doesn’t wait for my reply, but starts up the vacuum again and pushes it off toward the bedroom.
I step back into the corridor and stand there, stunned. This can’t be happening. Georgia has slipped through my fingers, taking An Innocent Lamb with her. Well, I never said I was a detective. Quite the opposite. I’m usually the last to know anything of importance whatsoever; half the time I can’t even follow the evening news.
Nevertheless, this is a miserable development. Charlotte and I agreed on a set fee of fifty thousand dollars, which was fine because I envisioned finding Georgia in twenty-four hours or less. Here it is, day two, and I patently haven’t found Georgia. That means my daily wages have been cut in half, from fifty thousand to twenty-five thousand. At this rate, I’ll soon be earning minimum wage. Worse, I haven’t a clue where Georgia might have gone. Another hotel? The home of a friend? Back to LA?
What, what, what do I do now? I slump against the wall.
Just then someone comes walking round the corner of the hallway—and oh God, I can’t believe it! It’s the old lady from the dining room, the one who was rude to the waitress. True, her behavior in the dining room was awful. But that’s no excuse for my own bad manners. I should not have said the things I did, should not have taken my unhappiness out on a stranger. I feel remorse at the way I treated her. It’s not the old lady’s fault that lately I drink too much or that I’m hungover or that . . . well, lots of things.
She comes closer. I nod to her. “How are . . . you?” I stammer.
She snorts. “I’m not dead yet, if that’s what you’re asking. Though you’ll probably tell me I could go any minute.”
“Umm, yes,” I say, fumbling for words. “I mean, no! No, I wouldn’t!” I take a breath. “It was inexcusable of me to say such a thing, and I very much apologize.” There. At least I’ve made an apology.
She pulls a keycard from her purse, all the while keeping an eye on me. “Is there some reason you’re standing near my room?” she says.
“Your room?” I say. I gesture toward the open door. “I’m looking for my niece. This was her suite.”
The woman raises her eyes to the ceiling. “You’re related,” she says. “Of course you are.”
“You know Georgia?” I ask, utterly confused.
“Is that her name? All I know is that child kept me up half the night. I’m here, right next door.” She waves her keycard at the room next to Georgia’s. “She made enough racket to raise the dead, not to mention those of us who’ve been told we’re next in line.”
“Quite,” I say. “I’m sorry she bothered you. I do know she’s no longer here.”
“Small blessings,” the woman says. “She and her playmates came home in the wee small hours, laughing and turning up the music REAL LOUD. I had to get out of bed, put my robe on, and come over and tell her that in Chicago, where I come from, we’re considerate of our neighbors. She didn’t hear a word I said. Except ‘Chicago.’ She heard that. She threw her arms around me and said, ‘I’m going to Chicago in the morning!’ I said, Honey, it is morning. It’s three a.m. Why don’t you and your friends toddle off right now, so I can get some sleep? Either she took my advice or she had an early plane, because when I got up at seven, she was gone.”
I walk downstairs to the lobby. I’m dying to discuss this latest development with Tully, when I look up and spot him across the room, buying a coffee at an espresso stand.
Tully sees me, grabs his drink, and comes over. “You should turn on your cell phone once in a while,” he says. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Anyway, I have bad news. Georgia has left Palm Springs. I just found out she’s gone to Chicago.”
“Chicago?” Tully says. “I wonder what that means.” He lifts the round plastic lid off his coffee and blows on the hot liquid inside the cup.
“It means she had enough cash to buy a ticket to O’Hare,” I say.
Tully looks at his watch. “Okay. New day, new plan. We better get out to the airport, catch the next plane.”
“I’m not flying anywhere,” I say, my face flushing. Thinking about airplanes and airports always makes me nervous.
“You’re giving up?” Tully says.
“No,” I say. I smooth my hair and gaze around the room.
“Then why wouldn’t you—” Tully slurps his coffee and watches me. “Oh God,” he says, looking at me with sudden insight. “Christ. Are you . . . you’re not . . . are you afraid of flying?”
“Of course not,” I say. Tully continues watching me, and I know I’ve been found out. “Yes, all right. I have a phobia of air travel. But that’s not the only problem. I won’t leave my father’s car.”
“We’ll put it in a garage,” Tully says.
“No,” I say. “That’s not good enough.”
“Well, you can’t have it both ways,” Tully says. “If you won’t warehouse the car, we’ll have to drive.” He considers this scenario a moment. “That’ll take way longer than flying, but you know . . . maybe that’s not such a bad thing. We’ve been chasing Georgia in a rush, like it’s an emergency—when maybe what she needs is some space, some time to cool off.”
“You want to travel all the way to Chicago in the MG?” I say. “It doesn’t have any seat belts.”
“We won’t go on the interstate,” Tully says. “We’ll take the back roads, like before. We’ll cut over and pick up Route 66. Look, I get why you don’t want to abandon the car. It’s a classic. Cary Grant drove that roadster, it belonged to your dad—”
“Careful,” I say. “You’ll find a hidden value in the MG.”
“I already have,” Tully says. He gazes at me intently. “Plus, I need you.”
Needs me? For what?
“We need each other to find Georgia,” Tully says. “And I need you to tell me about the blue light, the starter switch, all that stuff.”
“You know about the blue light,” I say. “And the starter.”
“But you know more than me. About the car, I mean.”
I’m fifty-some years old. By this point in life, I’m expected to have attained a degree of maturity, some worldly wisdom that eluded me in my youth. But looking at Tully, imagining a road trip with him in the MG, I feel about nineteen.
I remember Vera telling Ruby that life gets boring if you don’t occasionally walk on the wild side. Is that what I’m feeling? Because despite my age, perhaps because of it, I feel a strong urge to walk—ride—on the wild side with Tully Benedict. Ride with him all the way to Chicago, Illinois.
And there’s more to it than that, much more. If I don’t go to Chicago, I lose the chance of earning fifty thousand dollars. I need that money. I need it if I’m to have any hope of hanging on to my shop in New York.
“All right,” I hear myself say to Tully. “We’ll drive to Chicago.”
An hour later, we head northeast out of town, toward Route 66.
We’ve been on the road only a few minutes when Charlotte calls. In an open convertible, it’s a tad difficult to converse on a cell phone. But I manage to explain to Charlotte that Georgia has decamped to Chicago. Tully and I are in pursuit.
“Ye gods and little fishes!” Charlotte says. “It will take you three or four days to get to Chicago by car. Can’t you—just this once—fly?”
I tell her no, I can’t. Of course, Charlotte knows why I’m frightened of air travel—it began for me at the age of ten, when I was torn from my home in California and flown overseas to exile in England. Does Charlotte, I wonder, ever think back on those events? How could she not?
“Tully and I are driving,” I say. “End of discussion.” Charlotte hangs up. I put away the phone.
I lean my arm on the car door and admire the passing scenery. Low plants, brittlebush, and flowering desert chicory punctuate the dry, purplish soil. I breathe in the warm, fragrant air. I feel restless and adventurous.
Over the next three days, Charlotte phones repeatedly to check on our progress. Most of what she says is so idiotic, I find I can converse with her while thinking about other things entirely.
One topic I ponder is how, this time, it’s different riding with Tully in the car. We get on well. We talk. Tully tells me about his interests, his philosophy of life. I share stories about my friendship with Dottie, even some bits about my financial troubles. I tell Tully I love the novels of Charles Dickens. He offers that he has every Beatles recording ever made.
The goal of finding Georgia unites us. Yet I notice Tully and I talk around Georgia, not about her. Our conversation remains largely superficial. It feels like we’re both holding back.
Of course, once again, it’s as though we’re time traveling. Not all of Route 66 still exists, but we follow the parts that do. We cruise past abandoned shacks and ghost towns, motels and run-down filling stations, red neon signs and vintage diners.
Each night, Tully and I engage separate rooms in whatever respectable motor inn we come across. Each morning, we climb back into the MG and drive until the sun goes down.
On our third day of travel, Tully and I cross the state line from Kansas into Missouri. We stop for dinner at a roadside eatery. I ask Tully to go on inside, I’ll follow in a minute. I want a cigarette.
When I do enter the diner, there’s Tully parked in a wood booth. I sit down opposite him. He looks up from the menu and studies me.
“Okay, it’s none of my business,” he says. “But I’ve been thinking this since the first day we got in that car: I can’t believe you smoke. I can’t believe you treat your body the way you do.”
I open the menu and scan the entrées. Pretty much everything on offer is beef.
“I didn’t smoke for a long while,” I say. “I started up again last year.”
Tully leans forward. “And what happened last year that was so awful it made you want to smoke tobacco and drink martinis?”
“Oh, you know how it is,” I say. I close the menu and lay it down on the table. “I accidentally missed the spring sale at Saks.”
The waitress comes over. Tully and I both order steak. While we wait for dinner, I look round at the Formica counter, the chrome stools, the jukebox in the corner. It puts me in mind of a vanished Manhattan diner I used to frequent, which makes me think of home.
“I know you were raised in Los Angeles,” I say to Tully, “but you haven’t told me how you ended up living in Brooklyn.”
“No?” He picks up a straw and rips one end off the paper cover. He blows on the straw and the paper flies off. “After high school, I got into New York University, which was great,” he says. “But about the time I graduated, my mom died, which was hard. I didn’t see much point in going back to LA after that, so I stayed on the East Coast. Before college, when I was a teenager, I lived with my mom and Malcolm Belvedere. They were married for a few years, you know.”
“Malcolm told me your mother left him,” I say.
Tully taps the straw against his water glass. “I think that’s his way of saying she died. He was pretty broken up. He’s always been good to me, but the real reason he came to the wedding was in her honor.”
“Your mother must have been very special.”
“She was,” Tully says. “She was beautiful. She had style.” He leans back against the booth and looks at me carefully. “Like you, actually.”
“More like the MG,” I say. “Oh! I meant to show you.”
I reach into my tote bag and produce a 1950s sales brochure for the MG TF. “I found this in the door pocket next to my seat, when I was having a smoke,” I say. “It must have been in the car forever.”
I flip through the brochure, reading aloud about the MG’s features and benefits. “It has rack-and-pinion steering. Synchromesh gears. Also, it grips the road like a limpet.”
Tully laughs. “Like a what?”
The waitress appears with thick steaks, mashed potatoes, and homemade biscuits and gravy. Tully and I forget all about limpets. I put the brochure back in my bag and we tuck into dinner.
After we finish eating, the waitress removes our plates. She returns with the bill and two pieces of apple pie. We haven’t ordered dessert, but the waitress plunks it down in front of us even so. “Cook thinks you should have pie,” she says.
When we leave the diner and get in the car, I gaze back at the long, narrow building silhouetted against the open sky. Tully pats his stomach. “Cook thinks you should have pie,” he drawls.
I laugh, and so does Tully. For a moment, we look at each other, giggling. We forget about Georgia, Charlotte, the terrible mess our lives are in. For a moment, it’s a kick being alone together in the middle of America, just the two of us—away from everybody else, away from our troubles.
Tully and I follow the Mother Road through seven states until, at last, on our fourth day of travel, we cross into the eighth and final state traversed by Route 66: Illinois.
Early spring in the West had been hot, pleasant. Early spring in the Midwest is chilly, blustery. After we stop for fuel, Tully eases the car over to one side of the station and shuts off the motor. He rubs his hands together.
“It’s cold,” he says, and you can see his breath. “I don’t suppose you know how to put the top up?”
Actually, I do.
We exit the car and Tully comes round to my side. W
e stand there, both of us peering down at the MG’s interior like it’s a crib containing a newborn infant. A rather scary newborn. Possibly something out of Rosemary’s Baby.
“Putting the top up is a bit like doing a puzzle,” I say.
“I don’t care if it’s Rubik’s Cube,” Tully says. “I’m freezing.”
“Well, first we have to get these seats out of the way,” I say. I lean into the car and tilt the seat backs forward toward the dashboard, exposing the white box that contains Georgia’s wedding dress. It’s crammed into the shallow storage space behind the seats. “And we need to take out that box.”
“Why?” Tully says. He gapes at the car’s interior.
“Because the sidescreens—the side windows—are stored underneath. Putting the top up to keep out the cold won’t do us much good unless we put the windows on as well.”
“Fine,” Tully says. “Swell. Except now I get that this isn’t a real car. It’s a Tinkertoy.”
“Not a classic?” I say.
Tully lifts out the garment box and puts it on the asphalt next to the car. Once the box is out, you can see the flat horizontal compartment behind the seats. I undo the snap that secures the compartment and push back the lid. Inside, neatly stowed in the felt-lined interior, are the four sidescreens: two for the front, two for the rear.
Tully contemplates the sidescreens. “I take it back,” he says. “It’s not a Tinkertoy. It’s an onion. We keep peeling away layers and finding more and more car.”
We unfold the soft top and tease it out and up, marrying it to the connectors at the uppermost corners of the windshield. Then we attach the sidescreens. It’s a delicate job fastening them to the car. Each of the two front side windows has a metal pin that hangs down and which you have to fit just so into a socket in the door. There’s also a bracket that slides down, hooks over another pin, and gets clamped into position with a wing nut. Plus, there are snaps that secure the sidescreen flaps to the door trim. The rear windows are more or less the same. I hear Tully swearing under his breath.