by Simon Toyne
‘So this land is yours?’
She nodded. ‘Government took all the land in 1854 and moved everyone onto reservation ground in the next county, everyone ’cept my family, that is. They stayed put and opened up a trading post so they could make enough money to live. We should have been called Stubborn as Mules. Anyways, in 1968, when people finally got around to feeling bad about stealing all our land, the Federal government restored title to us on account of there being a Treepoint on the land continuous for over a hundred years. Which means now it belongs to me, till tomorrow morning leastways.’
Solomon nodded. ‘So there never was a Bobby D?’
She shook her head. ‘When my granddaddy opened up the gas station he figured white folks were more likely to stop for other white folks so he made him up.’ She leaned down and studied the photograph, bringing her head closer to his so that the words she murmured would be heard only by him. ‘Does this really say what you said it did?’
Solomon nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you prove it?’
Solomon twitched his head to the side as more information flooded his mind then shook it. ‘No.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘For that you’d need to contact a Doctor Andrea Thompson, head of the language unit at the Center for Native American and Indigenous Studies at the University of Colorado. Doctor Thompson and her team recently discovered a new cave system in Colorado near the Arizona border filled with petroglyphs similar to this. They’re calling it the Rosetta Stone of the plains because it’s filled with petroglyphs from different tribes recording a declaration of peace in several languages. Some, like Sioux, they already know. And some they don’t, like Western Suma. But now they can figure it out by comparing it to the languages they do know.’
Rita frowned. ‘Then how come these folks ain’t come back here to take another look at the cave?’
Solomon shrugged. ‘I bet they took plenty of photographs the last time they were here, didn’t they?’ Rita nodded. ‘There you go then. They’ll look at those first. The cave in Colorado was only discovered a few months ago and it’ll probably take them years to work through the archived material they already have on file.’
Rita nodded again. ‘So what you’re saying is the only proof you can give me that what you said is true is some academic discovery no one’s actually heard of?’
‘People in the academic field of Native American studies have heard of it. It’s big news for them. You should call the University of Colorado and ask to speak to Doctor Andrea Thompson. She’ll confirm everything I just told you.’
Rita smiled sadly. ‘I want to believe you, mister, I really do. Only that quarter you said was so rare it was worth at least a hundred bucks.’ She slapped her hand down hard on the counter and removed it to reveal two worn quarters. ‘I found two more of ’em in the register. So either it’s my lucky day and I just happen to have a coupla hundred bucks’ worth of rare coins in my cash drawer, or Daryl was right and you’re just a smooth-talking grifter looking for an easy meal. Either way what I want you to do is eat your steak and hit the road. We clear?’ She held his gaze for a moment then turned and headed back to the kitchen, leaving the two quarters on the counter.
Solomon zeroed in on the dates on the coins, 1976. It didn’t matter whether she believed him or not, he’d already secured his meal, which was what he’d come for. Nevertheless, it bothered him that his one lie about the value of the quarter, a lie that should have had no consequence because he knew he wouldn’t lose the bet, had now tainted all the truths he’d told her.
‘Truth always withers in the shadow of a lie,’ he murmured, recalling something from … who knew where.
‘What’s that you say?’ the man in the Coors Light T-shirt reappeared at his side, a fistful of dollars in his hand and his face shining with victory.
‘Nothing,’ Solomon nodded at the money. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘Nah, man, thank you. Name’s Earl,’ he bundled his cash into one fist and held out his hand. Solomon took it, shook it then picked up the photograph.
‘Say,’ Earl said, leaning in close. ‘How do you know all that stuff? That some kind of a trick or d’ya got one of them, whatya callit, photographic minds or sump’n’?’
‘Something like that.’ Solomon re-read the message, his mind translating the symbols as his eyes passed over them. ‘You a regular here, Earl?’
‘I guess. Been coming here for close on twenty years. I run my rig all over the south, delivering pipe mainly. I stop by whenever I’m on the I-10, maybe once a month at the moment. I’ll sure miss it if it closes. It’s up for auction, you know.’
Solomon nodded. ‘So I heard.’
‘Yep. Damn shame if they close ole Bobby D’s. Anyways, just wanted to shake your hand and say if you wanted a ride anyplace east then I’m your man.’
Solomon stretched his legs, still aching from the miles they’d already walked, and thought of the road ahead, his mind providing exact distances to possible destinations:
Corpus Christi 557 miles
Galveston 656 miles
The Gulf of Mexico was maybe two weeks’ walk away but he could be there by morning if he caught a lift.
‘That would be very kind,’ he said. ‘When you leaving?’
Rita reappeared with a plate in her hand and clacked it down on the counter in front of Solomon. The steak was almost raw with red juices pooling around the fries and eggs.
‘Rare as you dare,’ she said, then she picked up the photograph and walked away.
‘Man,’ Earl said shaking his head. ‘That ain’t even cooked. You go ahead and take your time eatin’ that, you done earned it. I’ll go finish my dinner, count my gains and try to figure out the quickest and funnest way to lose it again.’ He touched the peak of his cap with a nicotine-stained finger and headed back to his table where a half-eaten basket of chicken wings waited for him.
Solomon cut into the steak, the juices running red around his knife and fork. He put a chunk in his mouth and flavour flooded his tongue, rich and delicious.
Over by the souvenir stand Rita hung the photograph back on the wall. Solomon chewed his steak, the memorized petroglyphs still burning in his mind. He thought of the one showing three arrows and the symbol of a man on horseback and focused on them until the noise of the diner faded and the walls melted away and he sat like a ghost from the future in the middle of a pristine wilderness, before paved roads and power lines, before cars and white streaks in the sky scratched by high-flying planes. He continued to eat and his mind carried him further back to a time before man, when the desert was a field of ice and the slow-moving glaciers carved mesas out of solid stone and crushed boulders to dirt and dust. The land didn’t care who owned it, only man cared about that, they cared so much they fought wars over it, spilling blood onto the ground they sought to possess, and carved bargains made with other men into the fabric of the things they sought to own.
‘You want dessert?’
Solomon blinked and looked up from his empty plate. He was back in the diner, the endless stretch of the plains replaced by the four thin walls of the cinderblock building.
‘A slice of apple pie, if I may. And maybe a cup of coffee.’
‘Steady there,’ Rita said, sauntering away. ‘You’re going to bankrupt me with all these outrageous demands.’
He watched her leave and saw her ancestry recorded in the blue-black sway of her crow feather hair, and the lean, sinewy stretch of her limbs, tight and supple like a bow string. She was strong and proud, but also bitter. He could smell disappointment and weariness on her as clear as the bacon grease sizzling on the hot plate in the kitchen. Her ancestor had refused to leave this place, digging in and clinging to deep roots perhaps in the vague hope that his fortunes might one day be restored in some glorious future. And here was his daughter of many times removed, still here, the blood link unbroken over all those years. There was some value in that, though Solo
mon could not be sure how much without reading the rest of the message on the cave wall, the part the photograph didn’t show.
Rita returned with a slice of pie and a mug of black coffee. ‘Need anything else?’
Solomon thought about telling her his thoughts but stopped himself. She wouldn’t believe him anyway and he could tell she was yearning to leave. She was young enough to start again and there didn’t seem to be anything binding her here other than family history. She wore no wedding band, and the photograph of a young girl pinned to the board by the cash register, a mini version of Rita, all smiles despite the gap in her front teeth, was possibly the reason she wanted to go, release herself and her child from the blood ties of tradition that bound them both here. Their people had been nomadic once, like all people had been. Maybe it was time to renew that tradition. So he held onto his thoughts and gave her a smile instead.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t need anything else. And thank you for the meal.’
Chapter 6
The sun was still high in the sky when Solomon climbed into the oven of the big rig’s cab. He closed the door and felt the usual anxiety rise up at being confined.
‘Mind if I keep the window open?’ he said.
‘Nope.’ Earl settled in his seat and flicked on a small fan clipped to the dashboard. ‘Prefer me a breeze to the air-con anyways and it’s a damn sight kinder on the fuel.’ He twisted the key in the ignition and the truck’s engine roared into life. ‘Where you headed exactly?’
‘East,’ Solomon said. ‘Galveston, Corpus Christi, Houston, anywhere with ships going to France.’
‘What’s in France, a lady?’
Solomon opened the flap of his jacket and looked down at the label saying – This suit was made to treasure for Mr Solomon Creed.
‘The man who made this suit for me, hopefully.’
‘Hell, I know a guy in Fort Worth if you need a tailor.’
Solomon let the jacket flap drop. ‘I need to see this one specifically,’ he said. ‘Long story.’
‘Well there’s a whole lot of road between us and the sea. Happy to hear it if you’ve a mind to tell.’ Earl pulled out of the parking lot and onto the I-10, the roar of the diesels and rumble of tyres drowning out the high-pitched whine of the desert. Solomon looked north across the scrubby plain to a set of red hills that rolled across the distant horizon like an ocean of stone. Somewhere in that rise and fall was a cave with pictures carved on its walls, a natural document sealing a five-hundred-year-old deal. There was nothing else to see. The land was untouched, undeveloped. He thought about Rita with her Irish eyes, queen of all she surveyed, though not for much longer. He shifted in his seat to look back at the diner in the side mirror.
‘What’s Rita’s story?’
‘What, you mean like is she married or something?’ Earl looked across at Solomon with a smirk on his face. ‘You like her, is that it?’
A silver pick-up truck pulled out of the parking lot and joined them on the road.
‘No, I mean why’s she selling?’
‘Money, I guess, same reason as always. Used to be all the trucks had to stop there to gas up but these newer rigs have bigger gas tanks and better fuel consumption so they can hold out for the cheaper gas at the national outlets in the bigger towns. She closed the gas station a while back. I still stop there for lunch but it’s more out of habit. Lot of drivers make they own lunch now to cut down on expense. See, most of these southern states are “right to work”, which means there’s no unions looking out for us and so the big companies get to tell us how they need to cut costs to stay competitive, keep the shareholders happy and all that shit. Bottom line is the working man gets it in the ass like always. I’m on the same rate now I was ten years ago, which wouldn’t be so bad if gas and everything else was the same price, only it ain’t. Always too much month left at the end of the month. I guess Rita hung in long as she could. She cain’t barely make enough from that ole diner to cover her ass.’
‘What about the land? The auction notice said there’s over three hundred acres.’
‘Take a look around, partner. If there’s one thing we ain’t short of in Texas it’s dirt and sunshine. Only value in land like this is if there’s oil in it and they already done tested everything between El Paso and the Gulf. I heard they do it with satellites now, don’t even need to get they hands dirty. Nah, if there was any oil out here they’d a found it already. I doubt Rita will get more’n a few hunnert bucks an acre for what she got here. Maybe a little more for the diner – eighty, ninety thousand tops if the auction goes well. I hope she gets a good price, I sure do, enough for her and Asha to start off fresh somewhere else leastways.’
‘Asha?’
‘Rita’s little girl.’
‘Where’s the father?’
‘Beats me. I think he lit out before Asha was born. Damn fool. Fine woman, Rita, nice people too.’
Solomon watched the silver pick-up. It was keeping back and out of their dust, maintaining the same distance though it could easily have overtaken the heavier, slower truck. Its windshield was tinted, so he couldn’t see who was driving, but he could see a pair of hands resting on the steering wheel and the neatly folded newspaper on the dash.
‘The man back there in the diner, the one reading the paper.’
‘Daryl Meeks?’
‘Yes. What’s his story?’
‘He’s got money behind him, I know that much. Family money. His people was ranchers from way back who found oil on a patch of land that lasted long enough to make ’em rich. Daryl’s one of them folks as was born lucky and thinks it makes him special though he ain’t never worked a day in his life for the dollars he got in his pocket. He owns property and I heard he’s investing in, what you call ’em, renewables, solar panels and wind farms, that kind of thing. I guess he’s seen how easy the oil can run out so he’s lookin’ to the future and something there’s plenty of. Maybe he’s on to something, I don’t know. Don’t make him less of an asshole.’
‘Any idea why he might be following us?’
Earl leaned forward in his seat and checked his mirror. ‘No idea at all. Maybe he cain’t see to pass. Let me slow down a little and pull over.’
Earl took his boot off the gas and eased onto the side of the road, his indicator flashing. The pick-up blasted past in a cloud of dust and tore away up the road, its engine whining like a mosquito. The licence plate was DA RYL 1.
‘Tole you he was an asshole,’ Earl said, pulling back onto the road and picking up lost speed. ‘You hear that engine? He’s got one of those ’lectric cars, hybrid or whatnot. Give me the roar of a diesel any day.’
Solomon watched the pick-up until it melted into the heat-haze. Earl put the radio on and the whine of a slide guitar filled the cab as a smoky-voiced woman sang about love and loss. Solomon took the worn quarter from his pocket and ran it over his fingers, under his palm then back again, thinking about Rita and the land of her ancestors she was getting ready to leave. The song of love and loss segued into one of love and hardship and they passed a sign peppered with bullet holes of various calibres telling them they were leaving Broken Promise. They rumbled across a long, flat bridge over a bone-dry river bed towards a larger, newer billboard on the other side that said ‘Welcome to the Lucky Reservation’. There were no bullet holes in this one.
‘There he is again,’ Earl pointed beneath the billboard to where the silver pick-up was parked in the shadow.
They drove past and Solomon saw the outline of the driver sitting behind the wheel, his head turning slowly as he watched them pass by.
He sat back in his seat, the quarter rolling over his fingers and thoughts tumbling in his head. Whatever problem Daryl Meeks had with him would only remain one if he stayed here. And this was not his story. He did not need to know its end or help write it.
The coin rolled over his knuckles and under his palm. Over and under. Over and under. They passed another billboard telling them to take the next left
for the Lucky Reservation and a sprawling glass-and-terracotta building appeared behind it next to a huge electronic display showing rolling dice, and champagne corks popping, and cards fanning out to show aces. The building was set way back from the road and surrounded by an extensive parking lot with ten-foot, fluorescent-tubed arrows sticking out of it, like the whole place had recently been attacked by giant, neon Indians. The lot had been designed to hold two or three thousand cars and it was more than half full. Lunchtime on a Wednesday and business was booming.
‘What do you know about this place?’ he said.
‘That there’s the old reservation. Used to be it was the sorriest scrap of land for five hundred miles in every direction. I guess it still is the reservation. Indian land. Legally proven, which is why they can now run casinos on it. Some kind of loophole in the law.’
They drove past the neon oasis, the distant dots of people disappearing into the perma-darkness of the main building like termites into a hill.
‘Decision time,’ Earl said nodding at a large road sign ahead of them. ‘If I carry on this road I can drop you off maybe a hundred miles shy of Corpus Christi. Or I can take a different route and bring you up nearer Galveston. Don’t make any odds to me either way. What’s your preference?’
Solomon looked at the sign and saw the miles still to travel. He thought about the pick-up truck, parked in the shadow of the billboard, squatting in the shade, the driver watching him leave, making sure he did. He thought about Rita and how close he’d been to telling her what had come to his mind about the land she was about to sell. He wished he had now. But the diner was behind him, lost in dust and distance, and going back would only add miles to the ones he still had to travel. He had no reason to go back. None at all.
The quarter continued to travel across the knuckles of his hand – over and under, over and under. Then he stopped and flicked it into the air, watching it spin and deciding in his head that if it came down tails he would continue to Galveston and if it was heads he would go to Corpus Christi. He caught the quarter, smacked it down then lifted his hand so he could see which way it had fallen. Tails.